diff --git "a/data_all_eng_slimpj/shuffled/split2/finalzzrjwg" "b/data_all_eng_slimpj/shuffled/split2/finalzzrjwg" new file mode 100644--- /dev/null +++ "b/data_all_eng_slimpj/shuffled/split2/finalzzrjwg" @@ -0,0 +1,5 @@ +{"text":"\n\nThe author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.\n\n**Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com\/piracy.**\nTo Paul, \nwho, on the far side of the Atlantic, \nkeeps hours every bit \nas strange as mine\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nWith a book as large as this one a lot of help is needed to pound it into shape. My thanks and gratitude are owed to Betsy Mitchell, Tim Holman, and Russell Galen. Thanks also to James Frenkel and the staff at Tor, who worked on this new edition and did some pounding of their own.\nTable of Contents\n\nTitle Page \nCopyright Notice \nACKNOWLEDGMENTS \nPROLOGUE \\- A Birth, a Death, and a Binding \nONE \\- The Badlands \nTWO \\- Days Darker Than Night \nTHREE \\- A Circle of Dust \nFOUR \\- A Raven Has Come \nFIVE \\- Homecoming \nSIX \\- The Inverted Spire \nSEVEN \\- The Great Hearth \nEIGHT \\- Trapping in the Oldwood \nNINE \\- The Dhooneseat \nTEN \\- Return \nELEVEN \\- Oaths and Dreams \nTWELVE \\- A Fistful of Ice \nTHIRTEEN \\- The Bluddroad \nFOURTEEN \\- Escape \nFIFTEEN \\- Within Mask Fortress \nSIXTEEN \\- A Visitor \nSEVENTEEN \\- And Now We Must Bring Them War \nEIGHTEEN \\- Leaving Home \nNINETEEN \\- Swinging from a Gibbet \nTWENTY \\- Duff's \nTWENTY-ONE \\- Sarga Veys \nTWENTY-TWO \\- Matters of Clan \nTWENTY-THREE \\- Vaingate \nTWENTY-FOUR \\- The Gods Lights \nTWENTY-FIVE \\- Tunnels of the Sull \nTWENTY-SIX \\- Secrets in the Kaleyard \nTWENTY-SEVEN \\- Dancing on Ice \nTWENTY-EIGHT \\- Strike upon Bannen \nTWENTY-NINE \\- By the Lake \nTHIRTY \\- Frostbite \nTHIRTY-ONE \\- Ille Glaive \nTHIRTY-TWO \\- Named Beasts \nTHIRTY-THREE \\- Shankshounds \nTHIRTY-FOUR \\- Men Buying Clothes for a Girl \nTHIRTY-FIVE \\- Finding Lost Things \nTHIRTY-SIX \\- A Moon Made of Blood \nTHIRTY-SEVEN \\- In the Tower \nTHIRTY-EIGHT \\- Lords and Maidens \nTHIRTY-NINE \\- Watcher of the Dead \nFORTY \\- In the Crab Chief's Chamber \nFORTY-ONE \\- An Object Returned \nFORTY-TWO \\- Ganmiddich Pass \nFORTY-THREE \\- Meetings \nFORTY-FOUR \\- Something Lost \nFORTY-FIVE \\- The Iron Chamber \nFORTY-SIX \\- A Journey Begins \nFORTY-SEVEN \\- Clothes off a Dead Man's Back \nFORTY-EIGHT \\- A Night at Drover Jack's \nFORTY-NINE \\- Ice Wolves \nFIFTY \\- Far Riders and Old Men \nFIFTY-ONE \\- Snow Ghosts \nFIFTY-TWO \\- The Sull \nFIFTY-THREE \\- Marafice One Eye \nFIFTY-FOUR \\- The Hollow River \nFIFTY-FIVE \\- A Cavern of Black Ice \nBOOKS BY J. V. JONES \nProphecy of the Reach \nHeart of Darkness \nABOUT THE AUTHOR \nCopyright Page\n\nPROLOGUE\n\nA Birth, a Death, and a Binding\n\nTARISSA WHISPERED A HOPE out loud before looking up at the sky. \"Please make it lighter than before. Please.\" As her lips came together she looked up past the wind-twisted pines and the ridge of frost-riven granite, up toward the position of the sun. Only the sun wasn't there. Stormheads rolled across the sky, cutting out the sunlight, massing, churning, driven by winds that snapped and circled like pack wolves around sheep. Tarissa made a small gesture with her hand. The storm wasn't passing overhead. It had come to the mountain to stay.\n\nDropping her gaze, she took a steadying breath. She couldn't afford to panic. The city lay a thousand feet below her, rising from the shadow of the mountain like a second, lesser peak. She could see the ring towers clearly now, four of them, two built hard against the wall, the tallest piercing the storm with its iron stake. It was a long way down. Hours of walk, even. And she had to be careful.\n\nResting her hand on her swollen stomach, she forced herself to smile. Storms? They were nothing.\n\nShe moved quickly. Loose scree, bird skeletons, and snags of wind-blasted wood tripped her feet. It was hard to walk, even harder to keep her balance on the ever sharpening slope. Steep draws and creases forced her sideways instead of down. The temperature was falling, and for the first time all day Tarissa noticed her breath came out white. Her left glove had been gone for days\u2014lost somewhere on the far side of the mountain\u2014and she stripped off her right glove, turned it inside out, and pulled it onto her left hand. The fingers there had started to grow numb.\n\nDead trees blocked her path. Some of their trunks were so smooth they looked polished. As she reached out to steady herself against one of the hard black limbs, she felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen. Something shifted. Wetness spilled down her thighs. A soft sting sounded in her lower back, and a wave of sickness washed up her gullet, depositing the taste of sour milk in her mouth. Tarissa closed her eyes. This time she kept her hopes to herself.\n\nWet snow began to fall as she pushed herself off from the dead tree. Her glove was sticky with sap, and bits of pine needles were glued to the fingers. Underfoot the granite ledge was unstable; gravel spilled from deep gashes, and husks of failed saplings crumbled to nothing the instant they took her weight. Despite the cold, Tarissa started to sweat. The pain in her back chewed inward, and although she didn't want to admit it, didn't even want to acknowledge it, her lower abdomen began contracting in rhythmic waves.\n\nNo. No. NO. Her baby wasn't due yet. Two weeks more\u2014it had to be. She needed to make it to the city, to find shelter. She'd even held back enough coins for a midwife and a room.\n\nFinding a lead through the rocks, she picked up her pace. A lone raven, its plumage dark and oily as a scorched liver, watched her in silence from the distorted upper branch of a blackstone pine. Spying it, Tarissa was conscious of how ridiculous she must look: fat bellied, wild haired, scrambling down a mountainside in a race against a storm. Grimacing, she looked away from the bird. She didn't like how it made her feel.\n\nContractions were coming faster now, and Tarissa found that it helped if she kept on the move. Stopping made the suffering linger, gave her seconds to count and think.\n\nMist rose from crevices. Snow flew in Tarissa's face, and the wind lifted the cloak from her back. Overhead, the clouds mimicked her descent, following her down the mountain as if she were showing them the way. Tarissa walked with her gloved hand cradling her belly. The fluid between her legs had dried to a sticky film that sucked her thighs together as she moved. Heat pumped up through the arteries in her neck, flushing her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.\n\nFaster. She had to move faster.\n\nSpotting a clear run between boulders, Tarissa switched her path farther to her right. Thorns snagged her skirt, and she yanked on the fabric, losing patience. As she turned back to face the path, the raven took flight. Its black wings beat against the storm current, snapping and tearing like teeth.\n\nThe instant Tarissa stepped forward, gravel and rocks began running beneath her feet. She felt herself falling, and she flung out her arms to grab at something, anything, to hold her. The mist hid everything at ground level, and Tarissa's hands found only loose stones and twigs. Pain exploded in her shoulder as she was thrown against a rock. Pinecones and rocks bounced overhead as she tried desperately to break her fall. Her bare hand grasped at a tussock of wolfgrass, but her body kept sliding downward and the roots pulled free in her hand. Her hip bashed against a granite ridge, something sharp shaved skin from the back of her knee, and when she opened her mouth to scream, snow flew between her lips, freezing the cry on her tongue.\n\nShe came to. There was no pain, just a fog of ragged light lying between her and the outside world. Above her, as far as her eyes could see, stretched walls of hand-polished limestone, mason cut and smooth as bone. She'd finally made it to the city with the Iron Spire.\n\nDimly she was aware of something pushing far below her. Minutes passed before she realized that it was her body working to expel the child. She swallowed hard. Suddenly she missed all the people she had run from. Leaving home had been a mistake.\n\nKaaw!\n\nTarissa tried to shift her head toward the sound. A hot needle of pain jabbed at the vertebrae in the base of her neck. She blacked out. When she came to again she saw the raven sitting on a rock before her. Black-and-gold eyes pinned her with a look that was devoid of pity. Bobbing its head and raising its scaly yellow claws, it danced a little jig of damnation. When it was done it made a soft clucking noise that sounded just like a mother scolding a child and then flung itself to the mercy of the storm. Cold currents bore it swiftly away.\n\nPushing. Her body kept pushing.\n\nTarissa felt herself drifting... she was so tired... so very, very tired. If only she could find a way through the fog... if only her eyes could show her more.\n\nAs her eyelids closed for the last time and her ribs pressed an unused breath from her lungs, she saw a pair of booted feet walking toward her. The tar-blackened leather melted snowflakes on contact.\n\nTHEY APPLIED THE LEECHES to him in rings of six. His body was crusted with sweat and rock dust and dirt, and the first man scraped the skin clean with deer tallow and a cedarwood wedge, while the second worked in his shadow with metal pincers, a pitchpine bucket, and heavy buckskin gloves.\n\nThe man who no longer knew his name strained against his bindings, testing. Thick coils of rope pressed into his neck, upper arms, wrists, thighs, and ankles. He could shudder and breathe and blink. Nothing more.\n\nHe could barely feel the leeches. One settled in the fold between his inner thigh and groin, and he tensed for a moment. Pincer took a pinch of white powder from a pouch around his neck and applied it to the leech. Salt. The leech dropped away. A fresh leech was applied, higher this time so it couldn't attach itself to skin that wasn't fit.\n\nThat done, Pincer stripped off his gloves and spoke a word that sent Accomplice to the far side of the cell. A moment later Accomplice returned with a tray and a soapstone lamp. A single red flame burned within the lamp, heating the contents of the crucible above. When he saw the flame, the man with no name flinched so hard that the rope binding his wrists split his skin. Flames were all he had now. Memories of flames. He hated the flames and feared them, yet he needed them, too. Familiarity bred contempt, they said. But the man with no name knew that was only half of it. Familiarity bred dependence as well.\n\nThoughts lost in the dance of flames, he didn't see Pincer kneading an oakum wad in his fist. He was aware only of Accomplice's hands on his jaw, repositioning his head, brushing his hair to one side, and pushing his skull hard against the bench. The man with no name felt the frayed rope and beeswax wad thrust into his left ear. Ship's caulking. They were shoring him up like a storm-battered hull. A second wad was thrust into his right ear, and then Accomplice held the nameless man's jaws wide while Pincer thrust a third wad into the back of his throat. The desire to vomit was sudden and overpowering, but Pincer slapped one large hand on the nameless man's chest and another on his belly and pressed hard against the contracting muscles, forcing them flat. A minute later the urge had passed.\n\nStill Accomplice held on to his jaw. Pincer paid attention to the tray, his hands casting claw shadows against the cell wall as he worked. Seconds later he turned about. A thread of animal sinew was stretched between his thumbs. Seeing it, Accomplice shifted his grip, opening the nameless man's jaws wider, pulling back lip tissue along with bone. The man with no name felt thick fingers in his mouth. He tasted urine and salt and leech water. His tongue was pressed to the base of his mouth, and then sinew was woven across his bottom teeth, binding his tongue in place.\n\nFear came alive in the nameless man's chest. Perhaps flames weren't the only things that could harm him.\n\n\"He's done,\" said Pincer, drawing back.\n\n\"What about the wax?\" breathed a third voice from the shadows near the door. It was the One Who Issued Orders. \"You are supposed to seal his eyes shut.\"\n\n\"Wax is too hot. It could blind him if we use it now.\"\n\n\"Use it.\"\n\nThe flame in the soapstone lamp wavered as Accomplice drew the crucible away. The man with no name smelled smoke given off from the impurities in the wax. When the burning came it shocked him. After everything he had been through, all the suffering he had borne, he imagined he had outlived pain. He was wrong. And as the hours wore on and his bones were broken methodically by Pincer wielding a goosedown padded mallet, Accomplice following after to ensure the splintered ends were pulled apart, and his internal organs were manipulated with needles so long and fine that they could puncture specific chambers in his lungs and heart while leaving the surrounding tissue intact, he began to realize that pain\u2014and the ability to feel it\u2014was the last sense to go.\n\nWhen the One Who Issued Orders stepped close and began breathing words of binding older than the city he currently stood in, the man with no name no longer cared. His mind had returned to the flames. There, at least, was a pain that he knew.\nONE\n\nThe Badlands\n\nRAIF SEVRANCE SET HIS sights on the target and called the ice hare to him. A moment of disorientation followed, where the world dropped out of focus like a great dark stone sinking to the bottom of a lake; then, in the shortest space that a moment could be, he perceived the animal's heart. The light, sounds, and odors of the badlands slid away, leaving nothing but the weight of blood in the ice hare's chest and the hummingbird flutter of its heart. Slowly, deliberately, Raif angled his bow away from the target. The arrow cracked the freezing air like a word spoken out loud. As its iron blade $hot past the hare, the creature's head came up and it sprang for cover in a cushion of black sedge.\n\n\"Take the shot again,\" Drey said. \"You sent that wide on purpose.\"\n\nRaif lowered his bow and glanced over at his older brother. Drey's face was partially shaded by his fox hood, but the firm set of his mouth was clear. Raif paused, considered arguing, then shrugged and reset his footing on the tundra. It never felt good deceiving Drey.\n\nFingers smoothing down the backing of his horn-and-sinew bow, Raif looked over the windblown flats of the badlands. Panes of ice already lay thick over melt ponds. In the flattened colt grass beneath Raif's feet hoarfrost grew as silently and insidiously as mold on second-day bread. The few trees that managed to survive in the gravelly floodplain were wind-crippled blackstone pines and prostrate hemlock. Directly ahead lay a shallow draw filled with loose rocks and scrubby bushes that looked as tough and bony as moose antlers. Raif dipped his gaze a fraction lower to the brown lichen mat surrounding a pile of wet rocks. Even on a morning as cold as this, the lick was still running.\n\nAs Raif watched, another ice hare popped up its head. Cheeks puffing, ears trembling, it held its position, listening for danger. It wanted the salt in the lick. Game animals came from leagues around to drink at the trickle of salt water that bled across the rocks in the draw. Tem said the lick welled up from an underground stream.\n\nRaif raised his bow, slid an arrow from the quiver at his waist. In one smooth motion he nocked the iron arrowhead against the plate and drew the bowstring back to his chest. The hare swiveled its head. Its dark eyes looked straight at Raif. Too late. Raif already had the creature's heart in his sights. Kissing the string, Raif let the arrow fly. Fingers of ice mist parted, a faint hiss sounded, and the arrowhead shot straight into the hare's rib cage. If the creature made a sound, Raif didn't hear it. Carried back by the force of the blow, it collapsed into the lick.\n\n\"That's three to you. None to me.\" Drey's voice sounded flat, resigned.\n\nRaif pretended to check his bow for hairpin cr\u00e1cks.\n\n\"Come on. Let's shoot at targets. No more hares are going to show now you've sent a live one into the lick.\" Drey reached out and touched Raif's bow. \"You could have used a smaller head on that arrow, you know. You're supposed to kill the hare, not disembowel it.\"\n\nRaif looked up. Drey was grinning, just a bit. Relieved, Raif grinned back at him. Drey was two years older than he, better at everything an older brother should be better at. Up until this winter he had been better at shooting, too. A lot better.\n\nAbruptly Raif tucked his bow into his belt and ran for the draw. Tem never let them shoot anything purely for sport, and the hares had to be taken back to camp, skinned, and roasted. The pelts were Raif's. Another couple more and he'd have enough for a winter coat for Effie. Not that Effie had much use for a coat. She was the only eight-year-old in Clan Blackhail who didn't enjoy running around in the snow. Frowning, Raif twisted the arrows free from the twigthin bones of the hare's rib cage, careful not to break the shafts. Timber straight enough for arrows was rare in the badlands.\n\nAs he sealed the carcass in his game pouch, Raif checked the position of the sun. Nearly noon now. A storm heading elsewhere blew eastward in the far north. Dark gray clouds rolled across the horizon like smoke from a distant fire. Raif shivered. The Great Want lay to the north. Tem said that if a storm didn't begin in the Want, then it sure as stone would end there.\n\n\"Hey! Rough Jaw! Get your bow over here and let's shred some wood.\" Drey sent an expertly pitched stone skittering off rocks and hummocks, to land with a devilish skip precisely at Raif's feet. \"Or are you scared your lucky streak just ended?\"\n\nAlmost against his will, Raif's hand rose to his chin. His skin felt as bristly as a frozen pinecone. He was Rough Jaw all right. No argument there. \"Paint the target, Sevrance Cur. Then I'll let you take a hand's worth of practice shots while I restring my bow for wood.\"\n\nEven a hundred paces in the distance, Raif saw Drey's jaw drop. Restring my bow for wood was exactly the sort of highblown thing a master bowman would say. Raif could hardly keep from laughing out loud. Ignoring the insult and the boasting, Drey snorted loudly and began plucking fistfuls of grass from the tundra. By the time Raif caught up with him, Drey had smeared the grass over the trunk of a frost-killed pine, forming a roughly circular target, wet with snowmelt and grass sap.\n\nDrey shot first. Stepping back one hundred and fifty paces, he held his bow at arm's length. Drey's bow was a recurve made of winter-cut yew, dried over two full years, and hand-tillered to reduce shock. Raif envied him for it. His own bow was a clan hand-down, used by anyone who had the string to brace it.\n\nDrey took his time sighting his bow. He had a sure, unshakable grip and the strength to hold the string for as long as his ungloved fingers could bear. Just when Raif was set to call \"Shot due,\" his brother released the string. The arrow landed with a dull thunk, dead center of the smeared-on target. Turning, Drey inclined his head at his younger brother. He did not smile.\n\nRaif's bow was already in hand, his arrow already chosen. With Drey's arrow shaft still quivering in the target, Raif sighted his bow. The pine was long dead. Cold. When Raif tried to call it to him as he had with the ice hare, it wouldn't come. The wood stood its distance. Raif felt nothing: no quickening of his pulse, no dull pain behind his eyes, no metal tang in his mouth. Nothing. The target was just a target. Unsettled, Raif centered his bow and searched for the still line that would lead his arrow home. Seeing nothing but a faraway tree, Raif released his string. Straightaway he knew the shot was bad. He'd been gripping the handle too tightly, and his fingertips had grazed the string on release. The bow shot back with a thwack, and Raif's shoulder took a bad recoil. The arrow landed a good two hands lower than the target.\n\n\"Shoot again.\" Drey's voice was cold.\n\nRaif massaged his shoulder, then selected a second arrow. For luck, he brushed the fletchings against the raven lore he wore on a cord around his neck. The second shot was better, but it still hit a thumb's length short of dead center. Raif turned to look at his brother. It was his shot.\n\nDrey made a small motion with his bow. \"Again.\"\n\nRaif shook his head. \"No. It's your turn.\"\n\nDrey shook his own head right back. \"You sent those two wide on purpose. Now shoot.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't. It was a true shot. I\u2014\"\n\n\"No one heart-kills three hares on the run, then misses a target as big as a man's chest. No one.\" Drey pushed back his fox hood. His eyes were dark. He spat out the wad of black curd he'd been chewing. \"I don't need mercy shots. Either shoot with me fair, or not at all.\"\n\nLooking at his brother, seeing his big hands pressing hard into the wood of his bow and the whiteness of his thumbs as he worked on an imagined imperfection, Raif knew words would get him nowhere. Drey Sevrance was eighteen years old, a yearman in the clan. This past summer he'd taken to braiding his hair with black leather strips and wearing a silver earring in his ear. Last night around the firepit, when Dagro Blackhail had burned the scum off an old malt and dropped his earring into the clear liquor remaining, Drey had done the same. All the sworn clansmen had. Metal next to the skin attracted frostbite. And everyone in the clan had seen the black nubs of unidentifiable flesh that the 'bite left behind. You could find many willing to tell the story of how Jon Marrow's member had frozen solid when he was jumped by Dhoonesmen while he was relieving himself in the brack. By the time he had seen the Dhoonesmen off and pulled himself up from the nail-hard tundra, his manhood was frozen like a cache of winter meat. By all accounts he hadn't felt a thing until he was brought into the warmth of the roundhouse and the stretched and shiny flesh began to thaw. His screams had kept the clan awake all night.\n\nRaif ran his hand along his bowstring, warming the wax. If Drey needed to see him take a third shot to prove he wasn't shamming, then take another shot he would. He'd lost the desire to fight.\n\nAgain Raif tried to call the dead tree to him, searching for the still line that would guide his arrow to the heart. Although the blackstone pine had perished ten hunting seasons earlier, it had hardly withered at all. Only the needles were missing. The pitch in the trunk preserved the crown, and the cold dryness of the badlands hindered the growth of fungus beneath the bark. Tem said that in the Great Want trees took hundreds, sometimes thousands, of years to decay.\n\nSeconds passed as Raif concentrated on the target. The longer he held his sights, the deader the tree seemed. Something was missing. Ice hares were real living things. Raif felt their warmth in the space between his eyes. He imagined the lode of hot pulsing blood in their hearts and saw the still line that linked those hearts to his arrowhead as clearly as a dog sees his leash. Slowly Raif was coming to realize that still line meant death.\n\nFrustration finally got the better of him, and he stopped searching for the inner heart of the target and centered his sights on the visual heart instead. With the fletchings of Drey's arrow in his eyeline, Raif released the shot.\n\nThe moment his thumb lifted from the string, a raven kaawed High and shrill, the carrion feeder's cry seemed to split the very substance of time. Raif felt a finger of ice tap his spine. His vision blurred. Saliva jetted into his mouth, thick and hot and tasting of metal. Stumbling back, he lost his grip on the bow and it fell to the ground point first. A crack sounded as it landed. The arrow hit the tree with a dull thud, placing a knuckle short of Drey's own shot. Raif didn't care. Black points raced across his vision, scorching like soot belched from a fire.\n\n\"Raif! Raif!\"\n\nRaif felt Drey's huge, muscular arms clamp around his shoulders, smelled his brother's scent of neat's-foot oil, tanned leather, horses, and sweat. Glancing up, Raif saw Drey's brown eyes staring into his. He looked worried. His prized yewbow lay flat on the ground.\n\n\"Here, sit.\" Not waiting for any compliance on Raif's part, Drey forced his younger brother onto the tundra floor. The frozen earth bit into Raif's buckskin pants. Turning away from his brother, Raif cleared his mouth of the metaltasting saliva. His eyes stung. A sickening pain in his forehead made him retch. He clenched his jaw until bone clicked.\n\nSeconds passed. Drey said nothing, just held his brother as tightly as he could. Part of Raif wanted to smile; the last time Drey had crushed him like this was after he fell twenty feet from a foxtail pine three springs back. The fall only broke an ankle. Drey's subsequent bear hug had succeeded in breaking two ribs.\n\nStrangely, the memory had a calming effect on Raif, and the pain slowly subsided. Raif's vision blurred sharply and then reset itself. A feeling of badness grew in him. Swiveling around in his brother's grip, Raif looked in the direction of the camp. The stench of metal washed over him, as thick as grease smoke from the rendering pits.\n\nDrey followed his gaze. \"What's the matter?\" His voice was tight, strained.\n\n\"Don't you feel it?\"\n\nDrey shook his head.\n\nThe camp was five leagues to the south, hidden in the shelter of the flood basin. All Raif could see was the rapidly darkening sky and the low ridges and rocky flats of the badlands. Yet he felt something. Something unspeakable, as when nightmares jolted him awake in pitch darkness or when he thought back to the day Tern had shut him in the guidehouse with his mother's corpse. He had been eight at the time, old enough to pay due respect to the dead. The guidehouse was dark and filled with smoke. The hollowed-out basswood where his mother lay smelled of wet earth and rotten things. Sulfur had been rubbed into the carved inner trunk to keep insects and carrion feeders away from the body when it was laid upon the ground.\n\nRaif smelled badness now. He smelled stinking metal and sulfur and death. Fighting against Drey's grip, he cried, \"We have to go back.\"\n\nDrey released his grip on Raif and pulled himself to his feet. He plucked his dogskin gloves from his belt and pulled them on with two violent movements. \"Why?\"\n\nRaif shook his head. The pain and nausea had gone, but something else had come in its place. A tight shivering fear. \"The camp.\"\n\nDrey nodded. He took a deep breath and looked set to speak, then abruptly stopped himself. Offering Raif his hand, he heaved his brother off the ground with a single tug. By the time Raif had brushed the frost from his buckskins, Drey had collected both bows and was pulling the arrow shafts from the dead tree. As he turned away from the blackstone pine, Raif noticed the fletchings in Drey's grip were shaking. This one small sign of his brother's fear worried Raif more than anything else. Drey was his older brother by two years. Drey was afraid of nothing.\n\nThey had left the camp before dawn, before even the embers on the firepit had burned cold. No one except Tem knew they had gone. It was their last chance to shoot game before they broke camp and returned to the roundhouse for winter. The previous night Tem had warned them about going off on their own in the badlands, though he knew well enough that nothing he said would stop them.\n\n\"Sons!\" he had said, shaking his large, grizzled head. \"I might as well spend my days picking ticks from the dogs as tell you two what you should and shouldn't do. At least come sundown I'd have a deloused pup to show for my trouble.\" Tem would glower as he spoke, and the skin above his eyebrows would bunch into knots, yet his eyes always gave him away.\n\nJust this morning as Raif pulled back the hide fastening on the tent he shared with his father and brother, he noticed a small bundle set upon the warming stone. It was food. Hunters' food. Tem had packed two whole smoke-cured ptarmigan, a brace of hard-boiled eggs, and enough strips of hung mutton to mend an elk-size hole in a tent. All this for his sons to eat on a hunting trip he had expressly forbidden them to take.\n\nRaif smiled. Tem Sevrance knew his sons well.\n\n\"Put on your gloves.\" It was Drey, acting just like an older brother. \"And pull up your hood. Temperature's dropping fast.\"\n\nRaif did what he was told, struggling to put on gloves with hands that felt big and slow. Drey was right: It was getting colder. Another shiver worked its way up Raif's spine, making his shoulders jerk awkwardly. \"Let's go.\" Drey's thoroughness was beginning to nettle him. They had to get back to the camp. Now. Something wasn't right.\n\nAlthough Tem warned them constantly about the danger of using up all their energy by running in the cold, Raif couldn't stop himself. Despite spitting profusely, he couldn't remove the taste of metal from his mouth. The air smelled bad, and the clouds overhead seemed darker, lower, closer. To the south lay a line of bald, featureless hills, and west of them lay the Coastal Ranges. Tem said that the Ranges were the reason why the Want and the badlands were so dry. He said their peaks milked every last drop of moisture from passing storms.\n\nThe three hares Raif had shot earlier thumped up and down in his pack as he ran. Raif hated their warmth against his thigh, was sickened by their fresh-kill smell. When the two brothers came upon Old Hoopers Lake, Raif tore the pack from his belt and threw it into the center of the dull black water. Old Hoopers wasn't frozen yet. River fed, it would take a full week of frost before its current-driven waters plated. Still, the lake had the greasy look of imminent ice about it. As Raif's pack sank to the bottom, swirls of vegetable oils and tufts of elk hair bobbed up and down on the surface.\n\nDrey swore. Raif didn't catch what he said, but he imagined the words waste of fine game in their place.\n\nAs the brothers ran south, the landscape gradually changed. Trees grew straighter and taller, and there were more of them. Beds of lichen were replaced by long grasses, bushes, and sedge. Horse and game tracks formed paths through the frozen foliage, and fat grouse flew up from the undergrowth, all flying feathers and spitting beaks.\n\nRaif barely noticed. Close to the camp perimeter now, they should have been able to see smoke, hear the sound of metal rasping against metal, raised voices, laughter. Dagro Blackhail's foster son, Mace, should be riding to greet them on his fat-necked cob.\n\nDrey swore again. Quietly, to himself.\n\nRaif resisted the urge to glance over at his brother's face. He was frightened of what he might see.\n\nA powerful horseman, archer, and hammerman, Drey pulled ahead of Raif as he charged down the slope to the camp. Raif pushed himself harder, balling his fists and thrusting out his chin. He didn't want to lose sight of his brother, hated the thought of Drey arriving at the tent circle alone.\n\nFear stretched over Raif's body like a drying hide, pulling at his skin and gut. They had left thirteen men standing by at the camp: Dagro Blackhail and his son, Mace; Tem; Chad and Jorry Shank; Mallon Clayhorn and his son, Darri, whom everyone called Halfmast...\n\nRaif shook his head softly. Thirteen men alone on the badlands plains suddenly seemed unbelievably easy prey. Dhoonesmen, Bluddsmen, and Maimed Men were out there. Raif's stomach clenched. And the Sull. The Sull were out there, too.\n\nThe dark, weather-stained tents came into view. All was quiet. There were no horses or dogs in sight. The firepit was a dark gaping hole in the center of the cleared space. Loose tent flaps ripped in the wind like banners at battle's end. Drey had broken ahead, but now he stopped and waited for Raif to join him. His breath came hard and fast, and spent air vented from his nose and mouth in great white streams. He did not look round as Raif approached.\n\n\"Draw your weapon,\" he hissed.\n\nRaif already had, but he scored the blade of his halfsword against its boiled-leather scabbard, mimicking the noise of drawing. Drey moved forward when he heard it.\n\nThey came upon Jorry Shank's body first. It was lying in a feed ditch close to the horse posts. Drey had to turn the body to find the deathwound. The portion of Jorry's face that had been lying against the earth had taken on the yellow bloom of frozen flesh. The wound was as big as a fist, heart deep, made with a greatsword, and for some reason there was hardly any blood.\n\n\"Maybe the blood froze as it left him,\" Drey murmured, settling the body back in place. The words sounded like a prayer.\n\n\"He never got chance to draw his weapon. Look.\" Raif was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.\n\nDrey nodded. He patted Jorry's shoulder and then stood away.\n\n\"There's horse tracks. See.\" Raif kicked the ground near the first post. He found it easier to concentrate on what he could see here, on the camp perimeter, than turn his sights toward the tent circle and the one shabby, oft repaired, hide-and-moose-felt tent that belonged to Tem Sevrance. \"Those shoemarks weren't made by Blackhail horses.\"\n\n\"Bluddsmen use a grooved shoe.\"\n\nSo did other clans and even some city men, yet Raif had no desire to contradict his brother. Clan Bludd's numbers were swelling, and border and cattle raids had become more frequent. Vaylo Bludd had seven sons, and it was rumored he wanted a separate clanhold for each of them. Mace Blackhail said that Vaylo Bludd killed and ate his own dogs, even when he had elk and bear meat turning on the spit above his fire. Raif didn't believe the story for a moment\u2014to eat one's own dogs was considered a kind of cannibalism to a clansman, justifiable only in the event of ice-bound starvation and imminent death\u2014but others, including Drey, did. Mace Blackhail was three years older than Drey: when he spoke, Drey took heed.\n\nAs Drey and Raif approached the tent circle, their pace slowed. Dead dogs lay in the dirt, saliva frozen around their blunted fangs, their coats shaggy with ice. Fixed yellow eyes stared from massive gray heads. Glacial winds had set rising hackles in place, giving the dogs' corpses the bunched-neck look of buffalo. As with Jorry Shank's body, there was little blood.\n\nRaif smelled stinking, smelted metal everywhere. The air around the camp seemed different, yet he didn't have the words to describe it. It reminded him of the slowly congealing surface water on Old Hoopers Lake. Something had caused the very air to thicken and change. Something with the force of winter itself.\n\n\"Raif! Here!\"\n\nDrey had crossed into the tent circle and was kneeling close to the firepit. Raif saw the usual line of pots and drying hides suspended on spruce branches over the pit, and the load of timber waiting to be quartered for firewood. He even saw the partially butchered black bear carcass that Dagro Blackhail had brought down yesterday in the sedge meadow to the east. The bearskin, which he had been so proud of, had been set to dry on a nearby rack. Dagro had planned to present it as a gift to his wife, Raina, when the hunt party returned to the roundhouse.\n\nBut Dagro Blackhail, chief of Clan Blackhail, would never return home.\n\nDrey knelt over his partially frozen corpse. Dagro had taken a massive broadsword stroke from behind. His hands were speckled with blood, and the thick-bladed cleaver he still held in his grip was similarly marked. The blood was neither his nor his attackers'. It came from the skinned and eviscerated bear carcass lying at his feet; Dagro must have been finishing the butchering when he was jumped from behind.\n\nRaif took a quick unsteady breath and sank down by his brother's side. Something was blocking his throat. Dagro Blackhail's great bear of a face looked up at him. The clan chief did not look at peace. Fury was frozen in his eyes. Glaciated ice in his beard and mustache framed a mouth pressed hard in anger. Raif thanked the Stone Gods that his brother wasn't the kind of man to speak needlessly, and the two sat in silence, shoulders touching, as they paid due respect to the man who had led Clan Blackhail for twenty-nine years and was loved and honored by all in the clan.\n\n\"He's a fair man,\" Tem had said once about the clan chief in a rare moment when he was inclined to speak about matters other than hunting and dogs. \"It may seem like small purchase, and you'll find others in the clan willing to heap all manner of praise upon Dagro Blackhail's head, but fairness is the hardest thing for a man to practice day to day. A chief can find himself having to speak up against his sworn brothers and his kin. And that's not easy for anyone to do.\"\n\nIt was, Raif thought, one of the longest speeches he'd ever heard his father make.\n\n\"It's not right, Raif.\" Drey said only that as he raised himself clear of Dagro Blackhail's body, but Raif knew what he meant. It wasn't right.\n\nMounted men had been here; broadswords and greatswords had been used; clan horses were gone, stolen. Dogs were slaughtered. The camp lay in open ground, Mace Blackhail was standing dogwatch: a raiding party should not have been able to approach unheeded. Mounted men made noise, especially here in the badlands, where the bone-hard tundra dealt harshly with anything traveling upon it. And then there was the lack of blood...\n\nRaif pushed back his hood and ran a gloved hand through the tangle of his dark hair. Drey was making his way toward Tem's tent. Raif wanted to call him back, to tell him that they should check the other tents first, the rendering pits, the stream bank, the far perimeter, anywhere except that tent. Drey, as if sensing some small portion of his younger brother's thoughts, turned. He made a small beckoning gesture with his hand and then waited. Two bright points of pain prickled directly behind Raif's eyes. Drey always waited.\n\nTogether the sons of Tem Sevrance entered their father's tent. The body was just a few paces short of the entrance. Tem looked as if he had been on his way out when the broadsword cracked his sternum and clavicle, sending splinters of bone into his windpipe, lungs, and heart. He had fallen with his halfsword in his hand, but as with Jorry Shank, the weapon was unbloodied.\n\n\"Broadsword again,\" Drey said, his voice high and then rough as he sought to control it. \"Bludd favors them.\"\n\nRaif didn't acknowledge the words. It took all he had just to stand and look upon his father's body. Suddenly there was too much hollow space in his chest. Tern didn't seem as stiff as the others, and Raif stripped off his right glove and bent to touch what was visible of his father's cheek. Cold, dead flesh. Not frozen, but utterly cold, absent.\n\nPulling back as if he had touched something scorching hot rather than just plain cold, Raif rubbed his hand on his buckskins, wiping off whatever he imagined to be upon it.\n\nTem was gone.\n\nGone.\n\nWithout waiting for Drey, Raif pushed aside the tent flap and struck out into the rapidly darkening camp. His heart was beating in wild, irregular beats, and taking action seemed the only way to stop it.\n\nWHEN DREY FOUND HIM a quarter later, Raif's right arm was stripped to the shoulder and blood from three separate cuts was pouring along his forearm and down to his wrist. Drey understood immediately. Tearing at his own sleeve, he joined his brother as he went among the slain men. All had died without blood on their weapons. To a clansman there was no honor in dying with a clean blade, so Raif was taking up their weapons one by one, drawing their blades across his skin, and spilling his own blood as a substitute. It was the one thing the two brothers could give to their clan. When they returned home to the roundhouse and someone asked, as someone always did, if the men had died fighting, Raif and Drey could now reply, \"Their weapons ran with blood.\"\n\nTo a clansman those words mattered dear.\n\nSo the two brothers moved around the camp, discovering bodies in and out of tents, some with pale icicles of urine frozen to their legs, others with hair set in spiky mats where they had been caught bathing, a few with frozen wads of black curds still in their mouths, and one man\u2014Meth Ganlow\u2014with his beefy arms fixed around his favorite dog, protecting the wolfing even in death. A single swordstroke had killed both man and beast.\n\nIt was only later, when moonlight formed silver pools in the hard earth, and Tem's body was lying beside the firepit, close to the others but set apart, that Raif suddenly stopped in his tracks. \"We never found Mace Blackhail,\" he said.\nTWO\n\nDays Darker Than Night\n\nASH MARCH SHOT AWAKE. Sitting up in bed, she dragged the heavy silk sheets up over her arms and shoulders and clutched them tight. She had been dreaming of ice again.\n\nTaking deep breaths to calm herself, she looked around her chamber, checking. Of the two amber lamps on the mantel, only one was still burning. Good. That meant Katia had not been in to refuel it. The small ball of Ash's silver blond hair that she had pulled from her hairbrush before she slept still lay fast against the door. So no one else had entered her chamber, either.\n\nAsh relaxed just a little. Her toes formed two knobby lumps beneath the covers, and as they looked a ridiculously long distance from her body, she wiggled them just to check that they were hers. She smiled when they wiggled right back at her. Toes were funny things.\n\nThe smile didn't quite take. As soon as Ash's face muscles relaxed, the fact of her dream came back to her. The sheets were twisted around her waist and they were sticky with sweat, and the yeasty smell of fear was upon them. She'd had another bad dream and another bad night, and it was the second in less than a week.\n\nWithout thinking Ash brought her hand to her mouth, almost as if she were trying to hold something in. Despite the warmth of the chamber\u2014the charcoal smoking in the brazier beneath a layer of oil-soaked felt, and the hot water pipes so diligently tended by a furnaceman and his team working three stories below\u2014her fingers felt icy cold. Against her will and her very best efforts, images from the dream came back to her. She saw a cavern with walls of black ice. A burned hand reaching toward her, cracks between its fingers oozing blood. Dark eyes watching, waiting...\n\nAsh shivered. Swinging her hand down onto the bed, she beat the images back by pummeling the mattress as hard as she could. She wouldn't think about the dream. Didn't want to know what those cold eyes wanted.\n\nThht. Thht. Thht. Three knocks rang lightly against the fossilwood door.\n\nSomething deep inside Ash's chest, a band of muscle connecting her lungs to her heart, stiffened. Although breathless from beating the pillow, she didn't take a breath or even blink. Silent as settling dust, she told herself as her eyes focused on the door.\n\nFinely grained and hard as nails, the door's perfect gray surface was marred by three black thumb-size pits: bolt holes. Six months earlier Ash had paid her maidservant, Katia, four halfsilvers to go down to the metalworkers' market near Almsgate and purchase a bolt and socket for the chamber door. Katia had done her bidding, returning with an iron bar big enough to secure a fort. Ash had fixed the metal plate and socket in place herself. She had blackened a fingernail in the process and broken the backs of two silver brushes, but the bolt pins had gone in and the fastening mechanism had worked smoothly, and for a week Ash had slept more soundly than she could ever remember sleeping.\n\nUntil...\n\nThht. Thht. Thht.\n\nAsh stared at the empty bolt holes. She made no motion to answer the second round of knocking.\n\n\"Asarhia.\" A pause. \"Almost-daughter, I will have no games played with me.\"\n\nTilting her body minutely, Ash slid down amid the covers. One hand stole beneath her head to turn the sweat-stained pillow facedown upon mattress, while her other hand smoothed her hair. Just as she closed her eyes, the door creaked open.\n\nPenthero Iss had brought his own lamp, and the fierce blue glow of burning kerosene put Ash's own resin lamp in the shade. Iss stood in the doorway and looked at Ash. Even with her eyes closed she knew what he was about.\n\nHe made her wait before he spoke. \"Almost-daughter, don't you think I know when I'm being deceived?\"\n\nAsh kept her eyelids closed, but not tightly\u2014he had caught her on that in the past. In no way did she respond to his words, simply concentrated on keeping her breathing low and metered.\n\n\"Asarhia!\"\n\nIt was hard not to flinch. Mimicking a kind of dazed surprise, she opened her eyes and rubbed them vigorously. \"Oh,\" she said. \"It's you.\"\n\nIgnoring her show of bafflement, Penthero Iss walked into the room proper, set his lamp on the rootwood prayer ledge next to the offering bowls of dried fruits and pieces of myrrh, brought his long-fingered hands together, and shook his head. \"The cushions, almost-daughter.\" The index finger on his left hand circled, indicating the foot of the bed. \"A sound night's sleep seldom includes kicking cushions so hard that the impression of one's foot stays upon them till dawn.\"\n\nAsh cursed all the cushions in Mask Fortress. She cursed Katia for piling the silly, fluffy, useless bags of goosedown high on her bed each night.\n\nPenthero Iss crossed over to Ash's bed. Fine gold chains woven into the fabric of his heavy silk coat chinked softly as he moved. Although not muscular, he carried something hard within him, as if his skeleton were made out of stone. His face had the shape and smoothness of a skinned hare. Holding out a long, carefully manicured, completely hairless hand, he asked, \"How much do I love you, almost-daughter?\" Untaken, the hand moved away to carve a circle in the air. \"Look at all I give you: dresses, silver brushes, perfumed oils\u2014\"\n\n\"You are my father who loves me more than any real father ever could.\" Ash spoke Iss' own words back to him. She had lost count of how many times he had said them to her over the past sixteen years.\n\nPenthero Iss, Surlord of Spire Vanis, Lord Commander of the Rive Watch, Keeper of Mask Fortress, and Master of the Four Gates, shook his head with disappointment. \"You would mock me, almost-daughter?\"\n\nFeeling a bite of guilt, Ash slid her hand over his. She owed love and respect to the man who was her foster father and surlord.\n\nSixteen years ago, before he took the title of surlord for his own, Penthero Iss had found her outside Vaingate. She was a newborn, a foundling abandoned within ten paces of the city gate. All such foundlings were considered Protector's Trove. Iss had been Protector General at the time, in charge of city security and defenses. He had patrolled the Four Gates, led his red-bladed brothers-in-the-watch, and commanded the forces that manned the walls.\n\nEver since Thomas Mar had forged the first Rive Sword with the steel and rendered blood of the men who had betrayed him at Hove Hill, no protector general had ever been paid for his work. For centuries protector generals lived off income from their grangeholds, inheritances, and land grants. Today there was no land left to grant, and more and more baseborn men were joining the Watch, and protector generals now gained income by other, less noble means. Contraband goods; swords of illegal length or blade curvature, arrows with barbed tips; prohibited substances such as sulfur, resins, and saltpeter that could be used in making siege powders; unlawfully produced liquor, poisons, sleeping drafts and pain dullers; ill-gotten gains; anything found in the possession of known criminals; and all goods abandoned within the city\u2014whether they be crates of rotting cabbages, fat pigs broken loose from their tethers, or newborns left to die in the snow\u2014were the protector general's to do with as he saw fit.\n\nProtector's Trove had made Penthero Iss a rich man.\n\nAs if guessing her thoughts, Iss brought his lips close to Ash's ear. \"Never forget, almost-daughter, that during my commission I came upon dozens of foundling babies, yet you were the only one I chose to raise as my own.\"\n\nAsh tried, but she couldn't quite stifle the shiver that worked its way down her spine. He had sold the other babies to the dark-skinned priests in the Bone Temple.\n\n\"You are cold, almost-daughter.\" Penthero Iss' hand, with its hairless knuckles that never cracked, glided up Ash's arm and along her shoulder. His fingers prodded the flesh of Ash's neck, testing for warmth, blood pulse, and swollen glands.\n\nThe urge to shrink away from his touch was overwhelming, but Ash fought it. She didn't want to provoke Iss in any way. If she needed any proof of that, all she had to do was look at the three blind bolt holes in the fossilwood door.\n\n\"Your blood is racing, Asarhia.\" Iss' hand moved lower. \"And your heart...\"\n\nUnable to stand it any longer, Ash jerked back. Iss grabbed hold of her nightgown and twisted the fabric in his fist. \"You've been having the dream again, haven't you?\" She didn't answer. Threads of muslin in her nightgown were laddering under the pressure of his grip. \"I said haven't you?\"\n\nStill Ash made no reply, but she knew, she just knew, that her face gave her away. Her skin flushed with every lie.\n\n\"What did you see? Was it the gray land? The cavern? Where were you? Think. Think.\"\n\nShaking her head, Ash cried, \"I don't know. I don't know. There was a cavern lined with ice... it could be anywhere.\"\n\n\"Did you see what lay beyond?\" The words left Iss' mouth like frost smoke, sparkling blue and utterly cold. They hung in the air, cooling the space between Ash and her foster father, making it difficult for Ash to breathe. Ash saw Iss' lower jaw come to rest. She heard saliva smack inside his mouth.\n\n\"Father, I don't understand what you mean. The dream was over so quickly; I hardly remember what I saw.\"\n\nPenthero Iss blinked at Ash's use of the word Father. Sadness flitted across his face so quickly, she doubted she'd seen it at all. Slowly, intentionally, he showed his gray-cast teeth. \"So it has come to this? Lies from the foundling I raised as my own.\"\n\nRare were the times when Iss showed his teeth. They were small and positioned well above his lip line. Rumor had it that a sorcerous healing practiced upon him when he was just a boy had burned the enamel from them. Whatever the cause, Iss made it his habit to speak, smile, eat, and drink without ever drawing back his lips.\n\nWith one quick movement Iss found and pressed the curve of Ash's left breast. He weighed the small globe of flesh and then pinched it. \"You can't stay a child forever, Asarhia. The old blood will show soon enough.\"\n\nAsh felt her cheeks burn. She didn't understand what he meant.\n\nIss regarded Ash for a long moment, his green silk robe switching colors in the fierce light of burning kerosene, before releasing his hold on her nightgown and standing. \"Tidy yourself up, child. Do not force me to lay hands on you again.\"\n\nAsh kept her breath steady and tried not to let her fear show. Questions piled on her tongue, but she knew better than to ask them. Iss had a way with answers. He gave them, they sounded perfectly logical, but then later when you were alone and had time to think, you realized he had told you nothing at all.\n\nAs Iss moved away, Ash got a whiff of the smell that sometimes clung to her foster father. The smell of old, old things locked away so tightly that they dried to brittle husks. Something shifted at the edge of Ash's vision. All the hairs on her body bristled, and against her will she was drawn back to her dream...\n\nReaching, she was reaching in the darkness.\n\n\"Asarhia?\"\n\nAsh snapped back. Penthero Iss was looking at her, his long, skinned-man's face showing the faintest sheen of excitement. Light from his lamp sent his shadow flickering across the watered-silk panels on the walls. Ash could still remember the soft marten and sable furs that had once hung in their stead. Iss had sent a brother-in-the-watch to tear them down and replace them with smooth, bloodless silk. Furs and animal hides were distasteful to him; he called them barbaric and would have none hung in any chamber he might chance to enter in the massive, sprawling, four-towered fortress that formed the heart of Spire Vanis.\n\nAsh missed the furs. Her chamber seemed cold and bare without them.\n\n\"You are not well, almost-daughter.\" As Iss spoke, his hands came together in a smooth knot of knuckle and flesh that was peculiar to him alone. \"I will sit with you through the last hour of night.\"\n\n\"Please. I need to rest.\" Ash rubbed her forehead, struggling to keep her mind in the now. What was wrong with her? Raising her voice, she said, \"Go. Just go. I have to use the chamber pot. I drank too much wine at dinner.\"\n\nIss remained calm. \"Yes, wine... and to think Katia informed me that you refused both the pewter containing the red and the silver she brought later with the white.\" A dull metal tap sounded: Iss kicking the empty chamber pot that lay at the foot of Ash's bed in the center of a hill of cushions. \"And somehow you managed to wait until now to relieve yourself.\"\n\nKatia. Always Katia. Ash scowled. Her head ached, and her body felt as tired and shaky as if she'd spent the night running uphill rather than sleeping in her bed. She desperately wanted to be alone.\n\nSurprisingly, Iss crossed over to the door. Fingers slipping into the vacant bolt holes, he turned to face Ash and said, \"I will have my Knife stay outside your door tonight. You are not well, almost-daughter. I worry.\"\n\nThe idea of having the Knife camped outside her chamber frightened Ash nearly as much as her dream. Marafice Eye scared her\u2014he scared a lot of people in Mask Fortress. That was, she supposed, the main reason her foster father kept him around. \"Can't we call Katia instead?\"\n\nIss began shaking his head before Ash finished speaking. \"I think our little Katia might not be a wholly reliable guardian. Take tonight: You said you drank wine, yet she swore you didn't, and of course I must take my daughter's word over that of a common servant. So I have no choice but to conclude the girl reported wrongly and might easily do so again.\" A cold smile. \"You are not well, Asarhia. Ill dreams trouble you, headaches plague you. What sort of a father could I call myself if I did not watch my daughter closely?\"\n\nAsh bent her head. She wanted to sleep, close her eyes, and not have to dream. Her foster father was too clever for her. Lies, even small ones, were as silken rope in his hands. He could pull and distort them, use them to tie their speaker up in knots. She had gotten herself into enough trouble tonight. The best thing to do would be to say nothing more, nod her head meekly, and let her foster father bid her good night. He was already making his way toward the door; another minute and he would be gone.\n\nYet... .\n\nShe was Ash March, Foundling, left outside Vaingate to die. She had been abandoned in two feet of snow, wrapped in a blanket stiff with womb blood, beneath a sky as dark as night in the twelfth storm of winter. She had been forsaken, yet somehow she had lived. She had been weak, yet some tiny spark of life within her had proven strong. Straightening her spine, she looked her foster father straight in the eyes and said, \"I want to know what's happening to me.\"\n\nHolding her gaze, Iss reached for the kerosene lamp. The iron base was stamped with the Surlord's seal: the Killhound rampant, the great smoke gray bird of prey sinking claws the size of meat hooks into the tip of the Iron Spire. Ash remembered her foster father telling her that although killhounds fed on spring lambs, bear cubs, and elk calves, they were known for killing hunting dogs that ranged too close to their aeries. \"They never feed upon the hounds they kill,\" Iss had said, a gleam of fascination firing his normally cold eyes. \"Though they do make sport with the carcasses.\"\n\nAsh shivered.\n\nIss closed the spillhole, snuffing the lamp. Holding open the fossilwood door, he stepped into the column of cold air that rushed in from the corridor beyond. \"There's nothing for you to be worried about, almost-daughter. You're just catching up, that's all. Surely Katia must have told you that most girls your age are women in all senses of the word? Your body is simply doing those things that theirs have already done. One would hardly expect such changes to occur without some small measure of pain.\"\n\nWith that he moved into the shadows of the corridor, swiftly becoming one himself. The metal chains sewn into his coat chimed softly like faraway bells, and then the door clicked shut and there was silence.\n\nAsh fell back onto the bed. Shaking and strangely excited, she pulled the covers over her chest and set her mind to thinking of ways she could find answers for herself. Her foster father's words only sounded like the truth. She knew she wouldn't sleep, could absolutely swear she wouldn't sleep, yet somehow, unbelievably, she did.\n\nHer dreams, when they came, were all of ice.\n\nTHE LISTENER COULD NOT sleep. His ears\u2014what were left of them\u2014pained him like two rotting teeth. Nolo had brought him fresh bear tallow from the rendering pit, and it was good and white and looked creamy enough to eat, so the Listener had done just that. Waste of good tallow\u2014using it to plug up two old black holes that had once been ears. Waste of good muskox hair to warm them, too. But there was little to be done about that: Nothing needed warming as much as an old scar.\n\nNolo's footprints formed a visible line to and from the rendering pit and then over to the meat rack in the center of the cleared space. Looking at them, the Listener made a mental note to have a talk with Nolo's wife, Sila: She wasn't filling her husband's mukluks with enough dried grass. Nolo's booted feet had melted snow! Sila would have to get chewing.\n\nThe Listener spent an idle moment imagining Sila's plump lips chewing on a tuft of colt grass to make it soft enough for stuffing into the space between her husband's outer and inner boots. It was a very pleasant moment. Sila had unusually fine lips.\n\nStill, he was old and had no ears, and Sila was young arid had a husband, and together they had four good ears between them, so the Listener nudged aside the image of Sila and turned to the matter at hand: his dream.\n\nSitting on a stool carved out of whalebone, with his old brain-tanned bear's hide around his shoulders, the Listener sat at the entrance to his ground and looked out at the night. Heat from his two soapstone lamps warmed his back, and cold from the still, freezing air chilled his front: that was the way he liked it when he was listening to his dreams.\n\nLootavek, the one who listened before him, swore that a man could only hear his dreams as he was having them, yet the Listener thought him mistaken. Much like Nolo's boot lining, dreams needed to be chewed on.\n\nThe Listener listened. In his lap he held the hollow tip of a narwhal's tusk, a little silver knife that had once been used to kill a starving child, and a chunk of sea salt-hardened driftwood from a wrecked ship that had been beset then stoved in by the cold blue ice of Endsea. Like all good talismans, they felt right in the hand, and as the Listener's body heat warmed them in varying degrees, they released his mind into the halfworld that was part darkness and part light.\n\nFear gripped at the Listener's belly as he fell into his dreams.\n\nHands reached. Loss wept. A man with an impossible choice made the best decision he could...\n\n\"Sadaluk! Sadaluk! You must awaken before the cold burns your skin.\"\n\nThe Listener opened his eyes. Nolo was standing above him. The small, dark-skinned man had his prized squirrel coat tucked under his arm and a bowl of something hot and steaming in his hand.\n\nThe Listener shifted his gaze from Nolo to the night sky. The pale glow of dawn could clearly be seen across the Bay of Auks. Stars faded even as the Listener looked away. He had been listening to his dream for half the night.\n\nNolo tucked the squirrel coat around the Listener's shoulders and then held out the steaming bowl. \"Bear soup, Sadaluk. Sila made me swear to watch you drink it.\"\n\nThe Listener nodded gruffly, though in truth he was quite pleased\u2014not about the bear soup, which he could get from any fire around the rendering pit, but for the fact of Sila's attention.\n\nThe bear soup was hot, dark, and strong, and bits of sinew, bear fat, and marrow bobbed upon the surface. The Listener enjoyed the feel of steam on his face as he drank. The warmth of the bone bowl soothed the joints in his black, hard-as-wood hands. When he had finished he held out the empty bowl for Nolo to take. \"Go now. I will return the squirrel coat to you when I am rested.\"\n\nNolo took the bowl with all the usual carefulness of a husband handling one of his wife's best dishes and made his way back to his ground.\n\nThe Listener envied him.\n\nAfter what his dreams had shown him this night, the Listener knew that such a base and mortal emotion should be beneath him. But it wasn't, and that was the way of the world.\n\nThe Listener had seen the One with Reaching Arms reach out and beckon the darkness. And that meant only one thing.\n\nDays darker than night lay ahead.\n\nPulling hides across his doorway, the Listener retreated into the warmth and golden light of his ground. His bench was thick with animal skins heaped high with fresh white heather, and he lay down upon it and closed his eyes. He had no wish to dream and sleep, so he turned his thoughts to Sila and imagined her and Nolo sledding across the frozen margins of Endsea. He imagined the rime of ice beneath the sled runners wearing thin and Nolo calling a halt so that his wife could make new ice by the quickest way she could.\n\nThis pleasant image held the Listener's attention for only a short spell. There was work to be done. Messages had to be sent. Days darker than night lay ahead, and those who lived to know such things needed to be told. Let no one say that Sadaluk, Listener of the Ice Trapper tribe, was not the first to know.\nTHREE\n\nA Circle of Dust\n\n\"ARE YOU SURE YOU checked the rear of the horse corral?\" The freezing wind made Drey Sevrance squint as he spoke. Ice crystals glittered in the fox fur of his hood, and pine needles clung like matted hair to his shoulders, arms, and back.\n\nRaif thought his brother looked tired, and older than he had ever looked before. Dawn light was showing yellow on the horizon, and it cast pits of sulfur shadow on his face. \"I checked,\" Raif said. \"No sign of Mace.\"\n\n\"What about the alder swamp and the stream?\"\n\n\"Swamp's frozen. I walked along the stream bank. Nothing.\"\n\nDrey stripped off his gloves and ran his bare hands over his face. \"The current might have carried the body downstream.\"\n\nRaif shook his head. \"There's not enough water to carry a bloated fox from one bend to another, let alone a full-grown man clear from the camp.\"\n\n\"It would have been running faster yesterday at noon.\"\n\nRaif took a breath to speak, then thought better of it. The only time that stream would ever be strong enough to carry a body was during the second week of spring thaw when the runoff from the balds and Coastal Ranges was at its height\u2014Drey knew that. Suddenly uneasy but not sure why, Raif reached out and touched Drey's sleeve. \"Come on. Let's get back to the firepit.\"\n\n\"Mace Blackhail is out here somewhere, Raif.\" Drey pushed a hand through the frozen air. \"I know he's more than likely dead, but what if he isn't? What if he's wounded and fallen?\"\n\n\"There were those tracks\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't want to hear about those tracks again. Is that clear? They could have been left by anyone at any time. Mace was standing dogwatch\u2014he could have been anywhere when the raid came. Now either the raiders got to him first and he's lying frozen in some draw on the floodplain, or he made it back to the camp, warned the others, and we just haven't found him yet.\"\n\nRaif hung his head. He didn't know how to reply. How could he tell his brother he had a feeling that no matter how long and carefully they searched, they would still find no sign of Mace Blackhail? Shrugging heavily, he decided to say nothing. He was dead tired, and he didn't want to argue with Drey.\n\nDrey's face softened a fraction. Frozen colt grass cracked beneath his feet as he shifted his weight from left to right. \"All right. We'll head back to the firepit. We'll search wider for Mace come full daylight.\"\n\nToo exhausted to hide his relief, Raif followed Drey back to the tent circle. Wind-twisted hemlocks and blackstone pines thrashed against the sky like chained beasts. Somewhere close by, water trickled over loose shale, and far beyond the horizon a raven screamed at the dawn. Hearing the rough and angry cry of the bird the clan called Watcher of the Dead, Raif raised his hand to his throat. With his thick dogskin gloves on he could barely feel the hard hook of the raven's bill he wore suspended on a length of retted flax. The raven was his lore, chosen for him at birth by the clan guide.\n\nThe guide who had given Raif the raven lore was five years dead now. No one had been more deeply honored in the clan. He was ancient and he'd stunk of pigs and Raif had hated him with a vengeance. He had saved the worst possible lore for Tem Sevrance's second son. No one before or after had ever been given the raven. Ravens were scavengers, carrion feeders; they could kill, but they preferred to steal. Raif had seen how they followed a lone wolf for days, hoping to snatch a meal from an opened carcass. Everyone else in the clan, men and women alike, had fared better with their lores. Drey had been given a bear claw, like Tem before him. Dagro Blackhail's lore was an elk stag, Jorry Shank's a river pike, Mallon Clayhorn's a badger. Shor Gormalin was an eagle, like Raina Blackhail. As for Dagro's foster son, Mace... Raif thought for a moment. What was his lore? Then it came to him: Mace Blackhail was a wolf.\n\nThe only person in the entire clan who had a lore stranger than a raven was Effie. The guide had given her nothing but an ear-shaped piece of stone. Raif grew angry just thinking about it. What had the Sevrances ever done to the old bastard to deserve such short shrift?\n\nRaif tugged at the raven's lore, testing its oiled binding. When he was younger he had thrown the thing away more times than he could recount, yet somehow the guide always found it and brought it back. \"It's yours, Raif Sevrance,\" he would say, holding out the black piece of horn in his scarred filthy palm. \"And one day you may be glad of it.\"\n\nAll thoughts of ravens flew from Raif's mind as he and Drey approached the tent circle. The first rays of sunlight slid across the frozen tundra, illuminating the campsite with long threads of morning light. Already the six hide-and-moose-felt tents, the horse posts, the firepit, the drying racks, and the chopping stump had the look of ruins about them. Tem had once told Raif a story about a great dark deathship that mariners swore guarded the entrance to Endsea, keeping all but the blind and insane away. That was what the tents looked like now: the sails of a dead ship.\n\nRaif shivered. His hand dropped from his neck to the hollowed-out antler tine that was attached to his gear belt by a ring of tar-blackened brass. Sealed inside the tine was hallowed earth: dust ground from the guidestone that formed the Heart of Clan. Every clan had a guidestone, and every clansman carried a portion of it with him until he died.\n\nThe Clan Blackhail guidestone was a massive slab of folded granite as big as a stable block, shot with veins of black graphite and slick with grease. Clan Bludd's guidestone was also folded granite, but it was studded with seams of red garnets that shone like drying blood. Raif had never seen the powder that came from the Bluddstone, but he thought it must look pretty much the same as that ground from the Hailstone: smooth gray powder that ran through the hand like liquid smoke.\n\nAs he neared the firepit, he plucked the tine from his belt, breaking the brass ring. The tine was sealed closed with a cap of beaten silver, and Raif ran his thumb along the tine's length, feeling for the edge. Twelve men had died here, and only two remained. And two men without horses, carts, or sleds could never hope to bring back the dead. The roundhouse lay five days' hard travel south, and that was more than time enough for scavengers to tear the bodies to shreds.\n\nRaif wouldn't have it. Ravens were in the sky already, turning circles a league across, and soon wolves, coyotes, bears, and tundra cats would harken to the sound of their kaawing. All beasts that fed upon dead things would be drawn to the camp, in search of one final meal to gorge on before winter started true.\n\nShaking his head with a single savage blow, Raif flicked the cap from the tine. It popped open with a small hiss. Fine powder from the guidestone streamed in the wind like a comet's tail, bringing the taste of granite to Raif's lips. After a moment of utter silence, he began walking the circle. Around the firepit, the drying racks, the tents, and the bodies he moved, carving a path of air and dust. The gray powder sailed long on winter's breath, riding the cold eddies and swirling updrafts before sinking to its frozen bed.\n\nNothing was ever going to take Tern Sevrance. Ever. No ravens would pick at his eyes and his lips, no wolves would sink their fangs into his belly and his rump, no bears would suck the marrow from his bones, and no dogs would fight over scraps. He'd be damned to the darkest pits in hell if they would.\n\n\"Raif?\"\n\nLooking round, Raif saw Drey standing at the entrance to their father's tent, carrying a bundle of supplies pressed hard against his chest. \"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"I'm drawing a guide circle. We're going to burn the camp.\" Raif hardly recognized his own voice as he spoke. He sounded cold, and there was a challenge in his words he had not originally intended.\n\nDrey looked at him a long while. His normally light brown eyes were as dark as the walls of the firepit. He knew Raif's reasons\u2014they were too close as brothers not to know each other's minds\u2014but Raif could tell he was not pleased. He'd had plans of his own for the bodies.\n\nFinally the muscles in Drey's neck began to work, and after a moment he spoke, his voice hard. \"Finish the circle. I'll load these supplies by the horse posts, then find what oil and pitch I can.\"\n\nA deep band of muscle in Raif's chest relaxed. His mouth was dry\u2014too dry to speak. So he nodded once and continued walking. Raif felt Drey's gaze upon his back until the moment the circle was joined. And he knew with utter certainty that he had taken something precious from his brother. Drey was eldest. He should have had first say with the dead.\n\nDrey Sevrance did what was needed to start a good fire. He worked thoroughly and tirelessly; chipping and shredding firewood, stripping nearby trees of their needles to kindle the bare ground between the tents and the pit, spreading great heaps of moss around the bodies, and lacing everything with wads of rendered elk fat and ribbons of oil and pitch. The tent hides he doused with the hard liquor that was always to be found in Meth Ganlow's pack.\n\nThrough all the preparations, Raif did only those things Drey asked of him, nothing more; suggesting nothing, saying nothing. Giving Drey his due.\n\nRavens circled closer as they worked, their long black wings casting knife shadows on the snow, their harsh carrion calls a constant reminder to Raif of the thing he wore at his throat. Watcher of the Dead.\n\nWhen it was all done and the two brothers stood outside the guide circle, looking in at the primed firetrap they had created, Drey took out his flint and striker. The circle Raif had drawn was not visible to the eye. The powder was fine and the colt grass thick, and the wind had carried much of it away. But it was there. Both Raif and Drey knew it was there. A guide circle carried all the power of the guidestone it had been drawn with. It was Heart of Clan, here, on the frozen tundra of the badlands. All those within it lay upon hallowed ground.\n\nTem had once told Raif that far to the south in the Soft Lands of flat-roofed cities, grassy plains, and warm seas, there were others who used guide circles to protect them. Knights, they were called. And Tem said they burned their circles into their flesh.\n\nRaif didn't know about that, but he knew a clansman would sooner leave the roundhouse without his sword than without a flask, pouch, antler tine, or horn containing his measure of powdered guidestone. With a sword, a man could only fight. Within the hallowed ground of a guide circle, he could speak with the Stone Gods, ask for deliverance, absolution, or a swift and merciful death.\n\nA wolf howled in the distance, and as if its call had woken him from a trance, Drey pushed back his hood and stripped off his gloves. Raif did the same. All was still and quiet. The wind had died, the ravens landed, the wolf silent, perhaps scenting prey. Neither brother spoke. Words had never been the Sevrances' way.\n\nDrey struck the flint. The kindling caught, flaring fiercely in Drey's hand. Drey stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and lit the run of alcohol-laced moss he had laid.\n\nRaif forced himself to watch. It was hard, but he was clan, and his chief and his father lay here, and he would not look away. Flames raced toward Tem Sevrance, eager yellow fingers, sharp red claws. Hellfire. And it would eat him as surely as any beast.\n\nTem... .\n\nSuddenly Raif could think of nothing but stamping the blaze out. He stepped forward, but even as he did so, liquid fire found the first tent, and the primed elkhide burst into a sheet of flames. Sparks flew upward with a great gasp of smoke, and a thunderous roar of destruction shook the badlands to its core. Flames so hot they burned white danced in the rising wind. Pockets of ground ice melted with animal hisses, and then the stench of burning men rose from the pyre. Rippling air pushed against Raif's cheek. His eyes burned, and salt water streamed from them, running down his cheeks. He continued to look straight ahead. The exact piece of ground Tem lay on was etched upon his soul, and it was his Stone God\u2014given duty to watch it until it had burned to dust.\n\nFinally there came a time when he could look away. Turning, he looked to his brother. Drey would not meet his eyes. Drey's hand was bunched so tightly into a fist it caused his chest to shake. After a moment he spoke. \"Let's go.\"\n\nWithout glancing up to check his brother's reaction, Drey crossed over to the horse posts, picked up his share of the supplies, and hefted them over his back. From the bulky look of the packs, Raif guessed Drey had chosen to carry the heaviest bundles himself.\n\nDrey waited by the post. He would not look at his brother, but he would wait for him.\n\nRaif walked to meet him. As he suspected, the packs Drey had left were light, and Raif shrugged them on his back like a coat. He wanted to say something to Drey, but nothing seemed right, so he kept his silence instead.\n\nThe fire roared at their backs as they left the badlands campsite and headed south. Smoke followed them, fire stench sickened them, and ashes settled on their shoulders like the first shadows of night. They crossed the floodplain and the sedge meadow and headed over the great grasslands that led home. The sun set slow but early, lighting the sky behind them with a lingering bloody light.\n\nDrey never mentioned continuing the search for Mace Blackhail, and Raif was glad. Glad because it meant his brother saw the same things he did along the way: a broken pane of ice on a melt pond, a horse's hoof clearly stamped in the lichen, a ptarmigan bone, its end black from the roastfire, picked clean.\n\nWhen exhaustion finally got the better of them, they halted. An island of blackstone pines formed their shelter for the night. The great centuries-old trees had grown in a protective ring, originally seeded from a single mother tree that had matured in the center, then later died. Raif liked being there. It was like camping within a guide circle.\n\nDrey lit a dry fire and pulled an elkhide over his shoulders to keep warm. Raif did the same, and the two brothers sat close around the flames and ate strips of hung mutton and boiled eggs gone black. They drank Tem's dark, virtually undrinkable homebrew, and the sour taste and tarlike smell reminded Raif so strongly of his father it made him smile. Tem Sevrance's homebrew was the worst in the entire clan; everyone said so, no one would drink it, and it was rumored to have killed a dog. Yet Tem never changed his brew. Much like heroes in stories who poisoned themselves a little each day to protect against attacks from artful assassins, Tem had become immune to it.\n\nDrey smiled, too. It was impossible not to smile when faced with the very real possibility of death by beer. A soreness came to Raif's throat. There was just three of them now: he, Drey, and Effie.\n\nEffie. The smile drained from Raif's face. How would they tell Effie her da had gone? She had never known their mother. Meg had died on the birthing table in a pool of her own blood, and Tern had reared Effie on his own. Many clansmen and more than a few clanswomen had told Tern he should remarry to provide his sons and daughter with a mother, yet Tem had flatly refused. \"I have loved once, completely,\" he would say. \"And that's blessing enough for me.\"\n\nSuddenly Drey reached over and cuffed Raif lightly on the cheek. \"Don't worry,\" he said. \"We'll be all right.\"\n\nRaif nodded, glad to his heart that Drey had spoken and comforted by the realization that the same thoughts sifting through his mind were sifting through Drey's as well.\n\nSitting back, Drey adjusted the fire with a stick. Red-and-blue flames danced close to his gloved hand as he turned out charred logs. \"We'll make Clan Bludd pay for what they did, Raif. I swear it.\"\n\nA hand of pure ice gripped Raif's gut. Clan Bludd? Drey had no proof of what he said. The raid could have been mounted by any number of parties: Clan Dhoone, Clan Croser, Clan Gnash, a band of Maimed Men. The Sull. And then there was the nature of the wounds, the stench of badness, the feeling that something more than death had taken place. The warriors of Clan Bludd were fierce beyond telling, with their spiked and lead-weighted hammers, their case-hardened spears, their partly shorn heads, and their greatswords cut with deep center grooves for channeling their enemies' blood; yet Raif had never once heard either Tem or Dagro Blackhail say that Clan Bludd was involved in...\n\nRaif shook his head. He had no words for what had happened at the campground. He just knew that any clansman worth his lore would turn his back on such a thing.\n\nGlancing over at Drey, Raif took a breath to speak. Then, seeing how viciously Drey poked at the fire and how the stick he held was bent close to breaking, he let the breath out, unused. In five days they would be back home. All truths would come out then.\nFOUR\n\nA Raven Has Come\n\nANGUS LOK WAS RECEIVING kisses. Fourteen of them, to be exact, one for each halfpenny that Beth and Little Moo would cost him. It was Beth's idea, of course; she wanted new ribbons for her hair, and she was prepared to do anything\u2014kissing included\u2014to get them. Little Moo was far too young to have formed any opinion on ribbons other than that they were good to chew on; yet she was kissing her father anyway, giggling wildly and wetting Angus' face with sticky, ever-so-slightly gritty kisses that tasted of oatcakes.\n\n\"Please, Father. Please,\" Beth said. \"You promised.\"\n\n\"Pweez, Papa,\" echoed Little Moo.\n\nAngus Lok groaned. He knew when he was beaten. Slapping a hand on his chest, he cried, \"All right! All right! You've torn your poor father's heart out along wi' his purse! Ribbons it is! I suppose I should ask what colors you'll both be wanting?\"\n\n\"Pink,\" said Beth.\n\n\"Noos,\" said Little Moo.\n\nAngus Lok picked up Little Moo, lifted her from his lap, and planted her gently on the fox pelt rug at his feet. \"Pink and noos it is, then.\"\n\nBeth giggled as she laid one last kiss on her father's cheek and stood. \"Blue, Father. Little Moo wants blue.\"\n\n\"Noos. Noos,\" echoed Little Moo happily.\n\n\"Angus.\"\n\nAngus looked up at the sound of his wife's voice. Two syllables, yet straightaway he knew something was wrong. \"What is it, love?\"\n\nDarra Lok hesitated a moment in the doorway, as if reluctant to move forward, then took a small, resigned breath and walked into the farmhouse kitchen. Coming to join Angus by the fire, she paused to push a stray strand of hair from Beth's face and deprive Little Moo of a hairy bit of oatcake that the child had just plucked from the depths of the fox pelt rug.\n\nSitting down on the oakwood bench that her father's steward had made for her as a wedding gift eighteen years earlier, Darra Lok took her husband's hand in hers. Checking first that the two youngest of her three daughters were caught up in their own worlds of ribbons and oatcakes, she leaned close to Angus and said, \"A raven has come.\"\n\nAngus Lok took a deep breath and held it. Closing his eyes, he spoke a silent prayer to any and all gods who might be listening. Please let it not be a raven. Please let Darra be mistaken and it be a rook, a jackdaw, or a hooded crow. Even as he wished it, he knew he was wrong. Darra Lok knew a raven when she saw one.\n\nAngus raised his wife's hand to his lips and kissed it. He knew the gods didn't like it if a man asked for one thing straight after another, so he didn't pray that his fear wasn't showing on his face. He simply hid it as well as he could.\n\nDarra's dark blue eyes looked into his. Her normally lovely face was pale, and little lines Angus had barely noticed before were etched deep into her brow. \"Cassy spotted it this morning, circling the house. It didn't come to land until now.\"\n\n\"Take me to it.\"\n\nDarra Lok let go of her husband's hand and nodded. She stood slowly, reluctantly, brushing imaginary dirt from her apron. \"Beth. Watch your sister. See she doesn't get too close to the fire. I'll be back in just a minute.\"\n\nBeth nodded in a movement that was so similar to the one Darra had just made, it turned Angus' heart to lead. A raven had come to his house, and although the massive blue black birds with their long knife wings, powerful jaws, and human voices meant many different things to many different people, to Angus Lok they meant just one: leaving home.\n\nDarra walked ahead of him out of the kitchen, and Angus paused a moment to run his hand over Beth's cheek. \"Pink and blue,\" he mouthed as he left, so she knew he wouldn't forget about the ribbons.\n\nIt was raining outside, a steady drizzle that had begun just before dawn, and the grounds around the Lok farm were turning to mud. Darra had spent most of the morning harvesting the last of her herb garden before first frost, and the small patch of ground just below the kitchen window was stripped bare. To the side of the herb garden, the chickens clucked nervously in the coop, built in a lean-to against the kitchen chimney. They knew all about ravens.\n\n\"Father!\"\n\nAngus Lok turned toward the voice of his eldest daughter. Cassy Lok had dirt smeared on her face, her hair was plastered to the sides of her head in two wet sheets, and she was wearing an ancient oilskin cape that had come with the farm together with a milk churn and two rotting plows. Yet to Angus she looked perfectly beautiful. High spots of color glowed in her cheeks, and her hazel eyes were as bright as raindrops glistening on amber. Sixteen, she was. Old enough to be wed and have children of her own. Angus frowned. How was she ever going to meet a young man, hidden out here in the farm and woodlands two days' northeast of Ille Glaive? She wasn't. And that was one reason Angus Lok didn't sleep well at night.\n\n\"Have you come to take a look at the raven?\" Cassy said, excitement spilling into her voice as she ran to join her father. \"It's a messenger, like the rooks that sometimes come. Only bigger. There's something tied to its leg.\"\n\nDarra and Angus Lok exchanged a glance. \"Cassy, go inside and warm yourself. Your father and I will see to the bird.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Inside, Casilyn.\"\n\nCassy brought her lips together, made a small huffing sound, then turned and made her way inside the house. Darra seldom used her full name.\n\nAngus ran a hand over his face, brushing the rain from his eyebrows and beard. He watched as Cassy closed the kitchen door behind her. She was a good girl. He'd talk to her later, explain what he could.\n\n\"This way. The bird has no liking for the rookery like the rest. It's perched itself in the old elm around the back.\" Without waiting for her husband to acknowledge what she said, Darra cut across the yard and down along the side of the house. Angus had lived with his wife too long not to know that her briskness was a cover. Darra was nervous and trying not to show it.\n\nTo the rear of the Lok farmhouse lay open woodland. Great old oaks, elms, and basswoods grew tall and spread wide over a rich damp underwood of lichen, dead leaves, loam, and ferns. In spring Cassy and Beth would search for blue duck eggs, wood frogs, and wild mint, and in summer they'd spend entire days in the woods, picking cloudberries, blackberries, gooseberries, and black plums, coming home after sundown with sticky faces and baskets crammed with dark mushy fruits that would have to be soaked in water to drown the maggots out. In autumn they would hunt for field mushrooms and milk caps, and in winter, during those times when Angus' work took him away, Darra would set traps to catch small game.\n\nKaaw! Kaaw!\n\nThe raven announced its presence with two short, angry notes, drawing Angus Lok's gaze skyward, up through the branches of the great white elm that provided summer shade for the entire house. Even surrounded by branches as thick as arms, the raven's form was unmistakable. It perched in the tree with all the arrogance of a panther resting after an easy kill. Black and still, it watched Angus Lok with eyes of liquid gold.\n\nAngus' gaze shifted from the creature's eyes to its legs. A marked thickening directly above its left claw was clearly visible: pikeskin, sinew bound, then painted with a resin seal.\n\nKaaw! Kaaw!\n\nLook, I dare you.\n\nAngus heard the raven's call as a challenge. Only two people in the Northern Territories used ravens to carry their messages, and Angus knew in the soft marrow of his bones that he didn't want to hear from either of them. The past lay within that pikeskin pouch, and he and the raven knew it.\n\n\"Call it down.\" Darra's voice was low, her hands twisted at the fabric of her apron.\n\nNodding softly, Angus whistled as he had once been taught nearly twenty years earlier: two short chirrs followed by a single long note.\n\nThe raven bobbed its head and shook out its wings. Gold eyes appraised Angus Lok. Seconds passed, and then, making a noise that sounded just like human laughter, the raven flew down from the branch.\n\nDarra stepped back as the huge bird landed. Angus had to fight the urge to step back himself. The raven's bill was as big as a spearhead, sharp and hooked like the shredder on a plow. Apparently delighted by Darra's fear, the bird danced toward her, bobbing its head and calling softly.\n\n\"Nay, yer little beastie.\" Angus grabbed at the raven, one hand circling its belly, the other clamping down on its bill. Pulling the bird from the ground, he hefted it fast against his chest. The raven jerked its wings and clawed its feet, but Angus held it firm, increasing his pressure on its bill. \"Darra. Take the knife from my belt and cut the message.\"\n\nDarra did as she was asked, though her knifehand shook so much as she broke the seal that she nearly bled the bird. With the sinew and resin bindings broken, the small package, no bigger than a child's little finger, fell into Darra's left palm.\n\nAngus turned away from his wife and threw the raven from him. The bird spread its wings and soared into the air, laughing, laughing, as it disappeared into the blade-metal sky.\n\n\"Here. Take it.\" Darra Lok held out the package. The pikeskin wrapping was badly stained by rain, resin, and bird lime, but small silvery green patches of skin were still visible along its length. Pikeskin was light, strong, and waterproof and could be molded in place when wet. A useful material, yet Angus couldn't recall the last time he'd received a message so wrapped. The moment Angus' fingers closed around the soft, damp package, Darra took a step back. Angus sent his wife a glance. Stay.\n\nDarra shook her head. \"No, my husband. I've been married to you for eighteen years, and I have never once looked upon any message they have sent. I do not think it would be a good time to break my tally now.\" With that Darra Lok ran a hand over her husband's right cheek and turned and walked away.\n\nAngus cupped his hand to his face where his wife had touched him, holding on to her warmth as he watched her disappear behind the corner of the house. He didn't deserve her. She was a Ross of Clad Hill, and her father was a grangelord, and nineteen years ago when they'd first met, she could have had any man she chose. Angus Lok never forgot that. It ran through his mind now as he unraveled the roll of pikeskin and pulled out the length of saliva-softened whitespruce bark.\n\nSliced so thinly that Angus could see his thumb through the fibers, the soft strip of inner bark carried a border of seals chasing quarter moons burned into the wood. The message was also burned in, painstakingly pricked out with the tip of a red-hot needle:\n\nThe One with Reaching Arms Beckons\n\nDays Darker Than Night Lie Ahead\n\nSadaluk\n\nAngus stepped toward the great old elm and leaned heavily against its trunk. Rain dripped around him, forming a curtain of beaded light. Many things he had been prepared for, many terrible, terrible things. But this... A bitter smile flashed across Angus' face. This was something he had thought well behind him. They all had.\n\nIt's your choice, Angus Lok. Make of it what you will. The past pulled like a much used muscle within Angus' chest. It shortened his breath, making it difficult to breathe. He would have to leave. Tonight. Head for Ille Glaive, meet with those who needed to be told. It never occurred to him to doubt the message. Sadaluk of the Ice Trapper tribe was not the sort of man given to rash communication. Twenty years, and this was the first time Angus had ever heard from him.\n\nBeneath Angus' feet, the bald earth around the elm turned to mud. The raven's laughter echoed in the last of the tree's attached leaves. Angus glanced at his house. Inside Cassy would be helping Darra stack the fire before supper, Beth would be rolling dough for the sweet, sticky unnameable pastries that she and Little Moo loved to eat. As for Little Moo... well, she had probably keeled over on the rug and was currently fast asleep. That child could sleep anywhere.\n\nPain, which had never quite left Angus' chest, reasserted itself with a single, soft stab. How safe were all his children tonight?\n\nTucking the message in a slip inside his waistcoat, Angus pushed himself off from the elm and headed for the warmth of his house. No. He wouldn't leave his home, not in darkness. Those who sent messages could go to the deepest spiraling hell. He had promised Beth and Little Moo ribbons, and by all the gods, they were going to get them. Yet even as Angus Lok found some satisfaction in defiance, fear settled like dust within his bones. A raven had come, and a message had been received, and the past was now a tightly held fist knocking at his door.\n\nAS QUIET AS SETTLING dust, Ash March told herself as she slipped through her chamber door. Cool air from the corridor brushed against her nightdress, and Ash had to bite the inside of her mouth to stop herself from shivering. Why did it have to be so cold? She glanced back at the door. Should she have brought an outer robe after all? Suddenly the idea of wandering around Mask Fortress wearing little but a nightdress and a wool tunic didn't seem nearly as clever as it had earlier. Still, this way, if she were caught, she could at least claim sleepwalking and have a chance of being believed. Wearing a cloak would make things harder. Did sleepwalkers dress before they went outside? Ash didn't know.\n\nLooking ahead at what she could see of the gently spiraling corridor of cut and angled stone, Ash listened for the sound of Marafice Eye. The Knife had moved from his post by Ash's door some minutes earlier, probably assuming his charge was fast asleep. Ash didn't know where he had gone, had no idea when and if he would return. She just knew that he was sick of spending his nights camped outside her door. She didn't blame him. It was cold enough to turn breath white, and, discounting watching dust settle and greenwood torches burn out one by one, there was nothing to do.\n\nLaughter. Ash tensed. The sound came again, down the corridor and off to the right Katia's room. Yet that wasn't Katia laughing. Not unless she'd spent the night swilling hot tar and chewing on gravel.\n\n\"I said blow out the light.\"\n\nImmediately Ash recognized the cold, imperative tones of Marafice Eye. He was in Katia's room... with Katia. Ash shuddered; she didn't like the thought of that one bit. Katia was so small, dark and tiny like a doll. And Marafice Eye was a huge bull of a man, with arms that took the sleeves of four men to cover them and wrists like iron bars. Slipping into the shadows against the opposite wall, Ash walked quickly ahead.\n\nThe limestone walls were bitterly cold, and Ash avoided touching them as she moved. Both her own and Katia's chambers were situated in the shortest and thickest of the four towers in Mask Fortress: the Cask. The Cask was the principal fortified structure in Spire Vanis, and its walls were twenty feet thick. A series of spiraling corridors and winding staircases led up from its base like a path weaving around a hill, breaking occasionally for defensive bastions, archers' roosts, chambers, walled-in snugs, and recessed alcoves with cut stone benches known as graymeets.\n\nAsh's chamber formed the heart of the Cask. Directly below her floor, the tower wall was spiked with a ring of fortifications so thick that from outside they looked like a massive limestone bird's nest clustered around a tree. The Cask was not a pretty sight. Of the three towers that were livable within the fortress, it was the least graciously set, having none of the wrought ironwork and lead cladding found in the Horn or the crow-step gables and black marble eyelets of the Bight.\n\nAs for the Splinter, the tallest tower in Mask Fortress, capped with the Iron Spire, where high traitors were once impaled at a height of six hundred feet so that everyone within the city could see them and know fear... Ash shook her head. No one had been there for years. The Splinter was unstable, uninhabitable, freezing, damp, broken. It was a wonder the whole thing didn't collapse. One end was said to be embedded so deeply within the frozen bedrock of Mount Slain that the tower shuddered along with the mountain. And the other end soared so high into the clouds that moisture continually ran in rivulets down its walls whether it was raining or not. In winter the entire structure was encased within a layer of rime ice a knuckle thick. Pale, narrow, and twisting, the ice-bound tower had been called by many names: the Winter Spire, the White Thorn, Penthero Iss' Bloodless Prick. Ash frowned. Katia was always passing along such nonsense.\n\nReaching the first set of steps, Ash risked looking back. Katia must have blown out the light as Marafice Eye had bidden, for the space beneath the little maid's door was now dark. That was good, Ash told herself, moving her mind away from the subject. She didn't want to think about what might be happening within.\n\nSolid limestone steps muffled her footfalls as she descended the stairs. Iron hooks, mottled brown and orange with rot and rust, jutted from the stairwall like bird claws, forcing her to walk dead center. Once they had been used to suspend great fire-blackened chains that linked all the Cask's portcullises to a single lever in the strongroom below. Now they were just one more hazard to avoid, like servants, brothers-in-the-watch, and the raw mountain air.\n\nAsh rubbed her arms. She was so cold. Freezing. Yet she had thought to wear her thickest nightgown, and her feet were slippered in moleskin. It wasn't even winter yet, not properly, so why could she never get warm?\n\nYou are not well, almost-daughter. I worry.\n\nAsh shook her foster father's voice from her head. She wasn't unwell in the way he meant. Katia had told her all about what happened to girls when they came into their blood, and nightmares and cold sweats formed no part of it. \"You get stomach cramps,\" Katia had said, an air of vast superiority warming her voice. \"And your mind starts turning to men.\" Ash blew air through her nostrils. Men. No, that definitely wasn't happening to her.\n\nSomething else was. Ten nights in a row she had dreamed of ice. Always she awoke to find sheets damp with sweat twisted around her arms like rope. The dreams were so real, and the voices of the creatures who spoke to her were like nothing she had ever heard before. Mistressss, they murmured, as sickly pleasing as sweet rolls spread with honey and jam, come for us, stretch toward us, reach...\n\nAsh took a deep breath to stop herself from shivering. The thought of returning to her bedchamber was suddenly there in her mind, and it was hard to keep moving forward. Her foster father knew what was wrong with her, she was sure of it. She was also sure he would never tell her the truth.\n\nHe watched her constantly; stealing into her room when she was sleeping, examining her breasts, her hair, her teeth, questioning Katia about the tiniest details of her life. Nothing was too insignificant for him: the contents of her chamber pot, the amount of goose fat left on her plate after dinner, the changing dimensions of her corselet and small linens. What did he want with her? Wasn't being his almost-daughter enough?\n\nAsh pushed the hurt away before it reached her. He wasn't her real father, she had to remember that. He never called her daughter without speaking the word almost first.\n\nThe stairs came to an abrupt halt between stories to allow access to the battlements, then resumed after a short ramp. Ash increased her speed. The light level was rising, and shouted orders and the clatter of steel on steel began to filter up from the Red Forge below.\n\nPenthero Iss knew something, something about her, her parents, or the circumstances of her birth. Something that made him guard her closely at all times, set his Knife outside her door, and call upon her day and night unannounced, hoping to catch her... doing what? Ash shook her head. She might find the answer to that tonight.\n\nEvery evening in the hour before midnight, Iss left his private chambers in the base of the Cask and went elsewhere. Ash had seen him leave and return countless times over the years, yet she did not know where he went. According to Katia, he seldom locked the chamber door behind him. It was late, and the Cask was secure, and only Ash, Katia, and a handful of trusted servants were allowed access during the night. The Rive Watch garrison, the mighty Red Forge where brothers-in-the-watch struck and cooled their bloodred swords, was situated adjacent to the Cask. No one could enter the tower unchallenged. Iss' chamber was secure against intruders, but not against someone who was already within the tower.\n\nAll her foster father's private papers were held within his chamber. If there was any record of the day he had found and claimed her, it would be buried somewhere deep beneath his slate books and ledgers, his onionskin atlases and manifests and lists.\n\nAsh began her descent of the second flight of stairs, her hand trailing from hook to hook along the stairwall. Iss' voice followed her like smoke from the greenwood torches. Is this how you repay me, almost-daughter? I clothe you and feed you, and then as soon as my back is turned you betray me like this. You disappoint me, Asarhia. I thought you loved your father more.\n\nAsarhia. Ash bristled. She was Ash, just Ash, yet no one within Mask Fortress would acknowledge it Everyone called her Asarhia or Lady Asarhia or mistress. It was yet another thing she owed to Penthero Iss. He had found and then named her: Asarhia because it was a fashionable name given to ladies of high birth, and March because of where she was found: on the very border of the city itself. Five paces farther south of Vaingate, almost-daughter, and you would not have been mine to keep. Protector's Trove ends within a shadow's fall of the gate.\n\nAsh breathed in cold air from the shadows as she paused upon the final landing to listen for sounds of brothers-in-the-watch.\n\nVaingate. Why Vaingate? Spire Vanis had four gates, each one facing a cardinal point. Vaingate faced south. South. No roads led from it, no brothers-in-the-watch patrolled it, no carts loaded with wares ever trundled past its posts. Vaingate opened onto the north face of Mount Slain! It had been built purely for show, satisfying some ancient masonic code of order that demanded a walled city have four gates. Who would leave a baby outside a gate that was never used?\n\nThe answer came to Ash with the same sickening pull as always: Someone who wanted their baby dead.\n\nOnce, just once, she would like her foster father to answer her questions. Had she been left with linens and spare clothes? In a basket or a blanket? Had she been wiped clean and suckled? Or left bloody and thirsty and exposed? Yet always when she asked, Iss would shake his head. \"You were abandoned, almost-daughter. Surely that's all you need to know?\"\n\nVoices. Close by.\n\nAsh stilled herself. She spent hours each day watching fortress cats chase mice and birds in the quadrangle, and one thing she knew for sure was that a cat never pounced unless it saw something move. The trick was keeping your nerve. Mice didn't, birds didn't, but some old hares did. Ash had seen them, sitting perfectly still on the archers' block as brazen as you like. The shadows on the stairwell were deep, slanting, and Ash leaned into them, pressing her shoulders against the limestone wall. The voices grew louder. Footsteps clicked over tile, click,. click click.\n\n\"Don't hold the bowl out at arm's length like a used chamber pot, you great moose. It'll cool in no time that way. Hold it against your chest. Can't have His Coldness complaining about lukewarm beans\u2014not with them being late and all.\"\n\n\"And why not? It's certainly not him that eats them. Beans is common fare, and we all know how high and mighty the Killhound is. Wouldn't eat a pork sausage if his life depended on it.\"\n\n\"I don't know nothing about that. Beans in soft butter he's asked for, and beans he's going to get. Now deliver 'em sharpish\u2014they're long past due as it is. And be sure to let him know that no one in the kitchen's to blame. Furnacemen! Hmph! When I find which of those dog-faced devils killed my stove, I swear I'll...\"\n\nThe voices trailed off as the two figures disappeared along the corridor, and Ash pulled back from the wall. It was just Mistress Wence and a manservant. They hadn't even glanced up as they passed. From the sound of things, they were late delivering food to her foster father. Which meant that Iss was still in his chamber. Annoyed, Ash brushed lime dust from her shoulders. What was she going to do now?\n\nMatters were decided for her by the sound of booted feet descending the stairs. A brother-in-the-watch, judging from the faint jingle of metal that accompanied each step, so there was no going back. Leaving the safe haven of the shadows, Ash took the last of the steps and moved into the corridor below. The entrance to the Red Forge lay on the south side of the tower, so she took the way north instead, following Mistress Wence and the manservant toward Iss' chamber.\n\nAt ground level the curvature of the Cask's corridors was so slight, it was easy to forget they ran in a circuit around the base of the tower. Only a quarter of the rotunda was given over to Iss' private rooms. The remaining space was taken by state rooms: the Hall of Trials, the Blackvault, and the main entrances to the quadrangle and the Red Forge. Along the entire length of the circuit ran a series of life-size statues hewn from marble the color of smoke: the Founding Quarterlords and Impaled Beasts of Spire Vanis.\n\nAsh shivered hard as she heard the brother-in-the-watch open the main rotunda door behind her. Cold air pushed against the backs of her legs. She was beginning to wish she hadn't started this. But then, doing anything these days was preferable to sleeping.\n\nDreams woke her every night. Her mind drifted... she saw the ice cave, felt the terrible cold breath that steamed from its shining walls...\n\nAnother door banged closed, bringing Ash back. Voices again. Mistress Wence and the servant returning from Iss' chamber. They would be here any moment.\n\nPanicking, Ash wheeled around. Smooth walls, an iron-plated door that led to the unused east gallery and was kept locked at all times, a lit greenwood torch, and a recess housing a statue of Torny Fyfe, Bastard Lord, swordsman and glutton, and least highly regarded of the Founding Quarterlords were the only things in sight.\n\nMistress Wence's heels tapped a march against the limestone floor. Her thin nasal voice piped in displeasure.\n\nAsh ran for the greenwood torch, tugged it from its pewter casing, and rammed the burning end against the wall. The flames died instantly, killing the light. Thick smoke from the charred end curled toward the ceiling as Ash recouched the torch. The smell of burned resin helped clear her head. Turning about, she ran for the statue of Torny Fyfe, squeezing herself behind his great marble thighs and thanking the Maker for every eight-course meal the Quarterlord had ever eaten. The shadow cast by his overhanging belly was enough to provide a team of dogs with shade.\n\n\"Really! Between you and furnacemen I don't know who's the dimmest. You were supposed to tell Iss that it wasn't the kitchen staff's fault. Not just stand there mumbling a lot of old nonsense about the lumber and the fire.\"\n\nRounding the curve, Mistress Wence and the manservant came to an abrupt halt several paces short of Torny Fyfe's likeness. Although light in the corridor was now limited, it was far from dark, and Ash could clearly see Mistress Wence's sharp nose quiver.\n\n\"Torch has gone out. Take a flint to it, Grice. We don't want to give His Coldness anything else to find fault with.\"\n\nAs Grice slapped his tunic looking for a flint, Ash felt a trickle of cold sweat slide past her ear. Dream or no dream, she was returning to her chamber as soon as this pair was gone. She should never have come here. The whole idea had been a mistake from the start. She'd rather be lying in bed dreaming of ice than wedged behind a marble backside, hiding from the fortress staff.\n\nRealizing Grice was flintless, Mistress Wence sniffed with venom. \"Really! How can you call yourself a man and not carry a flint?\"\n\n\"I can relight it from one of the torches, mistress.\"\n\nTo Ash's very great relief, Mistress Wence shook her head, shoulders, and chest. \"You will do no such thing, you great oaf. What if Iss came from his chamber and saw you hulking around with a smoking torch in your hand at this time of night?\" Three sniffs followed in rapid succession. \"He'd think you were a hideclad come to finish him off, that's what. And sure as rotten apples bring flies, he'd make you pay for it. You're coming to the kitchen with me and pick up a flint this minute. Move sharpish, now!\" With that Mistress Wence and the manservant resumed their journey along the corridor.\n\nSlumping forward against Torny Fyfe's shoulder, Ash exhaled softly. A wisp of marble dust spilled down her neck, cold and grainy like powdered snow. Ash shook it away. She was stiff, half-frozen, and her nightgown was plastered to her back with icy sweat. Sucking in her chest and stomach, she squeezed herself free of Torny Fyfe's shoulders and shuffled her ankles clear of his blocky, basestone feet. As she stepped into the open corridor, her head jerked back painfully. Turning about, she saw where a lock of her hair had snagged in the Quarterlord's elaborately worked scabbard. Cursing all fat men with swords, Ash edged back to release it.\n\nBesides arming Torny Fyfe with a sword long enough to impale a horse, the sculptor had also conceived of a brisk wind to blow at his cape, and sharp folds of marble shaved Ash's shins as she moved. Letting out a sound halfway between a squeak and a sob, Ash vowed to run back to her chamber and never, ever, venture out again.\n\nSss. A door whirred open in the distance, making a faint hissing sound. Ash looked up. The noise came from the direction of Penthero Iss' private chamber. Even before she could decide what to do, she heard softly soled feet slapping stone. Iss was coming this way.\n\nWrenching her trapped hair free, Ash drew herself into the deepest shadows of the recess. Iss would be furious if he found her here. Furious. The time she fixed the bolt on her door was nothing compared to this.\n\nBefore she had chance to settle herself into a position she could comfortably hold, her foster father rounded the corner. Thin, pale, and hairless except for his closely shorn scalp, Penthero Iss had the look of something drowned and then pulled up a week later from a lake. Everything about him was pallid, smooth, and bloodless. His eyes were green, but barely so; his lips and cheeks had the color and texture of cooked veal; and the skin on his earlobes let through light.\n\nCarrying a covered bundle in his left arm, Iss walked faster than was normally his wont. Blue silk, heavily embroidered with metal chains and pieces of agate, thrashed against his thighs as he moved.\n\nAsh held her breath. All of her shrank back, away from her foster father. She closed her eyes as he passed.\n\nOnly he didn't pass. Not completely. He walked to a point and then stopped. All was silent. Realizing she had been discovered, Ash opened her eyes. The sleepwalking excuse was a dead dog now.\n\nAsh blinked. Fully expecting her foster father's pale green gaze to be upon her, she was surprised to see that he wasn't even looking her way. His back was toward her, and he was standing in front of the iron door. Ash saw the tendons in his wrist rise and fall, and then a muffled clunk sounded as lock and key turned.\n\nIn all her years of living within Mask Fortress, Ash had never once seen the iron door opened. It led through to the unused east gallery and then to the Splinter beyond. No one ever visited the Splinter. It was forbidden by rule of law. Workmen had died there, people said, plunging to their deaths through gaps in rotten timbers, crushed by falling masonry, and impaled upon the banister of spikes that wove around the main stairway like a handrail to hell.\n\nAsh inched forward, resting her hand on Torny Fyfe's smoothly chiseled rear.\n\nThe door swung back as Penthero Iss pushed against the metal plating. Stale air breathed into the corridor like fine mist. Ash smelled the dry, itchy odor of old stone and withered things. It was the same smell\u2014part of it\u2014that clung to Iss sometimes when he visited her chambers in the middle of the night. Ash trembled, not sure if she was excited or afraid. The lock had turned with barely a sound! The door hinges glided as smoothly as a pat of butter running down a roast. Everything had been oiled. Recently. There was no rust, no rot.\n\nIss slid into the darkness on the far side of the door. All previous vows about returning to her room forgotten, Ash willed her foster father not to lock the door behind him. He was in a hurry, she knew that. Would he pause to lock the door?\n\nThe iron door closed as easily as something a quarter of its size. Switching air caused one of the iron plates to jiggle in its frame. Ash listened for the sound of Iss inserting his key. She heard something, a click or tap, and then everything was quiet.\n\nAsh waited. Her heart was pumping fast and hard, and she was ready to run for the door. She forced herself to count seconds. Her foster father had gone to the Splinter. The Splinter.\n\nMinutes passed. Beneath Ash's hand, Torny Fyfe's backside warmed to a toasty glow. Ash patted the marble. She was growing rather fond of the old Quarterlord.\n\nThis time she slipped smoothly from the recess, tucking her hair beneath her nightdress and lifting her ankles high to avoid sharp edges. Working the stiffness from her legs and back, she crossed to the door. Seen up close, the metal plates were scored and then case hardened to form a rigid skin of steel. The mark of the Killhound standing high atop the Iron Spire was stamped upon each one.\n\nUnsettled, Ash pushed against the door. The cool metal gave, sweeping back beneath her palm. Shadows and old air stole across Ash's fingers and up along her arm. Iss had not locked the door. It seemed mad, impossible. Doubt spiked in her stomach like a violent cramp. Still she kept pushing, forcing the door back into the corridor beyond. Secrets lay ahead, she was sure of it. And she had to know if those secrets involved her.\n\nStepping into the shadows, she let the door fall shut behind her. A different kind of coldness from that present in the rotunda gripped at her chest: dry, bitter, and weighted, as if the air were thick with particles of freezing dust. Ash stilled herself for a moment, giving her eyes time to adjust to the darkness.\n\nThe east gallery was a long arcade of limestone arches roofed with slate\u2014she knew that because the structure formed the massive east wall of the quadrangle\u2014yet the shadows surrounding her gave little of that away. Dark gashes of open space, pale glimmering edges, and hoods of matted stone were all she could see. Soft warbling sounds came from somewhere high above, and Ash guessed that pigeons had found their way in to roost.\n\nHoping they were the only living things she would encounter, she began to walk in the direction she imagined was forward. Stone dust crunched beneath her slippers with each step. Icy fingers of frost tugged at her arms and ankles. The odor of dry decay sharpened. Suddenly nervous, she picked up her pace, striding into the tunneling darkness. I can turn back at any time, she told herself, trying to sound strong.\n\nThe gallery stretched on and on, and except for occasional chinks in boarded-up windows where single beams of moonlight shone through, there was no increase in light. Ash glanced into the shadows pooled to either side of the walkway. What could a man see in such darkness? She slowed. What could he do?\n\nAsh halted and peered into the distance. A curving endwall, black yet planed smooth enough to reflect some measure of light, blocked the way ahead. Just visible against the dark stonework was the outline of a heavily carved door. Ash recognized it instantly. Another identical door, locked, barred, and boarded, stood outside against the fortress wall. The wood had been worked in such a way to fool the eyes into thinking that the door was already open and Robb Claw, great-grandson of the Bastard Lord Glamis Claw, was on his way through.\n\nThe second entrance to the Splinter.\n\nEven as Ash tensed muscles to step toward it, the ground beneath her feet shuddered. Overhead beams creaked. Dust sifted to the floor like fine rain. Tiny hairs along her arms lifted. Everything stilled, yet something within the air and shadows continued to change. Ahead the endwall seemed to grow darker, blacker, deeper, siphoning substance from the night. The air temperature dropped so quickly it felt like liquid against Ash's skin. Shadows bled. Bearings shifted. Everything became somehow less than it was.\n\nAnd then Ash felt it.\n\nSomething evil and wanting and broken. Something trapped in the darkness, drying slowly to a scaly husk. Something nameless and full of hate, driven by loneliness and terror and savage, blinding, unspeakable pain. Malice filled it, fear consumed it, need pumped like blood through its dark, voided heart. It wanted, wanted. It hardly knew what, but it wanted. And hated. And was utterly alone.\n\nDread stole over Ash like deep cold. All the breath rushed from her body, leaving her lungs hanging dead in her chest. An instant floated in the air like dust too fine to settle. Ash felt as if she were sinking in ice cold water. She couldn't breathe, move, think.\n\nSlowly, slowly, and at terrible cost, the nameless wanting thing turned its mind toward Ash March. Ash felt the great millwheel of its awareness pass over her, and in those seconds she came to know the full burden of its existence. It made her mouth go dry.\n\nThe creature reached.\n\nIt wasn't there, wasn't beside, above, or beneath her. But it reached.\n\nAsh shrank back. She sucked in breath, turned on her heel and ran.\n\nFists beating air, hair streaming loose, moleskin slippers smacking against stone, Ash raced along the east gallery, back toward the iron door. Walls, arches, and openings blurred into a single streak. Ash's heart beat in her throat. When she came upon the iron-plated door, she blasted through it like a bear through sheet ice. The rotunda corridor was warm and full of light. The torch she had extinguished had been relit and burned with a crackling yellow flame. Part of her wanted to rip it from the wall and throw it into the darkness beyond the door and burn whatever lived there.\n\nThe desire to flee was greater. Not stopping to watch the door swing shut behind her, or check if anyone was coming, Ash dashed along the rotunda toward the stairs. Limestone walls that earlier had felt as cold as gravestones now seemed as warm as sun-baked clay.\n\nAsh shook her head as she took the stairs two and three at a time. She had been a fool. A fool. Everyone knew there was no such thing as good secrets. She should have kept away, not looked, not dared. Even if she had gone to her foster father's private chambers instead of heading for the Splinter, the story would have been the same. She wasn't really going to find some magical slip of paper that told of how she was more than just a foundling, how Penthero Iss had robbed and tricked her real parents into giving her up. There were no good secrets. And she was a fool for believing otherwise.\n\nAsh let out a hysterical sob.\n\nShe was Ash March, Foundling, left outside Vaingate to die.\n\nTears stung her eyes as she climbed the last stairs to her chamber. She didn't want to think about the nameless creature in the Splinter, didn't want to know what it was.\n\n\"What have we here?\"\n\nAsh rounded the final turn in the staircase and came face-to-face with Marafice Eye. The Knife moved directly into her path, preventing her from taking another step. The bow curve of his chest forced her to edge back. Marafice Eye had small eyes and a small mouth and hands as big as dogs. Ash was scared of his hands. She had seen him break iron chains with them.\n\n\"Where have you been? Sick of pissing in a pot? Thought you might get up and use the jacks instead?\"\n\nAsh made no reply. Marafice Eye liked to use obscenities around women. He took pleasure in it.\n\nHolding her gaze down, refusing to meet his eyes, Ash stepped to the side, meaning to pass the Knife. She didn't want him to know she was upset.\n\nMarafice Eye stepped with her, barring her way once more. The block of purple flesh that formed the Knife's left fist swung up to Ash's chin. The fist barely touched flesh, grazing the underside of her jaw with a knuckle the size of a bird's skull, yet it was enough to make Ash look up.\n\nThe Knife's lips twisted into a smile. \"What's upset our little girly, then? Did she see something she wasn't supposed to, or did the frost just bite?\"\n\n\"Leave me alone!\" Ash exploded forward, pushing against Marafice Eye's chest with all that was in her. The Knife barely swayed. His oxblood leather tunic creaked as he leaned forward to absorb the blow. Ash fell back on her heels, jolted and off balance as if she had walked straight into a door.\n\nSmile twisting to its narrow limits, the Knife resettled his fist under Ash's jawline, pushing his knuckles into the soft hollow where her neck and jaw met. \"I've killed women for less,\" he said, small eyes glinting. \"What makes you so sure I wouldn't kill you?\"\n\nAsh's legs felt like straw sticks. She could feel the nameless creature's presence like greasy residue against her skin. Her chest was shaking with exhaustion, and despite running through the fortress at full speed, she felt as cold as if she had been standing still.\n\nRaising her head clear of Marafice Eye's fist, she took a deep breath and said, \"Iss set you to watch, not touch me. Now step aside and leave me be, and perhaps, just perhaps, come tomorrow I won't tell him how easy it was to slip through your guard.\"\n\nThe Knife's eyes narrowed to two dark slits. The slabs of flesh on his face stiffened. He looked at Ash, breathed on Ash, and then, in his own good time, stood aside and let her pass.\n\nAsh felt malice on her back for the second time that night as she climbed the last three steps and took the short walk back to her chamber. Marafice Eye watched her all the way. As her hand reached for the chamber door, he spoke. \"Push me again, Asarhia March, and you will end up dead.\"\n\nAsh closed her eyes, shutting out the words. Her knees buckled and she had to lean into the door to stop herself from falling. Although she didn't look around, she knew Marafice Eye had seen her collapse. She hated him for it.\n\nWith all the strength she could muster, she pushed against the door. It opened and she half staggered, half fell, into her chamber. Even though she could barely stand, the first thing she did was pull the chair from her dresser and jam it against the door. It wasn't enough. Ash looked wildly around the room. Settling on her cedarwood clothes chest, she dragged it from its warm, dry place by the charcoal brazier and set it in place next to the chair. That done, she picked up her three-legged nightstool and added that to the pile. Still not satisfied, she went to work on the dresser itself, shouldering and then kicking the wood until it slid along the floor. She moved slowly, methodically, dazed with exhaustion, piling things high against the fossilwood door.\nFIVE\n\nHomecoming\n\nSLEET FELL IN GRAY sheets as they entered the clanhold. Raif hated sleet\u2014rather rain or snow or hailstones. Something that knew what it was.\n\nIt was bitterly cold. Not freezing, but the wind made it seem so,' blowing and switching, making it impossible to feel warm. Everything in sight was gray. The oldgrowth forest in the Wedge, the pines on top of Pikes Peak, the stream that led into Cold Lake, and Mad Binny's crannog that was built on stilts over the water's edge: all as gray as slate. Raif kicked at a sod of dirt and grass. A sense of wrongness itched at his gut.\n\nDrey jabbed his arm. \"Smoke. Over there.\"\n\nRaif looked where his brother pointed. Ragged gusts of smoke blew above the line of oaks and basswoods that spread across the rise. Seeing them made muscles in Raif's throat tighten. The roundhouse lay in the valley beyond. Home was nearer than he thought.\n\n\"Be there soon.\" Drey made a point of moving into Raif's line of view as he spoke. Both of them had their fox hoods pulled close around their faces, and unless they faced each other head-on, they couldn't see each other's eyes. Sleet hung in Drey's eyelashes and the bristles of his six-day beard. \"Be there soon,\" he repeated. \"Warm fire, warm food. Home.\"\n\nRaif knew Drey wanted him to say something, to reminisce out loud about sleeping around the Great Hearth, or sitting at table and eating Anwyn Bird's fine mint-wrapped lamb and roasted onions, or standing beside the guidestone and singing to the Stone Gods. Yet words wouldn't come. Raif tried, but they wouldn't.\n\nAfter a moment Drey moved ahead, shoulders stiffening beneath his oilskins, gloved hands running along his elkhide pack to brush off sleet. Raif knew he was disappointed. \"Drey.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nRaif took a breath. It suddenly seemed important to say something, now, before they reached the roundhouse. Only he wasn't sure what, or why. \"The raid.\"\n\n\"What of it?\" Drey didn't look up. Thick tufts of grass hid ankle-breaking boulders, bog holes, and snags of long-gone trees, and Drey suddenly seemed engrossed in choosing his steps.\n\n\"We can't say who attacked the camp.\" Raif struggled for the right words. \"We just need to be... careful, that's all. You and me. Careful.\" The wind picked up as he spoke, howling through the trees on the slope, thrashing grass flat against the earth and driving sleet into their faces. Raif shivered. He glanced at Drey.\n\nHis brother's hood now pointed ahead. After a moment Drey pushed it back, exposing his face. He stopped in his tracks. \"There's Corbie Meese. Up on the rise, by the old black oak.\"\n\nA muscle in Raif's stomach pulled with a soft, sickening twist. Hadn't Drey heard what he said? Raif opened his mouth to speak again, but Drey's arm came up and he began shouting.\n\n\"Corbie! Corbie! Over here!\" .\n\nRaif pushed back his own hood and ran his hand through his hair. He watched as the gray figure on the slope raised a hand in acknowledgment, then slipped back a few paces and trotted his horse into view. It was Corbie Meese all right. Even from this distance his stocky hammerman's body with its disproportionately muscular arms and neck was clearly identifiable. Even the slight flattening on the left side of his head above his ear, where a training hammer had clipped his skull when he was just a boy, showed up against the light gray sky. Corbie's hammer was strapped to his back, as always. Raif noticed that its iron head reflected no light as Corbie swung up to mount his horse. Which meant the normally smooth metal had been laid upon an anvil and chisel scored.\n\n\"He's riding back,\" Drey said. After a moment he spoke again, his voice soft. \"He must be meaning to gather the clan.\"\n\nRaif sucked in breath. A hammerman scored his hammer only in times of war. Smooth metal reflected light and could give away a position, plus a glancing blow with smooths metal was just that\u2014a glancing blow\u2014but with metal raised in jagged ridges a glancing blow could tear the skin from a man's face.\n\nRaif's hand came up to his neck to search for the reassuring smoothness of his raven lore. Clan preparing for war? Had they already received word of the raid?\n\nFive days he and Drey had been traveling on foot. Five days of freezing nights, bitterly cold days, and driving winds. Raif was tired beyond knowing. He couldn't recall the last time he had felt warm or completely dry. They had run out of ale on the second day, and Raif's lips were cracked from sucking on ice. It was only yesterday morning, when they'd finally crossed over the balds and into the clanholds, that the temperature had begun to rise above freezing. Yet that was when the sleet started, so there was little reward for leaving the badlands behind.\n\nThrough it all Raif had felt a deep sense of unease. Freshly broken twigs, sap frozen around the break, hoofprints stamped in hoarfrost, and broken ice over melt ponds kept catching his eye. Elks and bears could break surface ice and twigs, he told himself, and lone hunters from Clan Orrl often used Blackhail's hunting paths. Yet Raif felt no better for telling himself such things. They sounded reasonable, but they didn't stick.\n\n\"Come on, Raif. Race you to the rise.\" Drey grabbed Raif's arm and yanked it hard as he ran ahead. Raif grinned. Not wanting to disappoint his brother again, he tore after him, crashing through tangles of ground birch and alder, his pack slamming against his side as he ran.\n\nDrey was the stronger runner, and even sweeping in wide arcs and topping every rock and fallen log he encountered, he reached the slope well before Raif. Climbing halfway to the rise, Drey turned, grinned, and waited for his brother to catch up.\n\nRaif was breathless by the time he reached him. Blisters on his heels rubbed raw by days of walking throbbed like burned skin. Raif found comfort in the fact that Drey was clearly favoring his right foot, and his face was as red as beet water.\n\n\"We're home, Raif,\" Drey said, punching Raif's pack. \"Home!\"\n\nRaif swung a punch at Drey's ribs, then took off at full speed toward the rise. Drey yelled after him to wait, called him a devil's cur and a moose stag in rut, and then started running himself.\n\nLaughing, whooping, and wrestling, the two brothers reached the rise. They stopped dead when they saw the meet party riding up the leeward slope toward them.\n\nCorbie Meese, Shor Gormalin, Orwin Shank and his two middle sons, Will Hawk, Ballic the Red, a dozen yearmen and tied clansmen, Raina Blackhail, Merritt Ganlow, and the clan guide Inigar Stoop. All including the women and Inigar Stoop were heavily armed. Spears bristled in their couchings, and greatswords, hammers, and more than a few war axes weighed across backs. Ballic the Red's great yew longbow was braced and ready in its case, his side quiver fat with the red arrows that gave him his name. Shor Gormalin carried only a shortsword. It was all the soft-spoken swordsman ever needed.\n\nThen, as Raif and Drey stood on the ridge, side by side, breathless, their exposed faces cooling in the sleety air, the troop of two dozen parted and through their midst, wearing a cloak made of black wolf fur that rippled in the wind like a living, breathing thing, rode Mace Blackhail high atop Dagro Blackhail's blue roan.\n\nDrey gasped.\n\nRaif looked hard into Mace Blackhail's face. And didn't stop looking until Mace met his eyes. \"Traitor.\"\n\nThe word brought the meet party to a halt.\n\nAt his side, Raif heard Drey inhale sharply.\n\nMace Blackhail didn't blink. Bringing up a hand gloved in the finest lamb's leather and dyed three times until it was the perfect shade of black, he made a settling motion to those behind him. He held Raif's gaze for a time, sleet collecting in his oiled braids and sliding down his narrow nose and cheeks. When he spoke it was to Drey.\n\n\"Where were you when the attack came?\"\n\nDrey straightened his shoulders. \"Raif and I were out at the lick, shooting hares.\"\n\n\"Where were you?\" The rawness of Raif's voice caused some in the party to draw breath. Raif hardly cared. Mace Blackhail was standing before him, mounted on Dagro Blackhail's horse, unharmed, well fed, and acting like lord of the clan. Raif's lore burned like a hot coal around his neck. While he and Drey had stayed at the camp taking care of the dead, Mace Blackhail had ridden back to the roundhouse in haste. It was the blue roan that had stamped its hooves in mud and hoarfrost and broken ice in newly set ponds, not some daring Maimed Raider or a lone Orrlsman tracking game.\n\n\"I,\" Mace Blackhail said, his voice hard, \"was seeing off a bear at Old Hoopers Lake. The beast broke bounds at first light, spooked the horses. Killed two dogs. I headed it off, chased it east along the rush, and speared its neck. Just as I was set to finish the kill, I heard sounds of fighting from the west. I rode back to the camp at full gallop, but it was too late. The last of the Clan Bludd raiders were already riding away.\"\n\nAs he spoke the last sentence, Mace looked down and touched the pouch containing ground guidestone that hung from one of the many leather belts around his waist. Others in the party did likewise.\n\nAfter a moment Drey did the same. The muscles in his throat worked a moment, and then he repeated softly, \"Clan Bludd?\"\n\nMace nodded. His wolf cloak gleamed like oil floating on the surface of a lake. \"I saw the last of them. Caught sight of their spiked hammers and the red felt laid over their horses' docks.\"\n\nBallic the Red shook his head gently, his callused archer's hands caressing the red-tailed hawk fletchings on his arrows. \"'Tis a bad thing for a clansman to do: make raid on another's camp at first light.\"\n\nCorbie Meese, Will Hawk, and others grunted in agreement.\n\nRaif spoke up to silence them. \"The raid didn't take place at first light. It happened at noon. I didn't feel anything until\u2014\"\n\nRaif felt Drey's fist hit the small of his back. Not an allout punch, but enough to knock some wind from his lungs.\n\n\"We don't know when the raid took place, Raif,\" Drey said overloudly, clearly unhappy at having to speak out. \"You got a bad notion in the pit of your stomach at noon, but who's to say the raid didn't happen before then?\"\n\n\"But, Drey\u2014\"\n\n\"Raif!\"\n\nIn all his life Raif had never heard Drey speak his name with such harshness. Raif pressed his lips to a line. Heat flared in his cheeks.\n\n\"Drey.\" Raina Blackhail trotted her filly forward, coming to a halt a few paces ahead of her foster son, Mace. White smoke streamed from the filly's nostrils. \"What did you see when you came upon the campsite?\"\n\nRaif watched Raina's face as he waited for his brother to reply. Raina Blackhail's gray eyes gave little away. Dagro Blackhail's first wife, Norala, had died of lump fever, and Raina was his second wife, taken in the hope that she would provide the clan chief with a son to carry his name. After the second year of marriage, when Raina's belly had failed to quicken, Dagro Blackhail had reluctantly taken a foster son, a child of his sister's from Clan Scarpe. Mace had been eleven when he was brought to the Blackhail roundhouse, just eight years younger than his foster mother, Raina.\n\nDrey glanced at Raif before he answered Raina's question. \"We reached the camp about an hour before dark. We saw the dogs first, then Jorry Shank...\" Drey hesitated. Orwin Shank, Jorry's father, leaned forward in his saddle, his normally ruddy face as pale as if it were covered by a sheet of rime ice. \"I don't know how long he'd been there, lying in the scrub, but he was part frozen. And there wasn't a lot of blood.\"\n\nMace Blackhail kicked the roan's flank, then quickly pulled the reins, causing the gelding to stamp its feet and shake its head. \"It's just as I said,\" he cried, easily controlling the agitated roan. \"The Bluddsmen are arming themselves with hell-forged swords. They slip into a man's gut as smooth as a spoon scooping bacon fat, then burn his insides hot and fast, roasting his flesh around the blade.\"\n\nMerritt Ganlow swayed in her saddle. White-haired Inigar Stoop leaned over and steadied her, his pouches, horns, and slices of bone tinkling like shells as he moved.\n\nRaina Blackhail shot a warning glance to her foster son. \"Drey hasn't finished yet.\"\n\nDrey shifted his weight. He wasn't comfortable being the center of attention. \"Well... I don't know about hell-forged blades. I didn't see any signs of burnt flesh... .\"\n\n\"Go on.\" Raina Blackhail's voice, while not gentle, was no longer as severe as it had been.\n\n\"Raif and I went around the camp. We tended the bodies: Meth Ganlow, Halfmast\u2014I mean Darri\u2014Mallon Clayhorn, Chad... all the others.\" Drey swallowed hard. Raif saw where his brother had gripped his oilskin so tight, the hide had split along the seam. \"All the wounds looked the same: clean, not much blood, swiftly done. Broadswords or greatswords looked to have been used.\"\n\n\"It's as Mace says,\" murmured Ballic the Red. \"Clan Bludd.\"\n\nMany in the party nodded and murmured, \"Aye.\"\n\nNoticing that Raina Blackhail was one of the few who remained silent, Raif spoke up, addressing his words to her alone. \"Clan Bludd aren't the only ones who use greatswords. Clan Dhoone, Clan Croser, Clan Gnash\"\u2014Raif stopped himself from naming Clan Scarpe, Mace Blackhail's birth clan\u2014\"Maimed Men: All use swords as their second weapons.\"\n\nMace Blackhail kicked the roan forward, coming to rest mere paces in front of Raif. \"I said I saw Bluddsmen fleeing from the camp. Are you calling me a liar, Sevrance?\"\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, Raif saw Drey's hand come up, meaning to pull back. Raif stepped away, out of his brother's reach. He would not be silenced in this. Gaze fixed firmly on Mace Blackhail's narrow, gray-skinned face, Raif said, \"Drey and I saw to our clansmen. We didn't leave them out on the tundra for the carrion beasts to take them. We gave them blood rites, drew a guide circle around them. Paid them due respect. What I am saying is that perhaps you were in too much of a hurry to get back to the roundhouse to pay retreating raiders fair due.\"\n\nDrey swore, softly to himself.\n\nEveryone in the meet party had some reaction. Ballic the Red snorted, Merritt Ganlow let out a high, wailing cry, Corbie Meese sucked air between his wind-cracked lips, and the color returned to Orwin Shank's face as quickly as if he had been sprayed with paint. Shor Gormalin moved his head in what might have been a nod of agreement.\n\nRaina Blackhail, almost as if she were afraid of showing any reaction, raised a gloved hand to her shoulders and pulled up her sable hood. Even though he was aware it was ridiculous to think of such a thing at such a time, Raif couldn't help but be struck by Raina Blackhail's beauty. She wasn't pretty, not in the way that young girls like Lansa and Hailly Tanner were, but a kind of clear strength shone in her eyes that made everyone who saw her look twice. Raif wondered if she would ever marry again.\n\nMace Blackhail waited until everyone was quiet before he spoke his reply. His eyes were as hard and bloody as frozen meat. A small movement sent his wolf fur rippling and served to expose the sword at his thigh. Ignoring Raif completely, he turned to face the meet party. \"I won't deny that I rode back as fast as I could\u2014the boy has the truth of it there.\" Mace paused, allowing a moment for the slight emphasis he had placed on the word boy to sink in.\n\n\"I wasn't thinking of the dead, I admit that. And I look back now and I'm ashamed of what I did. But when I saw my father's body lying on the ground near the posts, his eyes frosting over even as I looked, all I could think of were the people at home. The Bluddsmen were heading east, yet what if they turned at the Muzzle and headed south instead? What if, whilst I stood there deciding whether to pull my father's body from the cold or hold blood rites where it lay, a second, greater party descended on the roundhouse itself? What if I returned to find that the same thing that had happened to my father and his camp had happened here in the Heart of Clan?\"\n\nMace Blackhail met the eyes of all who counted one by one. No one spoke, but some of the yearmen, including Orwin Shank's two middle sons, shifted restlessly in their saddles.\n\nSleet flew into the faces of the meet party, melting against the hot, flushed skins of Orwin Shank and his sons, Ballic the Red, Corbie Meese, and Merritt Ganlow, while clinging and staying partially frozen against the paler skins of Shor Gormalin, Raina Blackhail, and Will Hawk. All sleet that fell on Mace Blackhail turned to ice.\n\nFinally, after he had forced many in the meet party to look away, Mace Blackhail spoke again. \"I am sorry for what I did, but I would not change it. I believe my father would have done the same. It was a choice between the living and the dead, and everyone here who knew and loved Dagro Blackhail must allow that his first thoughts would have been for his wife and his clan.\"\n\nBallic the Red nodded. Others followed. The tendons to either side of Corbie Meese's powerful hammerman's neck strained against his skin, and after a moment he looked down and murmured, \"That's the truth of it.\" Raina Blackhail edged her filly round, so that her face was not visible to anyone in the party, including her foster son.\n\nRaif stood at Mace's back. The bristling anger he had felt at being called a boy was now mixed with something else: a kind of slow-setting fear. Mace Blackhail was going to get away with it. Raif could see it on the faces of the meet party. Even Shor Gormalin, who never rushed to judgment on anything and was as careful about all decisions he made as he was with his blade around children, was nodding along with the rest. Didn't he see? Didn't he realize?\n\nAnd then there was Drey. Raif glanced over his shoulder, where Drey stood only a pace behind him, a handful of Raif's oilskin twisting in his fist. If Raif meant to move forward to speak, Drey meant to pull him back.\n\n\"Dagro's body,\" Raif hissed for Drey's ears alone. \"It wasn't\u2014\"\n\n\"What's that you say, boy?\" Mace Blackhail spun the roan around. Brass bow and hammer hooks jangled like bells. \"Speak up. We are all clan here. What you say to one you must say to all.\"\n\nAnger made Raif slam his elbow into Drey's first to free himself from his brother's hold. Blood pumped into his temples as he spoke. \"I said that Dagro Blackhail didn't fall by the posts. We found him by the rack. He was butchering the black bear carcass when he was taken.\"\n\nMace Blackhail's eyes darkened. His lips curled, and for half an instant Raif thought he was about to smile. Then just as quickly he wheeled back to face the meet party, stopping all hushed mutterings dead. \"I moved the body from the *posts to the drying rack. I didn't want to leave my father outside the tent circle, exposed. It may have been foolish, but I wanted him close to the fire.\" \"But the bear's Mood\u2014\"\n\nDrey grabbed Raif's wrist with such force that bones cracked. \"Enough, Raif. You're hounding the wrong person. It's the Dog Lord and his clan that we should be attacking. We both saw the grooved hoofprints made by the Bluddsmen, you can't deny that. What else didn't we see? In our way we acted just like Mace\u2014doing things foolishly without thinking. We weren't there, remember. We weren't there. While we crept away in the dark to shoot ice hares, Mace was standing dogwatch over the camp. We can't blame him for slipping bounds to see off a bear. Either one of us would have done the same.\"\n\nReleasing his hold on Raif's wrist, Drey turned and faced his brother full on. Although his expression was tense, there was an unmistakable appeal in his eyes. \"Mace did the right thing coming back, Raif. He acted like clan, doing what any experienced clansman would have done. We acted like\"\u2014Drey hesitated, searching for the right words\u2014\"two brothers who had just lost their da.\"\n\nRaif looked down, away from his brother's gaze and the sharp looks of the meet party. Drey had just won himself a lot of respect in the eyes of the clan; Raif saw it in their eyes as they listened to him speak. Drey was the voice of reason, humbling himself, speaking with the same weighted reluctance that his father had before him. Raif swallowed, his throat suddenly sore. For a moment it had been just like listening to Tem.\n\nGlancing up, Raif saw Mace Blackhail watching him. His face was fixed in lines of concern, in keeping with the new mood Drey had set, in keeping also with rest of the meet party, who waited quietly, gravely, to see what Drey Sevrance's troublesome younger brother would do. Raif's gaze descended from Mace Blackhail's face to his gloved hands, which flicked at the roan's mane with all the satisfaction of a wolf switching its tail. Drey had done his work for him.\n\nMace Blackhail's gaze met Raif's, and in that instant Raif knew he was dealing with something worse than a craven. Mace Blackhail had ridden to the badlands on a stocky, fat-necked cob, one of twenty dozen other yearmen, a fosterling from another, lesser clan. Now he sat on his foster father's blue smoke roan, wearing a wolf cloak that reflected only rich shades of black, speaking with a newly modulated voice and manner, and adopting the clan chief's authority along with his clothes and his horse.\n\nRaif massaged his wrist where Drey had gripped it. It wasn't even worth asking how Mace had come to ride home upon his foster father's gelding. Mace Blackhail wasn't going to be caught out this late in the game.\n\n\"Raif.\"\n\nDrey's voice brought Raif back to the meet. Looking into his brother's face, Raif saw how tired his brother looked. It had been a long six days for both of them, yet it was Drey who had carried a greater portion of the weight on the journey back, Drey who had spent an extra hour each night stripping logs down to the heartwood so the fire wouldn't burn out while they slept.\n\n\"You two lads need to come inside.\" It was Shor Gormalin, speaking in his soft burr. The small, fair-haired man, whose quiet ways disguised the fiercest swordsman in the clan, looked from Drey to Raif as he spoke. \"You've walked a long way, and had a hard journey, and seen things that none here would wish to see. And no matter what was the right and wrong of what you did, you stayed and saw to our dead. For that alone we owe you more than any here can repay.\"\n\nShor paused. Everyone in the meet party either nodded or murmured, \"Aye.\" A muffled sob escaped from Merritt Ganlow's lips.\n\n\"So come wi' me now. Let Inigar grind some guidestone for your tines, and let us warm you and feed you and welcome you home. You are clan, and you are needed, and you must tell us of our kin.\"\n\nThe swordsman's words had a profound effect on the faces of the meet party. Orwin Shank closed his eyes and held a fist to his heart. Seeing their father's actions, the two Shank yearmen did likewise. Other yearmen followed, and within seconds the entire meet party sat high on their saddles, eyes closed or cast down, paying due respect to those who were dead. Raina Blackhail trotted her horse over to Shor Gormalin's side and laid her hand on the swordsman's arm.\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, Raif saw Mace Blackhail look up and take note of the contact. His eyes caught and reflected a thin break of sunlight, and for an instant they shone yellow like a wolf's.\n\nForcing aside his unease, Raif stepped toward his brother. Drey was waiting for him and brought up his arm straightaway, wrapping it around Raif's shoulder. He didn't speak, and Raif was glad of it. There was little choice here: Raif loved his brother and respected Shor Gormalin too much to hold out against them.\n\nShor Gormalin vaulted from his horse with the speed and agility that never failed to surprise Raif, even though he had seen the swordsman do so many times before. A moment later Corbie Meese also dismounted, and the two clansmen came forward, offering Drey and Raif their mounts. Mace Blackhail trotted his horse down the slope, positioning himself to be head rider when the meet party turned for home.\n\nShor Gormalin's blue eyes looked straight at Raif as he handed him his reins. \"'Tis a good thing you did, lad, you and your brother. We are Blackhail, the first of all clans. We must be and act as one in this.\"\n\nRaif took the reins. Although he didn't say it outright, Shor Gormalin spoke of war.\n\nThe party of twenty-six rode in single and double file down the slope toward the roundhouse. As the wind had turned and quickened, they were forced to ride through the roundhouse's smoke. Raif didn't mind. The smoke was warm and smelled of good, honest things like resinous wood, charred mutton, and shale oil. The darkness it created hid his face.\n\nBelow lay the roundhouse. Home. Raif remembered how it had felt to see it in the past. His mood blackened.\n\nFrom above, the roundhouse looked like a massive island of gray white stone set in a frozen sea. Sunk a hundred feet deep into the ground to protect from the fierce winds, blinding snows, and crippling frosts of winter, the stronghold was invisible from outside but for the upper quarter of its curtain wall and its heavily barricaded stone roof. Windows cut tall to let in light, yet kept narrow enough so that no man could ever force his way through them, were set into the stonework like slits. Over the years mud and dirt had built up around the base, mounding against the outer wall, burying even more of the roundhouse beneath the earth. Every autumn Longhead and his crew spent two weeks digging away the excess dirt. It took them a whole day just to root out rogue saplings that had seeded on the roof.\n\nSome clans let the dirt build so high around their roundhouses that eventually even the roof grew over, and plants and grasses hooked their roots into the stone. Clan Bannen's roundhouse didn't even look like a building from the outside, just a perfectly formed hill.\n\nThat wasn't Blackhail's way. We protect ourselves against the cold and our enemies, but would sooner face death than hide. Raif had heard those words and others like them said a thousand times. Every clansman repeated them, and what had started out as an idle boast from one clan chief to another had become a way of life. Now even clan dead were left out in the open. Laid in hollowed-out basswoods in clear sight of wagon trails, passes, and streams, Blackhail corpses scorned hiding until the very last.\n\nRaif shook his head violently. He had seen the bodies. Sulfur and other washes kept the feeders away for only so long. After a good rainfall or a hard frost the ravens always came.\n\n\"Raif.\"\n\nRaina Blackhail's voice snapped Raif back. He watched as she turned her smart chestnut filly on a hairpin and rode along the ranks toward him. The fur of her hood and cloak gleamed like sealskin. In the few minutes they had been riding, the temperature had dropped and the sleet was turning grainy like snow. Raina's breath purled white as she rode.\n\nRaif watched as others made way to let her pass. Even though her husband was now dead, Raina retained her standing in the clan. Dagro Blackhail's wealth and respect were her due. A new clan chief would have to be chosen, and although Raif knew Mace Blackhail would try to take his foster father's place, he also knew that if Raina decided to marry again, the man she chose as her husband had a good chance of becoming chief. Raina's decisions were always well heeded. Whenever Dagro Blackhail was away from the roundhouse and problems arose that needed handling, the clan would look to his wife. \"Raina knows her husband's mind,\" they would say, meaning they trusted her judgment completely. Breech births, bad omens, blood rites, wife beatings, drunken brawls, border and damming disputes, cattle raids, and matters of clan pride: Raina Blackhail had seen to them all.\n\nAnd Effie...\n\nRaif took a deep breath and held it in. Raina Blackhail had been as good as a mother to Effie.\n\n\"Days are failing,\" Raina said, glancing at the sky as she fell in by Raif's side. \"Soon there'll be scarce enough light to aim an arrow by.\" She smiled briefly. \"But then again Tem was telling me just before he left how you could find a target in the dark.\"\n\nThat made him turn and pay her heed.\n\nRaina Blackhail didn't permit herself a second smile. \"It wasn't your fault, you know. Yours or Drey's. Just about every man in this clan has slipped bounds at some time or other to run off and shoot game at the lick.\"\n\nRaif wound his reins around his fist. \"Is that what you came here to say?\" As he spoke he spied Mace Blackhail at the head of the party, pointing to the far pasture and saying something to Will Hawk and Ballic the Red that caused both clansmen to nod in agreement. Raif drew the reins tighter, stopping the blood from flowing to his fingers.\n\nThe small display of Mace Blackhail's authority did not go unnoticed by Raina. She made a minute movement with her shoulders, squaring them and causing her sable cloak to resettle on the dock of her filly. \"I came here to talk about Effie. You must be gentle with her, Raif. She's such a quiet child. It's hard to tell what she's thinking.\"\n\n\"What has she been told?\"\n\nRaina hesitated. \"Mace spoke to her before I had chance to. He told her that you and Drey had died along with her day.\"\n\nRaif exhaled with a soft hiss. \"How did she take it?\"\n\n\"Not well. She seemed...\" Raina shook her head, searched for the right word. \"Angry. She ran away, and for the longest time no one could find her. We tore the roundhouse apart looking. Corbie Meese and Longhead arranged a search party. Letty and the girls lit torches and walked the length of the graze. Orwin Shank's two eldest rode as far as the Wedge. It was Shor Gormalin who found her in the end\u2014tucked in the corner of the little dog cote, stiff with cold and covered in dirt. Had that blessed stone of hers in her hand. Rocking back and forth with it, she was. Made herself so sick she could barely stand.\" Raina clicked her tongue. \"How she managed not to get eaten by those wolfhounds the Shanks keep, I'll never know. Orwin feeds them but twice a week, I swear.\"\n\nRelaxing his grip on his reins, Raif guided Shor Gormalin's gelding around a bank of loose shale. His own anger suddenly didn't seem important anymore. \"How's she been since?\"\n\n\"Well, that's what I came to warn you about. She's lost a bit of weight. And she keeps so much to herself... .\" Raina's words trailed away as a small figure stepped out from the roundhouse below.\n\nAs Raif and Raina trotted their horses down into the valley, and Mace Blackhail and his lead riders drew close to the roundhouse, the figure took hesitant, child-size steps forward. It was Effie. Her dark auburn hair gave her away. Raif leaned forward in his saddle. She was so thin.\n\n\"Just you be careful with her, Raif Sevrance,\" Raina Blackhail said, kicking her horse forward. \"You and Drey are all she has.\"\n\nRaif barely acknowledged what Raina said. He glanced two riders ahead, where Drey was riding at Orwin Shank's side. Drey looked back. His fox hood was up again, and the sky was nearly black, but the expression on his face was clear. What has happened to Effie?\n\nFeeling a stab of unease in his chest, Raif kicked Shor Gormalin's gelding into a canter and raced along the file. Drey came seconds behind.\n\nThe beaten clay court outside the roundhouse greatdoor was filling rapidly with people. Some carried pitch-soaked torches, others smoking racks of charred mutton and spits of rabbits roasted in their skins. A few brought feed and blankets for the horses. One figure, Anwyn Bird by the looks of her round belly, rolled a keg of hearth-warmed beer before her that belched steam into the freezing air.\n\nEffie stood ahead of everyone, her shoulders hunched together, shivering and clutching her blue woolen dress. No one had thought to throw a cloak over her shoulders or push mitts on her hands. As Raif approached, he saw where his sister's cheeks had sunk away, leaving little pits beneath her eyes and around her jaw. His heart ached to see them.\n\nHe slid from his horse and ran to her. Effie took a small step forward. Her grave little face was turned up toward his, and after a moment she held out her arms and waited to be taken. Raif scooped her up and brought her to his chest. Pushing her body against his, he drew her within the folds of his oilskin to protect her from the cold. She was so light. It was like picking up a blanket stuffed with straw. Raif hugged her harder, wanting to give her his heat and his strength.\n\nThen Drey was there, and Effie shifted in Raif's arms and Raif released her to his brother. Drey's big arms enveloped Effie completely, and his head came down to hers, and he nuzzled her hair and her temples and the bridge of her nose. \"It's all right, little one. We're back now. Raif and I are back.\"\n\nEffie snuggled against Drey's chest. \"I knew,\" she said quietly, seriously, glancing from Drey to Raif, then over to Mace Blackhail, who was busy hefting the saddle from the roan. \"He said you were dead, but I knew it wasn't so.\"\nSIX\n\nThe Inverted Spire\n\nASH MARCH TWISTED THE sheets around herself as she turned in her sleep. Linen spun so smoothly by the old women of Maker's Isle that it felt as cool as glass rode up between her thighs, wound around her belly, and coiled about her wrists.\n\nAsh dreamed she was enclosed within a womb of ice. Blue white light shone on her arms and legs, making them gleam like smooth metal. The icewall was slick where she had touched skin warmed and dripping. Ice squeaked and cracked as she moved. Frost fumes filled her mouth like milk.\n\nIf she could just push further, deeper.\n\nSomething shifted. The massive lode of ice above her juddered, and freezing splinters rained on her face and chest. Spiky and hard as needles, they punctured the skin on her arms and her breasts, drawing tiny drops of blood. Even as Ash brushed away the splinters, the ice ceiling dropped. A blizzard of cold air pumped against her face, and then the ice ceiling slammed into her chest. Ice shattered against her skin with a crack of white light, and a spume of sleet and smoke filled the air.\n\nAsh screamed.\n\nSuddenly there was nothing below her, and she fell and fell and fell.\n\nVoices whispered to her, coaxed and pleaded like starving men. Reach, mistressss. So cold here, so dark. Reach.\n\nAsh shook her head. She tried to move, but her body was numb. Frozen.\n\nNo longer falling, she stood in the center of a cavern of black ice. All was dark except for the glimmer of smoothly frozen things. Even the breath that steamed from the walls was dark and dense, like smoke from a poorly aired fire. Fear gnawed at the edges of Ash's thoughts. When she breathed she took in the smell of cold things. She was not alone. Something within the cavern stirred. It made no move toward her, but it shifted its weight so that its presence would be known.\n\nWe have waited such a long time, mistressss: a thousand years in our chains of blood. Dare you make us wait a thousand more?\n\nAsh felt her knees buckle. The voice pulled.\n\nIn the distance, beyond where she could see, beyond even the walls of the cave, creatures with muzzles howled. Shadows nickered upon the surface of the ice, man shapes and beasts and demon horses. And then suddenly there was no ice at all, just darkness that stretched toward a place where Ash knew in the deepest depths of her soul that she did not want to be.\n\nReach, mistressss. Pretty mistressss. Reach.\n\nAt her side, the bones in her wrists twisted. Saddles of muscle in her chest and back tensed, ready to pull weight. Tendons strained. Fingers uncurled, forcing a closed fist into an open hand as knuckles cracked like wet sticks.\n\nReach for us. Reach for us. REACH.\n\nBones glided in their sockets as Ash's arms began to rise.\n\nKaaw! A raven's cry pierced the darkness, jolting Ash's body like a needle in her spine.\n\nHer eyes sprang open. The darkness sped away in a long blurred streak. She was in her chamber. The embers in the brazier glowed with a faint orange light. Both amber lamps were dead.\n\nKnocking.\n\nAsh's head spun around toward the source of the sound. Not the door, but the tiny shuttered window on the opposite side of the room. She waited. The noise didn't come again, but a soft tearing sound, like the flap of wings beating air, faded into the distance. A bird. Ash shuddered. A raven.\n\nSuddenly aware of how cold and wet the sheets were, she tugged them from her body. Her nightdress was soaking, so she pulled it over her head and threw it the way of the sheets. Freezing and naked, she ran over to the charcoal brazier and knelt in its warm glow. Using the little copper tongs that were hooked at its base, she stirred the embers within. The oil-soaked felt had long since burned away, taking the odor of almonds and sandalwood with it. Ash was glad. She was in no mood to breathe in rich and sickly scents.\n\nHer hands shook as she replaced the tongs. A haze of cold sweat covered her skin, and her knees felt as shaky as if she had run up all the stairs in the Cask without pausing to rest halfway. With a small sigh, she pulled at the comers of the needlepoint rug she was kneeling on, drawing the soft green wool around shoulders and making a little pocket for herself in the center. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep.\n\nFeeling a bit better for being wrapped up, she glanced over to the door. The empty bolt holes stood as a reminder that either Marafice Eye or Penthero Iss could enter her chamber any time they pleased. Not that Marafice Eye ever had, but Ash knew he was out there, sitting on a graymeet bench, big hands testing the give of the leather bindings on his tunic or pushing against the bench's armrests, bringing the entire weight of his body to bear upon any flaws he found in the stone. He was always testing things to see what it took to break them.\n\nAsh pulled the rug closer. She had tried to avoid Marafice Eye for the past week, ever since the night he had first blocked her way on the steps. The Knife didn't like to be avoided, though, and had now taken to blocking her way whenever he safely could. If he met Ash alone in a corridor or on the stairs, he would step directly in front of her and wait, forcing her to walk around him. He never touched her, never spoke, but his small lips would twist with pleasure and his small eyes would look beyond her as if she weren't there at all. Like the armrests on the bench and the leather of his tunic, she had become yet another thing to push to breaking.\n\nAsh tugged a hand through her hair. She was a foundling, alive only because Penthero Iss had chosen to save her. She wasn't a noblewoman and she wasn't a servant, so where did she fit in? Marafice Eye didn't know; that was why he was testing her: to see just how far he could go before Iss stopped him.\n\n\"Miss.\" A soft voice whispered through the door. \"Can I enter, miss?\"\n\nAsh didn't want to see anyone. Not now, not like this. \"Go away,\" she mumbled. Disgusted by how weak her voice sounded, she tried again. \"I'm tired, Katia. Let me sleep.\"\n\n\"I've brought some hot milk and rose cakes.\"\n\nSo Iss had sent her. Ash stood, allowing the rug to drop flat on the floor. \"Wait a moment while I dress.\" There was no point in sending Katia away, not when she was under orders from Iss; the girl would just stand outside the door all night, calling every few minutes for permission to enter until she wore Ash down. Penthero Iss never raised his voice, never threatened violence, but he had a way of getting people to do exactly as he wished.\n\nWrapping a fresh linen robe around her shoulders, Ash took a few deep breaths and tried to settle herself back to normal. More and more these days it was harder to remember what normal was, though. She never felt like herself, she was always tired and sweating and cold. Then there was her body... . Ash glanced down. That definitely wasn't normal anymore. Breasts had come from nowhere in just two months.\n\n\"You can come in now.\" Ash stepped into the corner as she spoke. She didn't want Marafice Eye to see her as Katia opened the door.\n\nKatia was small and olive skinned, with dark eyes and dark lips and black curls that spat out pins. Ash could never look at the girl without feeling a stab of envy. Katia made her feel pale and bony and straight. Everything of Katia's curved: her lips, her cheeks, her hips, her hair. Ash's own hair fell as sheer as water, pale and silver blond, down past her waist. Ash had tried hot irons, damp rags, pins, and nightly braiding, yet her hair would have none of it, defying her every time by unraveling straight.\n\n\"Put the tray on the stand, Katia.\"\n\nKatia jumped at the sound of Ash's voice. \"There you are, miss. Gave me such a fright hiding behind the door.\"\n\nAsh ignored Katia's statement. The girl was always claiming fright over something.\n\nHaving placed the copper tray on the stand, Katia moved over to the mantel to relight the lamps. Briefly Ash considered speaking up to stop her, then decided against it. Penthero Iss had doubtless given Katia orders to take a good look at her mistress, and the fastest way to get the whole thing over and done with was to let her go right ahead. As Katia refilled the lamp with the small pieces of amber that she kept in a cloth bag around her waist, Ash took the opportunity to smooth down her hair and rub her face. She wished she didn't feel so shaky. But there was nothing to be done about that.\n\n\"One should be enough,\" Ash said after the wick thrust into the oil-and-amber mixture took the spark. \"Come here, and let's have it over and done with.\"\n\n\"Have what done with, miss?\"\n\nAsh smiled. Katia was a terrible liar. \"Well, my foster father obviously sent you to check up on me, so go right ahead and check.\" She held out her arms, letting her robe fall open around her breasts. \"Should I strip naked, or will this be enough?\"\n\nKatia shook her head, black curls bouncing. \"Why, you're wicked, miss! Plain wicked. His Lordship never said such a thing. I came here to bring you a late supper out of the goodness of my own heart, and this is what I get for my trouble!\" She nodded in the direction of Ash's silver-banded dressing table, where an untidy stack of books and folded manuscripts looked set to topple over. \"Been reading too much for your own good, if you ask me. A hot supper's just a hot supper, you know. Nothing's attached but the skin on the milk.\"\n\nSuddenly glad Katia was there, Ash pulled her robe together. Katia had been with her for fourteen months now\u2014longer than any other maid she'd ever had\u2014and it felt good to know someone well enough to tease them. \"I'm sorry, Katia. But the rose cakes always give Iss away. They're quite tasteless, smell like old roses, and cost a small fortune to prepare.\"\n\nKatia snorted, but quietly. \"Well, if you don't want them...\"\n\n\"Take them. In future, if you must interrupt me in the middle of the night, bring me fresh bread, salt butter and lots of it, and beer instead of milk. A dark brew, mind. One that's thick enough to float a spoon and has to be sieved through a cheesecloth to remove the hops.\" Ash tried to keep her face straight as she spoke, but the word cheesecloth proved too much, and she burst out laughing.\n\n\"Oh, miss! You are wicked.\"\n\nKatia's laugh was just a little too loud to be considered feminine, and Ash loved to hear it. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Katia was a full year younger than she was. Katia was so grown-up, so... well... rounded, yet whenever she laughed she became a child again.\n\nAbruptly, the smile slid from Ash's face. \"Katia.\"\n\n\"Yes, miss?\"\n\nAsh struggled to find words. \"Are you still\"\u2014seeing the servant girl's large dark eyes looking straight into hers, Ash hesitated, wishing she had never started\u2014\"friendly with Marafice Eye?\"\n\nKatia's expression changed. \"And if I am? 'Taint nothing to do with you.\"\n\nAsh took a breath, decided not to say any more, then went right ahead and spoke anyway. \"He's such a big and powerful man. Like an ox. You should be careful, that's all.\"\n\nWith a forceful shake of her head, Katia said, \"What I do in my own good time is my business. Unlike some around here, I'm a full-grown woman, and those that aren't and hain't ever so much as kissed a man should keep their opinions to themselves.\"\n\nBlood flushed Ash's cheeks. She didn't speak. Stupidly, ridiculously, she felt her eyes stinging.\n\nAfter a moment Katia's expression changed right back again, and she crossed the room and put her hand on Ash's arm. \"I'm sorry, miss. Truly I am. You made me speak a stock of nonsense that I surely didn't mean. You'll come to your blood any day now, I'm certain of that.\" She drew Ash over to the bed as she spoke. \"And as soon as that happens you'll have fine, proper dresses, a ladies' maid to preen your hair, and suitors lining up from Hoargate to the Red Forge, all begging for the priv'lege of your hand.\"\n\nKatia placed a hand on Ash's shoulder, gently pressing her to sit. A second hand flitted to her brow. \"Why, you're shaking, miss. And hot and cold all in one.\"\n\n\"I'm fine, Katia, really. Carry on telling me what will happen when my blood comes.\" Ash didn't much care for the idea of suitors lining up from one end of the city to the other, and she knew that any ladies' maid worth her salt would end up storming off in frustration within a week, muttering to herself about hair that refused to take a curl. Yet she liked to hear about them anyway. When Katia spoke of such things, Ash could almost believe that everything was normal and would continue to be normal, and that the strange, almost hungry look she saw in her foster father's eyes when he studied her these past few months was nothing more than a trick of the light\n\nKatia reached for a brush and started working on Ash's hair. \"Well, miss, let me see. There'll be new shoes, of course, a dozen of them: lamb's hide for day and embroidered silk and stiff lace for night. You'll have to have a new riding habit\u2014trimmed with black fox, no matter what His Lordship says\u2014and you'll need a proper lady's filly, not that old cob Master Haysticks lets you ride around the quad. His Lordship might even bring in some old cloistress t'elp with your manners and table 'port. Though there's no need to teach you how to read and write, His Lordship's done that himself... .\"\n\nAsh nodded, enjoying the sensation of Katia's capable hands brushing her hair and letting her mind slip away as the little maid chattered on.\n\nToo much had changed this last year. There had been a time when her foster father was different, when he sent for her each day and spent his own time teaching her how to read and write. Any number of priests and scribes could have done the work for him, yet Penthero Iss had chosen to do it himself. And it wasn't just because he liked to keep her away from anyone who might befriend her\u2014though Ash had recognized that possessiveness in him early on, as time after time maidservants and fortress children whom she became close to were routinely sent away. No. Her foster father had genuinely enjoyed instructing her. Knowledge was one of his joys.\n\n\"... and of course there'll be a new chamber, on\u00e9 with proper isinglass windows and\u2014\"\n\nAsh blinked back, suddenly interested in what Katia was saying. \"A new chamber?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, miss. That much is certain as ice on the Splinter.\"\n\n\"I don't understand. Why?\"\n\nKatia put down her brush. Eyes darting in quick glances as if she suspected people could be hiding and listening, she lowered her voice and said, \"Oh yes. There's been talk of it already. Just the other day when I was... er... visiting with the Knife in the Forge, His Lordship came in and told him that he needs to be ready to move you on his say. 'Course when old Vealskin saw me he stopped dead, gave me one of his looks\u2014you know the sort, all pale and scary like a frosted-over corpse\u2014and sent me running out of the room without so much as a spoken word.\" Katia beamed. She loved telling secrets.\n\nAsh swallowed. She was glad she was sitting. \"Move me on his say?\"\n\nNodding, Katia crossed to the dresser and popped one of the precious rose cakes in her mouth. Chewing, she spoke. \"That's what was said. If you ask me, it'll be to one of those fancy upper chambers in the Bight, with all the black marble and dark glass cut into the floors. Might even have a private entrance and a staircase all your own.\" Katia took a second rose cake, looked at it, then set it down. \"You must swear to take me with you, miss. Wherever you go. I couldn't stand going back to the kitchens and scrubbing pots again. Couldn't stand being made to\u2014\"\n\n\"Hush, Katia.\" The servant girl's chatter was beginning to irritate Ash.\n\nKatia's mouth closed with a squeak. Skirts whipping air, she moved around the chamber and began checking shutters, stirring the brazier and making preparations for the night.\n\nAsh barely noticed. A move away from the Cask? It was unthinkable. This chamber had been her home for as long as she could remember. Of all the four towers in Mask Fortress, the Cask was the only one she knew. She had broken her arm here, climbing the outer battlements when she was six; when she was eight she had been confined to her room for two months because of blood fever, and her foster father had visited her every day, bringing iced honey and yellow pears; and when she was eleven her caged bird had grown sick in this very chamber and had started pulling out its own flight feathers and chewing on its claws, and to please her Iss had performed a little ceremony by the door before sending it to Caydis for a mercy killing. All her life was here. All of it.\n\nDistressed, Ash drew her feet off the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. No one had mentioned a move to her. Nothing had been planned; no workmen or carpenters called. Surely someone should have told her something? She rubbed her bare shins. The sheets beneath her feet were damp with sweat. Icy.\n\nNo. Ash shook her head. She wouldn't think about the dream. It was nothing. Nothing.\n\nKatia popped the remaining two rose cakes into her amber pouch. \"Will you be wanting anything else, miss, 'fore I go?\"\n\n\"No.\" Something about the sight of Katia walking toward the door made Ash change her mind. \"I mean yes. One more thing.\"\n\n\"What?\" Katia's full lips were made more so by an exaggerated pout.\n\n\"I know you're going to see my foster father now\u2014\" Seeing Katia ready to protest, Ash held out her hand. \"No, don't deny it. I don't blame you. It's what you have to do to keep out of the kitchen. I'd do the same if I were you.\" Katia remained sullen, yet Ash carried on. \"I don't mind you telling him that I don't feel well and don't look well, and even that the bed is messed. But please don't tell him that I know he's planning to move me. Please.\"\n\nKatia looked at her mistress. Ash knew that the servant girl was envious of her and coveted all the clothes and pretty things in her chamber like silver brushes and tortoiseshell combs. Yet she also knew that Katia could be kind when it suited her. She had once walked all the way to Almsgate and back to purchase a bolt and plate for the door.\n\nSighing with exaggerated force, Katia sent her curls dancing. \"All right. I'll do my best\u2014but only for my own sake, mind. If old Vealskin finds I've been blabbing about things I overheard and wasn't supposed to, he'll have me downstairs in no time. And it won't be in the kitchens scrubbing pots.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Katia.\"\n\nKatia harrumphed as she stepped toward the door. \"I still have to tell him how you are, though. There's no getting round that. You know how he is.\"\n\nAsh nodded as she snuffed out the lamp. She knew exactly how Iss was.\n\nTHE CAUL FLIES HUMMED within their netting, black translucent wings beating faster than the eye could see. Four winged, lean bodied, and with the long, double-jointed legs of flesh settlers, the creatures flew slowly despite their efforts, swinging clumsily from side to side to side. These were females, of course. The shiny green black sacs around their abdomens were bloated with hundreds of eggs. Penthero Iss, Surlord of Spire Vanis, Lord Commander of the Rive Watch, Keeper of Mask Fortress, and Master of the Four Gates, preferred not to hold the netting too close. The caul flies were past due and were desperate to lay, and their serrated chitinous mouthparts were quite capable of breaking through gauze. Especially if the females smelled blood.\n\nIss watched with fascination as one female flew to where his pale hand gripped the netting. The skin was clean and unbroken, not what the creature wanted at all, but Iss had seen some caul flies capable of causing the wounds they needed. This one, however, would not get that chance. With his free hand, Iss pulled a cloth of blue felt from around his waist and laid it over the top portion of the netting. He would arrive at his destination within the quarter, and a short period of darkness would not make the females drowsy. Iss had made a study of their weaknesses. It was the cold, not the dark, that slowed them.\n\nAs he walked through the deserted east gallery toward the Splinter, Iss counted days. Six. He kept records, of course, but he trusted the thoroughness of his own mind more than any scribbles on a page. He didn't want to risk weakening the Bound One too soon after the previous drawing. Thoroughness in all things, most especially the use of power.\n\nSix was enough, though. Six was well and good.\n\nWinter came early to the mountains and the city of Spire Vanis, and the temperature in the east gallery was currently just below freezing. Iss fought the desire to shiver. He had grown up hating the cold. Cold meant too little wood on the fire and not enough blankets for the bed, and Iss knew all about that. As a child he had dreamed of glowing hearths and crackling flames and layer upon layer of goosedown piled high upon his chest. Forty years later he had all that, yet he could not say it was enough.\n\nHe was surlord, not king, and although he might rule for twenty years or more, a violent death would be his in the end. It was the way of things in Spire Vanis. Historians might speak the names of Uron the Pure and Rhees Gryphon and a handful of other men who had ruled the city and died in their sleep. Yet Iss had stood in the shadows and watched as five sworn brothers cut Borhis Horgo to strips. Old he was, dry and shriveled; Iss could hardly believe how much he bled. Sometimes he saw the blood in his dreams. Sometimes the blood was his.\n\nSo many surlords. Borhis Horgo, Rannock Hews, Theric Hews, Connad Hews, Lewick Crieff, who was called the Halfking, Garath Lors, Stornoway the Bold... and so the list went on, back and back, to Theron Pengaron, who was slain by his nephew's hideclads on ground where the Splinter lay today. All had died a surlord's death: knifed in the back, shot at distance, poisoned, bludgeoned, betrayed. The only law of succession in Spire Vanis was the law of superior might. Once a rival smelled weakness, he drew his conspirators about him and plotted his surlord's death. Iss knew his likely fate. He knew and refused to accept it.\n\nIt wasn't enough to be surlord. He must make himself something else.\n\nCold air settled in Iss' lungs as he neared the Splinter Limestone as pale and smooth as lake ice stole the warmth from the soles of his feet. Heavy things swung from his belt nestling against the double-woven silk of his robes. The little stone lamp so ingeniously crafted by the barbarians who lived in the north along the coast, with its baleen guards and shaved horn covering, gave off heat and light more safely than any other lamp. It could be knocked over, and still the flame would stay inside the central chamber. Even now bumping lightly against his thigh, it was a benign and pleasing warmth to enjoy. As for the other two packages that hung from the belt, Mistress Wence had better hope she wrapped them securely. Pan-heated honey and mashed then strained yellowbeans could both leak juices that a man wearing silk had no use for.\n\nIss had found the caul flies liked to feed after they had laid their eggs. It was a common misconception that mature females fed off blood. Iss had observed them and knew they did not. Honey was what they liked best, preferably warm. The flies had been fortress bred in the cold climes of the Northern Territories, yet they still retained memories of the Far South where they belonged.\n\nAs for the yellowbeans, they were to feed the Bound One. Iss had asked Mistress Wence to enrich them with butter and egg yolks and salt them as mildly as she would food for a child.\n\nHolding the partially covered netting out before him, Iss approached the Splinter. As always, the temperature dropped the nearer one drew to the door. In just the past few days water weeping from the stonework had quickened to form a skin of blue ice above the arch. Iss took out the key. Impaled beasts with many heads and the thick muscular tails of serpents watched the lock turn from their position at the spire's base. The oil lamp flickered, making the relief carvings dance upon their poles. Iss adjusted the lamp, the light dimmed, and the creatures stilled to stone.\n\nThe door opened with a small hiss. Frost smoke writhed through the opening, like the tissue of a newly risen ghost. Within the netting, the caul flies drew in their wings and dropped to the bottom of the makeshift bag.\n\nFirst frost was always the worst in the Splinter. The outer stonework ran with moisture year-round, and every arch, ledge, and cornerstone let in rain. The interior walls bled. Rivulets ran in thin lines, following the curves of bias-cut stone and the edges of steps. Drips gained mass on overhangs, pools collected in ruts and trenches, and entire walls glistened with damp. First frost turned it all to freezing mist. As the weeks passed and the days shortened and rime ice formed on the exterior walls, the water would cool, then freeze. Expanding as it quickened, the ice split rock as surely as a mason with a mallet. Each mild spell and subsequent thawing pushed the Splinter one step closer to collapse. The entire structure was flawed, crumbling, broken. The only thing that kept it standing was the precision cut and placement of each stone.\n\nAnd the foundations, of course, Iss thought with a quick humorless smile. No building in the Northern Territories had foundations to compare with the Splinter.\n\nThe light from the stone lamp did little but reflect back in Iss' face as he stepped through the smoke into the tower's lower rotunda. Cracked tiles rocked beneath his feet as he moved. Whole sections of the original flooring were missing, either torn up by greedy workmen or destroyed by frosts and falling stones. Iss didn't care. The Splinter's staircase spiraled through the tower's heart, stopping off at thirty-nine successive stories before reaching its apex in the spire that pierced storms, yet Iss had little but a passing interest in any of it. Aboveground the Splinter's stone was as dead and worthless as a foot black with frostbite. It was belowground, in the Inverted Spire, that the stone became a vital, living thing.\n\nIss crossed to the base of the spiral stair, to the dark shadows and awkwardly shaped space that lay beneath the first flight of steps. Bending his back as needed, he followed the crook of the stairs until his body was tucked against the endwall.\n\nTensing his jaw and his fists, he spoke a word. It weakened him more severely than he anticipated, and drops of urine splashed against his thigh. The pain was sharp but fleeting, and a powerful contraction of his stomach wall flooded his mouth with the taste of salt.\n\nEven before he could spit it away, the stairwell rumbled and began to swing inward like a gate. The grinding of iron wheels and chains was muffled by walls three feet thick. Above Iss' head, the great stone staircase shuddered, its blocks shifting minutely in their beds of rotten mortar. Limestone dust sifted onto his shoulders as the wall completed its movement, revealing a cavity not much larger than the size of a crouching man.\n\nThis was the part Iss hated. Still shaken from the drawing, his knee joints as weak as green timber, and urine still wet upon his thigh, he forced himself through the breach. No frost smoke rose from the void to greet him. The coldness here had a different, more permanent quality, and all mist had long since settled and froze. Deep down at the apex of the Inverted Spire the air was different, warmer, but ice seams remained year-round at the rim.\n\nLike the cold, the darkness was also more concentrated, and Iss was forced to unhook the stone lamp from his belt and adjust the baleen fibers to let in greater amounts of air. He didn't care much for darkness, though he was willing to allow it had its uses. Things kept within it usually broke down given time.\n\nSpitting to clean the last traces of metal from his mouth, he edged forward in small, toe-size movements until his feet found the lip of the first stair. Unlike the tower above, the Inverted Spire did not boast a central staircase; rather the steps ran along the outer wall, gradually spiraling downward in a great winding arc. A gaping many-storied trough lay in its center. Black as night, colder than pack ice, fed by self-generating winds, and subject to each shift and roll of the mountain it bored down through, the Inverted Spire was a force unto itself. As deep as the Splinter was tall, narrowing to a nail-hard point, it pierced the bedrock of Mount Slain like a stake in its heart.\n\nIts frost-riven walls glittered in the light of Iss' lamp. The farther the Surlord descended, the clearer and harder the ice became. Ground to lenses by the weight and compression of Mount Slain, the ice found colors in the lamplight that no eye could see. Not for the first time, Iss resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. Once, nearly eight years ago now, he had lost the skin on his middle finger that way.\n\nThe mountain fought the Inverted Spire, chewing through whole sections of granite facing like oak roots through earth. Even breached as they were by the white knuckles and bones of Mount Slain, the walls remained intact. The facing had been mined from the Towerlode at Linn, and there were said to be blood spells and sorcerers' curses set deep into the stone. Robb Claw, great-grandson of Glamis Claw and builder of Mask Fortress, had once claimed that it would take an act of God to break the Spire.\n\nShivering, Iss drew the netting to his chest. The cold had made the caul flies torpid, and not one of the dozen females now moved. A few would die; he was prepared for that. Once, several years earlier, in the middle of one of the coldest winters Spire Vanis had ever known, all of the laying females had died. It had been messy, but he had managed to extricate their eggs. Though regrettably a much smaller portion than normal had gone on to hatch and survive.\n\nWith one hand holding the lamp and the other clutching the netting, he found the descent slow and difficult. Iss had long since mastered the art of not looking down, yet the knowledge of the deep chasm below lay like clothing next to his skin. Each stair was three feet wide\u2014a goodly length\u2014yet the steps began in pressure-formed granite as slick as glass and ended in fresh air, and a man couldn't be too careful where he stepped. Iss kept to dead center and turned his mind to matters he found pleasing.\n\nTake the servant girl Katia, for instance. Such a sly, bright girl. Too good by far to be penetrated by the Knife. Iss had no interest in bedding her himself, though it would be interesting to see just how far she would go, just what she would do to free herself from the threat of the kitchens.\n\nIss smiled with all the satisfaction of a jeweler setting a gem. That was Katia's weakness: her fear of ending up in the kitchens, broken veined and red faced, her once high breasts resting like drained waterskins upon her belly, her once bright hair turned to gray. Fortress born and bred, Katia had grown up seeing the exact same thing happen to every other woman who worked there: Mask Fortress took and took but seldom gave. Now the sharp little minx was afraid that the same thing would happen to her.\n\nOnce Iss discovered a person's fears they were his. Katia was his now. The girl loved Asarhia March, admired and protected her. Yet she was also envious of Asarhia. Deeply so. Envy and love warred within her heart, yet the fear of returning to the kitchens always won the day. Take tonight. The girl had clearly not wanted to tell him that her mistress's chamber, bedclothes, and hair were in disarray; that Asarhia's skin was hot, yet the sweat that lay upon it was as cold as water wept from ice. Yet Katia had told all that and more. Her mistress wasn't the one who could save her from a life in the kitchens. Iss made sure the girl knew that.\n\nAs for the other matter\u2014the possibility that the girl had told Asarhia what she had overhead the other day in the Red Forge\u2014well, that really didn't matter at all. The Knife watched Asarhia day and night, even when she left her chambers and didn't realize she was being watched. Iss' steps slowed for just a moment. He did not relish taking such measures against his almost-daughter. Asarhia was normally such a sweet and trusting girl, yet she was beginning to get frightened. And Iss knew from experience that people who were frightened did foolish things.\n\nFeeling a gust of warmer air puff against his cheeks, Iss made his final adjustment of the lamp. The first chamber couldn't be much farther down now. The Inverted Spire had only three chambers, all lying close to or just above apex. By the time one descended to the first of them, the spire had narrowed to the width of a bullpen. The second chamber was smaller still, and the final chamber was barely the size of a well shaft. Cupped within a seam of black rock, its base ended in a needlepoint of steel.\n\nNot for the first time, Penthero Iss found himself wishing the stone lamp could better light his way. The curve of the stairs was more pronounced lower down and the gradient sharper. Stepping from one worn and sloping step to another was a danger of the worst kind. Iss knew he could use sorcery to draw forth light, yet he also knew it wasn't a cost he cared to pay. The speck of frozen urine currently thawing against his thigh was reminder enough of that. He was not a man of great ability, like some. He had enough. Only enough. His strengths lay elsewhere... as in his ability to choose men.\n\nMarafice Eye was one of his chosen. The Protector General of the Rive Watch was dangerous; he could inspire loyalty in fighting men. Iss had realized this early on, in the days when Marafice Eye was a lowly brother-in-the-watch, with a new-made sword at his thigh and the muck of Hoargate still caked upon his boots. Iss had been protector general then, always on the watch for rivals. Another man might have made it his business to destroy Marafice Eye, slay him before he grew into a threat. Iss had made it his business to draw him close. He saw a man who could be useful to him, one who had qualities of dominance and brutality he lacked. When the time came to storm the fortress and overthrow the aging and sickly Borhis Horgo, it had been Marafice Eye who had commanded the Rive Watch; Marafice Eye who'd slain a dozen grangelords and Forsworn on the Horn's icy steps.\n\nIt had been a bloody ten days. The Forsworn had been expelled from the city; and their walled keeps, which they called Shrineholds, had been stormed and broken. When it was done, Penthero Iss, kinsman to lord of the Sundered Granges, had taken the title of surlord for himself. Marafice Eye has stood at his side, his protector general and Knife.\n\nFifteen years later, and they were still surlord and Knife. Iss had little cause to regret his choice. With Marafice Eye at his back, keeping the Rive Watch loyal, his hands were free to deal with the grangelords.\n\nThe great houses of Spire Vanis were a thorn in his side, braying constantly for land and titles and gold. Thirteen years ago a bargain had been struck, and the grangelords never let Iss forget it. \"You promised us the chance to win land and glory,\" the Whitehog had said just six days ago in Iss' private chamber. \"That's the only reason why you're surlord today. Forget that, and we just might forget that we spoke oaths in the Blackvault to protect you.\"\n\nIss had almost smiled as the Whitehog spoke. Threats from seventeen-year-old boys had that effect on him. Still, he had seen enough to realize that the young and ambitious grangeling who stood before him, wearing the white and gold of Hews and carrying a five-foot greatsword on his back, might one day make a bid for his place. The boy had already taken to calling himself the Whitehog, in honor of his great-grandfather who had led the Rive Watch to victory at High Rood. It didn't take a seer to know that he held similar dreams of glory for himself.\n\nWell, Iss thought, peering into the darkness below, perhaps the Whitehog might get the chance to lead a force sooner than he thinks. Perhaps he just might find a clansman's ax thrust into his porcine heart.\n\nSpying the top of the first stone ceiling beneath him, Iss allowed himself to relax a little. Now if he fell, he wouldn't break his neck.\n\nThe ceiling stretched across the Inverted Spire like a great stone valve across a pipe. Over the centuries debris had collected on the topside, shaken down from the walls above. Rock fragments, facing tiles, and odd pieces of masonry lay in disjointed heaps amid the yellowing bones of rats, pigeons, and bats that had gained entry to the spire by means Iss couldn't guess. Human bones were down there, too. Two rib cages could clearly be seen peeking through mounds of rock dust like spiders hiding in sand. Iss had made it his business to search once, yet he'd only ever found one skull.\n\nBits of food, strips of netting, and a few other scraps had fallen from the Surlord's own hands. Last summer during Almsfest, he had brought a basket of soft strawberries with him, only to find they had slipped from his hand halfway through the descent. They were still there now, spread across the stonework like spattered blood. Red and glistening and smelling like perfume on a filthy whore, they were only just beginning to turn. This deep within the mountain's core, things took years to decay.\n\nAhead, the staircase ducked below the stone platform and into the chamber below. Iss minded his head. The air stilled immediately, no longer subject to the chasm's winds. Increased warmth came with the calm. The flame within the stone lamp shivered and darted, lighting a circular chamber with polished walls. Dog hooks and metal rings had been hammered into the stone. Chains ran through a series of loops and then ended abruptly, hacked off in midlink. If one looked closely, one could see scraps of brown fabric caught within the chains. Untanned leather, it might be, yet if Iss had to put money on it he'd guess human skin.\n\nDescending on a curving slant along the perimeter of the chamber, he barely spared a passing glance for the chamber's contents. Soon, very soon, he would have Caydis remove the wire cage and the weightstone and the cracked and greasy wheel. Pretty things would be brought in their place: plump cushions, silkwood chests, and tapestries woven with blue and gold thread. Things that would please a girl.\n\nDescending into the apex chamber, Iss shrugged away all thoughts but those he needed. The air down here was as thick and heavy as still water at the bottom of a lake. No matter how many times he neared the final chamber, the sudden change always took him by surprise. His lungs had difficulty expelling air, and deep within his ears two sharp points of pain pushed inward. The Surlord swallowed hard, prayed that his ears wouldn't pick this time to bleed.\n\nThe stone facing here was thicker than anywhere else in the Spire. Pressure-formed granite, whorly and knotted like the bark of a tree, defied breaking by all but the most violent convulsions of Mount Slain. Flecks of bastard's gold shone within the stone.\n\nUnhooking the packs containing honey and yellowbeans from his belt, Iss took the final seventeen steps and descended into the apex chamber. The Bound One waited there: hungry, broken, desperate for light, perfectly insulated from the outside world by the structure and peculiar properties of the Inverted Spire.\n\nIss took out his silver tweezers and uncovered the caul flies. He would draw power beyond his means tonight.\nSEVEN\n\nThe Great Hearth\n\n\"EFFIE, YOU KNOW WHAT you said the other day when Drey and I came home, when we first met you outside the roundhouse?\" Raif waited until his sister nodded. \"Remember what you said?\"\n\n\"Yes. I said I knew you and Drey would come back.\" Effie Sevrance regarded her older brother with serious blue eyes. \"I tried to tell the others, but no one would listen.\"\n\nRaif shifted his weight from one leg to another. He was crouching in the shadow of the clan guidestone, in the dark and smoke-filled structure of the guidehouse. A full twelve tapers were lit, but the guidestone soaked up light and heat like a black body of trees at the center of a snowmelt. The stone's granite surface was rough and unfinished, and only jagged edges shone. Sometimes the chiseled edges looked like ears, sometimes like chips of bone and teeth. Veins of graphite formed bruises around the newer chisel marks, forcing beads of greasy ink to the surface. No guidestone liked to be cut.\n\nNo matter what time of day he came to the guidehouse, Raif always thought it felt like night. Built adjacent to the roundhouse, the guidehouse was not as well protected or insulated from the cold. Some clans kept their guidestones inside the main building, fearing that raiding clans might make off with them under cover of darkness. Looking up at the massive slab of folded granite that was the size of a oneroom cottage, Raif couldn't see how any but a band of giants equipped with rollers, pulleys, and levers could ever hope to steal it away within the space of a single night. And Blackhail's stone was only half the size of some.\n\nStill, thirty-six years earlier Clan Bludd had managed to steal Dhoone's guidestone, forcing the mightiest of the clans to send their guide south to the stonefields of Trance Vor in search of a replacement. Raif had heard many of his own clansmen speak about the incident, talking in the hushed voices they normally used around bloodshed. All of them held that Clan Dhoone had never been the same since.\n\nClan Bludd had broken the Dhoonestone down into rocks and built an outhouse from it. The entire operation\u2014the raid, the movement of the stone, and its subsequent breaking and rebuilding\u2014had been planned by the Dog Lord, Vaylo Bludd. A yearman at the time, Vaylo Bludd had been a bastard son of the clan chief, Gullit Bludd. Within that same year Vaylo killed his two half-brothers, married his half-sister, and usurped his father's place. To this day it was said that Vaylo Bludd made it his business to use the outhouse every night before he slept.\n\nRaif frowned. Sometimes he didn't know what to make of all the stories surrounding the Dog Lord. Mace Blackhail came up with new ones by the day.\n\nFeeling a hot sting of anger in his chest, Raif pushed aside all thoughts of Mace Blackhail. Now wasn't the time for them. Effie was sitting cross-legged before him, her pale face made old by shadows, her lovely auburn hair tangled, her skirt damp from sitting beneath the stone bench where he had found her. In her hands and littered across her lap were her collection of rocks and stones. She played with them while she waited for him to speak, moving one piece and then another in sequence. For some reason Raif found himself wishing he could brush away the entire collection.\n\n\"What made you so sure Drey and I would come back, Effie?\" he asked softly. \"Did you feel something bad\"\u2014Raif jabbed his stomach\u2014\"here, inside?\"\n\nEffie thought about the question. She pushed out her bottom lip, fixed her gaze in midair, then slowly shook her head. \"No, Raif.\"\n\nRaif looked at Effie a long moment, then breathed a sigh of relief. Effie hadn't felt anything similar to the sensation he'd experienced the day of the raid. That was good. One outsider in the family was enough. Effie's words had been on Raif's mind for days. He had been meaning to talk to her about them ever since he'd returned from the badlands, but the first night hadn't been a good time, as the clan wanted nothing more than to hear the story of what he and Drey had done to the bodies of their kin. The day after was given over to mourning. Inigar Stoop had split a heart-size chunk from the guidestone, cracked it into twelve pieces\u2014one for each man who had died at the camp\u2014and then laid them upon the earth in place of bodies.\n\nIt had gone hard on everyone. When Corbie Meese and Shor Gormalin had sung deathsongs in their fine low voices, and all the women who had lost husbands, including Merritt Ganlow and Raina Blackhail, cut widow's weals around their wrists, Raif had not been able to think of anyone except Tern. The only time the silence was broken that night was by Mace Blackhail swearing vengeance against Clan Bludd.\n\nThe following day Raif had looked for Effie but found her only when it was too late for anything except sleep. Now, finally, he had her here. Shor Gormalin had told him how he often saw Effie slipping out to play in the guidehouse when it wasn't in use. And sure enough Effie had been here, sitting in almost-darkness, hiding beneath the bench where Inigar Stoop normally sat grinding stone, playing with her bits of rock.\n\nRaif looked at Effie. She had lost a shocking amount of weight while he and Drey were away. Her eyes were huge and dark. blue as their mother's had been before her. Such a serious little girl, she never smiled, never played with other children. It was easy to forget she was only eight years old. Raif held out his arms. \"Come here and give your old brother a hug.\"\n\nEffie thought a moment. \"You won't be wanting to kiss me, will you?\"\n\nIt was a serious question, and Raif treated it as such. He thought a moment. \"No. Just a hug will do.\"\n\n\"Very well.\" With great care Effie laid her collection of rocks on the packed earth floor, then shuffled over to Raif. \"No kiss, mind,\" she repeated as she let herself be hugged.\n\nRaif grinned as he held her in his arms. Effie had reached the age when she didn't care to be kissed by any men, even her brothers. Still, she made no move to pull away from him and nestled close to his chest, resting her head on his shoulder. \"Da will never come back,\" she said. \"I knew that all along.\"\n\nThe grin slid from Raif's face. Effie spoke with such quiet certainty it chilled him. Unconsciously he hugged her closer. As he did so, he felt something hard press against his ribs. Gently he edged Effie back. \"What have you got there?\" he asked, nodding toward her neck.\n\nEffie looked down. \"My lore.\" Small hands fished inside the neck of her dress and pulled out the plum-size stone. It was gray, featureless, by far the plainest rock in Effie's collection. A tiny hole had been bored close to the edge, and a strand of coarse twine had been threaded through. \"Inigar made a hole for me last spring,\" she said. \"So I could wear it next to my skin like everyone else.\"\n\nRaif took Effie's lore from her hand. It wasn't unusually heavy or cool to the touch. Just plain stone. Abruptly he let it go. Easing Effie from his lap, he stood. \"I say we go and find ourselves some supper. Anwyn Bird has been boiling bacon all day, and unless someone stops her soon we'll never get rid of the smell.\"\n\nEffie began gathering her rock collection into a pile. The bones in her arms showed through her skin as she reached forward to scoop up a handful of pebbles. Raif hated to see them. He'd make sure she ate well from now on.\n\nWith her rocks in her little rabbit pouch, Effie took Raif's hand and together they left the guidehouse. It was good to get out of the smoke. The short tunnel that led through to the roundhouse was lit by a series of overhead slits. The sky outside was turning dark. Noon had passed less than two hours earlier, yet that never mattered much in winter. Within a month there would hardly be any daylight at all, and everyone who lived on the clanhold in crofts, strongwalls, farms, or woodsmen's huts would come to the roundhouse to sit out winter's worst. Numbers had already begun to swell, yet Raif didn't think it had much to do with the season.\n\nEven as he and Effie walked through to the main entrance hall, a group of crofters were being greeted by Anwyn Bird. The stout-bellied matron wasted no time in ordering the men to strip down to their softskins and felt boots. Raif took note of the snow on the crofters' shoulders and hoods. He also noticed that all three men had their bows braced and ready. The oldest man, a great red-haired giant who Raif recalled was named Paille Trotter, had a donkey basket on his back crammed with arrow and spear shafts and a bucket of neat's-foot oil hanging on a rope around his neck. It was a point of honor among all tied clansmen that they never came to the roundhouse empty-handed.\n\nSuddenly uneasy, Raif raised his hand to his neck and searched out the hard smoothness of his raven lore. This was the first year he had ever known a crofter to bring weapons, not food, to pay for his winter keep.\n\n\"Now go and warm yi'selves by the small hearth and I'll send a girl in with some peas and bacon. There's no blackening left, mind, only meat and soft lard.\" Anwyn Bird's tone dared any of the crofters to find fault with the offered fare. None, including Paille Trotter, who was twice Anwyn's size and had a face fierce enough to scare bears, had the nerve for it. Anwyn Bird nodded, well used to cowing all who stood before her. \"Go on with you, then. You'll find a skin of good ale warming by the fire.\"\n\nThe crofters, looking slightly embarrassed in their softskins and felt boots, were quick to do Anwyn's bidding.\n\nAnwyn Bird, grand matron of the roundhouse, head cook and brewer, expert on all things including childbirth and bowmaking, turned the considerable force of her attention upon Raif and Effie Sevrance. \"And where might you two have been?\"\n\nSeldom asking a question that she wasn't prepared to answer for herself, Anwyn Bird gave neither of them the chance to speak. \"Been dawdling in the guidehouse, I'll swear!\" She nodded at Effie. \"You, my girl, are coming with me. Everyone else round here might dither about, 'fraid that you'll run off again and never be found. But I for one intend to see that you get a good hot supper, some oatcakes, and a sop full of butter. If you get any thinner, I swear Longhead'll mistake you for a sapling and plant you in the graze.\"\n\n\"Longhead plants the saplings in the rise, not the graze,\" Effie said matter-of-factly. \"And it isn't the season for them anyway.\"\n\nThe loose skin under Anwyn Bird's chin wobbled in indignation.\n\nRaif bit his lip to stop himself from smiling. Raina Blackhail and Effie Sevrance were the only two people in the guidehouse who could render Anwyn speechless.\n\nMuttering to herself about young girls today, Anwyn Bird grabbed Effie by the collar and marched her toward the kitchen. Effie's rock collection knocked together as she moved, and just before Anwyn passed out of earshot, Raif caught the phrases \"lot of nonsense\" and \"fuss about old rocks\" puffing from her lips.\n\nGlad that Effie had fallen into the hands of someone who would see her fed, Raif let out a breath of relief. At least for tonight that was one less thing to worry about.\n\nSpinning around, he took a moment to think where Mace Blackhail would likely be at this hour. Despite the elevenday mourning set by Inigar Stoop, events were moving fast. Crofters were coming early to the roundhouse, bringing arms and bow grease, the guidehouse windows had been boarded up and barricaded with pullstones, and just this morning Raif had woken to the clang and shudder of the clan forge\u2014and it hadn't even been dawn. Clan Blackhail was preparing for war, and they were doing so under Mace Blackhail's orders and supervision.\n\nRaif pressed his lips into a white line. The man was worse than a murderer. He had ridden home from a killing field with his mouth full of lies. Even before he had made a decision where to go, Raif exited the entrance hall. He had to find Mace Blackhail, see for himself what the man who would be clan chief planned next.\n\nThe interior of the roundhouse was a vast warren of stone. Tunnels, ramps, and dug steps led down to windowless chambers, grain cells, root cellars, arms locks, and vaults where enemy bones had once been laid facing north to rot. Way down, two full stories belowground, Longhead kept a wet cell and grew mushrooms year-round. All chambers were stone walled and barrel ceilinged, supported by massive bloodwood stangs sealed with pitch.\n\nNothing was locked, not even the strongroom. A clansman who stole from his own was considered as good as a traitor and promptly staved and skin hung. Raif had seen it happen only once, to a soft-spoken luntman named Wennil Drook. Wennil's job as luntman was to keep all torches lit in the roundhouse. He had access to all chambers, could go wherever he chose, unnoticed and unquestioned. When Corbie Meese's fine silver handknife went missing one night after supper, the entire roundhouse was searched. Mace Blackhail found the knife a week later wrapped in dockleaves at the bottom of the luntman's pack.\n\nRaif ran down a series of short ramps. Early the next morning Wennil Drook was taken onto the court and laid facedown upon the clay. One sharp pole was inserted under his skin from shoulder to shoulder and a second from hip to hip. Wennil Drook was then lifted by the staves and suspended between two horses. The horses were ridden by their riders over the fellfields and onto the Wedge. Wennil Drook only made it halfway. The skin on his back tore off in a single piece, and he fell to the ground and was dead before dark.\n\nCorbie Meese was given the skin off Wennil Drook's back. He had used it once to clean his hammer, then thrown it away.\n\nFrowning, Raif took the steps down to the fold, the great chamber that lay directly beneath the entrance, where all horses and livestock were held during hard frosts and sieges. It was empty. Not one clansman stood in the center, training his dogs, nor one clanswoman leaned against the enclosure wall, letting her children run and play. Raif halted by the entrance. The fold was the largest cleared space in the roundhouse. On days as cold as this it was usually heavily used.\n\nComing to a halt, Raif made a decision. It was time he paid a visit to the Great Hearth. How long had he been in the guidehouse with Effie? Less than an hour?\n\nThe tunnels and ramps of the roundhouse were built narrow and winding so they could be easily defended if the main gate was breached. Raif found himself cursing every twist and curve as he ran. A man could get nowhere fast. Passing alongside the kitchen wall, he heard children's laughter bubbling against the other side. The sound did little to settle his mind. Children playing in Anwyn Bird's kitchen? Wasn't the deepest spiraling hell supposed to freeze over first?\n\nThe Great Hearth was the roundhouse's primary chamber aboveground. Yearmen, visitors, and all male children old enough to find food and beds for themselves slept there each night around the fire. Most clansfolk ate supper at the curved stone benches lining the chamber's east wall. In the evenings everyone gathered about the fire to keep warm, tell tales, sample one another's homebrew, smoke pipes packed with dried heather, court, sing, dice, and dance swords. It was the Heart of Clan; all decisions of weight were made there.\n\nEven as he rounded the last of the steps, Raif knew something was wrong. The Great Hearth's oak doors were closed. Not pausing to smooth his hair or brush down his coat, he pushed against the oak planking, forcing his way through.\n\nFive hundred faces turned to look at him. Corbie Meese, Shor Gormalin, Will Hawk, Orwin Shank, and dozens of other full clansmen were gathered around the vast sandstone hearth. Raina Blackhail, Merritt Ganlow, and a score of other women with due respect also had places close to the fire. Sitting around the edge of the room on curved benches were the yearmen: the two middle Shank brothers, the Lyes, Bullhammer, Craw Bantering, Rob Ure, who was fostered from Clan Dregg, and dozens of others.\n\nRaif felt a hard lump rise to his throat. Drey was there too, sitting beside blue-eyed Rory Cleet, his hands resting upon the newly scored hammer in his lap. Raif looked and looked, but his brother wouldn't meet his eyes.\n\n\"You weren't called to this meeting, boy.\" Mace Blackhail stepped out from behind a bloodwood stang and walked five paces forward before coming to a halt. \"You won't be made yearman till next spring.\"\n\nRaif didn't care for the tone of Mace Blackhail's voice. He also didn't care for the fact that Mace Blackhail was wearing his foster father's Clansword. Steel skinned, black as midnight, and hilted with human bone packed with lead, it was kept in the roundhouse at all times and worn only by the clan chief when he was called upon to pass judgments of death and war.\n\nGlancing around the Great Hearth, Raif took full count of the group. More clansmen than he had seen together in one place since spring Godsfest had gathered for a meet. Even a few tied clansmen\u2014crofters, pig farmers, and woodsmen\u2014had been given places near the door. The only full-sworn clansmen who weren't present were those manning the strongwalls and borderholds, the hundred or so standing nightwatch, and those away on longhunts in the far northern reaches of the clan.\n\nRaif's eyes narrowed. \"If you have met to speak of war,\" he said, glancing from face to face and. ignoring Mace Blackhail completely, \"then I demand to be present. Before the first battle is joined, Inigar Stoop will hear my oath.\"\n\nCorbie Meese's large head, with its hammer dent, scar, and bald spot, was the first to nod. \"He's right, you know. We're gonna need to bind as many yearmen as we can, as soon as we can. And that's no mistake.\" Ballic the Red and several others nodded right along with him.\n\nMace Blackhail cut the nodding short before it had chance to spread. \"We must decide upon a clan chief before we speak of war.\"\n\nRaif shot Drey a hard glance, boring through his brother's skull until Drey was forced to look up. Mace Blackhail had called a meeting to decide on the next clan chief, and his own brother hadn't even told him. Raif scowled at Drey. Didn't he realize he was playing right into Mace Blackhail's hands?\n\n\"So,\" Mace Blackhail said, taking the last few steps toward the door and pausing before he opened it. \"As war isn't our main purpose here, I say we let this boy go.\" He smiled almost sweetly. \"Delicate matters such as these would more than likely bore him.\"\n\nRaif stared at Drey's bent head. This time his brother refused to look up.\n\nMace held open the door. With his back turned to the clan, he sent Raif a look filled with malice. Go, he mouthed, his eyes shrinking to two black-and-yellow strips.\n\n\"I say he stays.\" It was Raina Blackhail, standing as she spoke. \"Despite what you say, Mace Blackhail, Raif Sevrance is hardly a boy. If he wants to have his say along with the rest, I for one won't stop him.\" She looked her foster son straight in the eyes. \"Would you?\"\n\nIn the seconds it took Raina to speak, Mace Blackhail's face changed twice. By the time he had turned back to the clan, the only trace of the anger her words had caused him was the rapidly diminishing lines around his mouth. He let the door fall closed. \"Very well. Let the boy find a place at the back.\"\n\nRaif held his position a moment longer, then edged sideways, joining a group of crofters behind the door. His gaze did not leave Mace Blackhail for a moment.\n\n\"I warn you, boy,\" Mace said softly, weighing his words. \"We're not here to rake over what happened at the badlands camp. You're upset about the loss of your da\u2014we all saw that the other day. But we're in mourning for others besides Tem Sevrance, and you'd do well to remember that. You weren't the only one who lost kin.\" Mace made a swallowing motion with his throat. \"Others did, too. And every time you speak up rashly without thinking, you injure their memories and wound the grieving.\"\n\nMace Blackhail's words stilled the clan. Many looked down, at the floor, at their hands, at their laps. Several of the older clansmen, including Orwin Shank and Will Hawk, nodded. The tied clansman by Raif's side, a pig farmer named Hissip Gluff, edged minutely away.\n\n\"Let's get back to the matter in hand.\" Shor Gormalin spoke in an even tone. He was standing by the hearth, his fair hair and beard smoothly cut and tended, his swordarm resting on the mantel. \"I daresay the lad knows himself when's right and proper to speak.\"\n\nAs always when the small swordsman spoke, people agreed. And those men and women who had given Raif sharp glances seconds earlier now found other things to look at. Raif said nothing. He was beginning to realize just how clever Mace Blackhail was with words.\n\n\"Well,\" Ballic the Red said, stepping forward into the cleared space in the center of the room. \"Mace is right. We must decide upon a clan chief and quickly. Dhoone is weak, and its sworn clans are suffering from want of protection. We all know the Dog Lord's been sniffing around the Dhoonehouse like the hound that he is\u2014the man has seven sons, and each one of them craves a clanhold of his own. Yet now it seems to me as if the Bludd chief craves more. I think the man has each and every one of us in his sights. I think he has a fancy to call himself Lord of the Clans. And if we sit on arses and do nothing, then it'll only be a matter of time before his Bluddsmen come calling with swords.\"\n\nShouts of \"Aye!\" chorused around the Great Hearth. Corbie Meese took his hammer from his back and pounded the wooden butt against the floor. Several yearmen, Drey included, began pummeling their fists against the bench. Many clansmen stamped their feet or hammered ale jugs against the walls. Mace Blackhail waited until the noise was at its greatest before speaking.\n\nRaising an open hand, he shouted over the clamor, \"Aye! Ballic has the right of it! The Dog Lord would have our land, our women, and our roundhouse. And when he's done he'd turn around and shatter our guidestone to dust. He slaughtered our chief in cold blood, in the no-man's-land of the camp. What worse will he do when he comes west to raid our clan?\"\n\nMace Blackhail curled his hand to a fist. The noise had died now, and the only person moving was the luntwoman Nellie Moss, who was busy carrying shredded sprucebark from torch to torch. The fire in the Great Hearth roared like wind from the north, and all around the room bloodwood beams creaked and shuddered like timbers in a storm.\n\nRaif felt the heat leave his face. The world was shifting beneath everyone's feet on the word of just one man. He couldn't believe how quickly it was happening. It was like watching a dog round up a herd.\n\n\"My father died at Vaylo Bludd's hand,\" Mace Blackhail said, letting his voice tremble along with his fist, \"killed by a hell-forged sword, left to rot on frozen earth. I say the Dog Lord must pay long and hard for what he did. We are not Clan Dhoone to stand by and let someone steal our guidestone while we lie in bed with our women atop us. We are Clan Blackhail, the first of all clans. We do not hide and we do not cower. And we will have our revenge.\"\n\nThe clan thundered to life. Everyone stood. Axmen and hammermen pounded their weapons against the stone floor, yearmen began chanting \"Kill Bludd! Kill Bludd!\" and those standing by tables took out their handswords and thrust the blades into the wood. The women tore the sleeves from their dresses, baring their widow's weals for all to see. Corbie Meese hefted a skin of hard liquor over his head and sent it crashing into the fire. The skin exploded in a ball of pure white flame, scorching the hair of all who stood close and sending out a wave of heat that hit everyone in the room.\n\nAs smoke rolled from the hearth in black storm clouds, Ballic the Red aimed his bow. Shaped from a single piece of heartwood yew, strengthened with plates of horn, then curve-dried over sinew, the longbow drew as smoothly as the setting sun. Ballic held the string to his cheek, kissed his arrow's fletchings, and let it fly. The arrow parted smoke like a knife slitting throats. Shooting into the red heart of the fire, it severed the tops of flames and shattered the glowing embers like a rock smashed into ice. Hot coals rained onto the hearthstone, dark and ashy, their red eyes flashing.\n\n\"That's for the Dog Lord,\" Ballic the Red shouted above the uproar, tapping imagined dust from his bow.\n\nEven as Raif found himself envying the sheer force of Ballic's shot, his gaze was drawn away to the opposite end of the chamber, where Drey stood chanting at the top of his voice. He and smooth-cheeked Rory Cleet were shouldering and pushing each other, seeing who could shout the loudest. Drey had his hammer in his hand and kept turning to pound the bench behind him. Briefly he met Raif's gaze, then quickly looked away. A muscle twisted in Raif's gut. That wasn't Drey. His face was so red, it didn't even look like him.\n\nKill Bludd! Kill Bludd!\n\nEdging back against the door frame for support, Raif looked away. He felt physically sick. Noises pushed against his face like blows. We don't know Clan Bludd did it, he wanted to shout. But Mace Blackhail had ensured that anything he said would be dismissed as the immature rantings of a boy who had lost his da. Raif punched his fist against the door frame. Why couldn't anyone see Mace Blackhail for the wolf that he was?\n\nAs he raised his hand from the wood, he was aware of someone's gaze upon his back. Assuming it was Mace Blackhail, he spun around to face him. But it wasn't Mace; it was his foster mother, Raina. Raif let his fist fall to his side. In a roomful of people straining, shouting, and clamoring to be heard, Raina Blackhail was an island of quiet calm. The bandages around her widow's weals had been torn away, revealing the fierce red flesh of new wounds. No scabs would be allowed to form over the cuts as they healed. Instead her skin would be held together by tightly bound sinew, until bands of hard flesh had been raised around her wrists. These she would carry with her until death.\n\nFor the first time, Raif realized what Raina was wearing over her shoulders: the black bear pelt that Dagro Blackhail had died scraping. Yet the pelt looked clean and newly washed, and the flesh side was creamy and bloodless. Raif felt the ground shift beneath his feet one more time. Drey must have carried it back. He must have bundled it into his pack, brought it home from the badlands, finished scraping the flesh, then lime-washed and softened the inner hide. All done quietly and without fuss, so Raina Blackhail could have her husband's last token.\n\nSobered, Raif unclenched his fist. Sometimes he hardly knew his brother at all.\n\nAs if aware of Raif's thoughts, Raina Blackhail pulled the bear pelt close around her shoulders. Tears shone in her eyes. She made no motion to speak, made no gestures with her hand or head, simply held Raif's gaze as surely as if she were holding his arm. Her husband was dead, and she meant for him to remember that fact.\n\nKill Bludd! Kill Bludd!\n\n\"Hold your cries!\" Mace Blackhail cried, raising the Clansword above his head as he stepped upon a table close to the center of the room. His black dogskin pants and tunic had been slashed by his own hand, and his wolf lore lay on the outside for all to see. With his dark hair, dark clothes, and yellow wolf tooth shining against his skin, he looked fierce and full of rage. The Clansword fit his grip perfectly, and already he had its weight and balance judged.\n\nThe clan quieted. Thanks to Ballic the Red's arrow, the fire now gave off a flickering uneven light. Dark smoke vented from the cooling embers in thin plumes. Around the walls of the Great Hearth, torches burned with the crackle and putter of things just lit.\n\nMace Blackhail waited for perfect silence. The Clansword gleamed like black ice as he spoke. \"We must make raids and make war\u2014we know that now. Our warriors must ride east and meet the Bluddsmen full on. Now more than ever we need a strong man to lead us. War is never solely about battle. We must make alliances, mass ourselves, know our weaknesses and use our strengths. We can never replace Dagro Blackhail, and I for one will fight anyone here and now who claims otherwise.\" Mace brought the Clansword down and swept it in a half circle around his chest. For a fraction of a second his gaze rested on Raif, then his lips twisted minutely and he looked away.\n\nFinding none who would speak up against the dead, he continued. \"Yet choose a leader we must. All here have the right to draw the Clansword and claim the Blackhail name. As a Blackhail by fosterage, I have more rights than some, but that's not what I called you here to say. What I mean to state here, before all clansmen and yearmen and women with due respect, is that I will pledge myself to any man who is named clan chief and follow him until I die.\"\n\nMace Blackhail's words stunned the clan. Mouths fell open, breath was inhaled. Old Turby Flapp lost his grip on his spear, and it went clattering to the floor. The crofter to Raif's side pulled up his chin and whispered to his companion that it was \"a fine thing for Mace Blackhail to do.\" Raif waited. Like everyone else he was surprised by Mace Blackhail's words, yet he knew it wasn't the end. Even as Mace Blackhail lowered the sword, the chorus began.\n\n\"A Blackhail is as a Blackhail does.\" Corbie Meese stepped into the center of the room, the boiled hide of his coat armor embellished only by his hammerman's chains. \"Mace has shown himself to be a true clansman like his father before him, and I for one would be proud to follow his banns into battle.\" With that, Corbie laid his great ironheaded hammer on the ground beneath Mace Blackhail's feet.\n\n\"I'll second that.\" It was Ballic the Red, stepping forward with his braced yewwood bow. \"The moment the badlands raid happened, Mace Blackhail's first thoughts were for those who were left at home. Now I don't mean to speak ill of the two Sevrance lads\u2014all here agree that what they did was right and fitting\u2014but to my mind Mace Blackhail acted like a clan chief from the start.\"\n\nRaif closed his eyes as calls of \"Aye!\" circled the room. He heard Ballic the Red lay his bow by Corbie Meese's hammer, and when he opened his eyes again Orwin Shank and thin-bearded Will Hawk were doing likewise with their axes and swords. Along the east wall, yearmen shifted restlessly against their benches. It wasn't their place to move before full clansmen and women with due respect.\n\nOther clansmen came and laid their weapons by Mace Blackhail's feet. The twins Cull and Arlec Byce crossed their matching limewood axes on top of the growing pile. Still, some men held back. Shor Gormalin was the most notable. Standing close to Raina Blackhail, he watched the proceedings with glinting eyes, not a muscle on his lean face moving. Others, many older clansmen like Gat Murdock and the fierce little bowman whom everyone called the Lowdraw, took his lead and did the same. Raif noticed several clansmen and most of the clanswomen looking to Raina Blackhail.\n\nWhen it was obvious that all the full clansmen who were prepared to come forward had done so, Mace Blackhail pressed the flat edge of the Clansword to his heart. His black hair and close-trimmed beard made his skin look as pale as ice formed around a window at night. His teeth were strong and white. A few had the sharp-edged look of fangs.\n\nTurning, he addressed his words to Raina alone. \"What say you, Foster Mother? I did not ask for this, and in truth I am not sure that I want it. And no matter how much my fellow clansmen's support stirs my heart, what you think matters more.\"\n\nRaif ground his teeth together to stop himself from crying out Mace Blackhail wasn't even a full clansman! He was a yearman, like Drey, pledging himself one year at a time to his clan, until he married or settled and was ready to commit himself wholly and for life. Most yearmen pledged to their birthclans, but some married elsewhere, or fostered elsewhere, or found themselves better needed and more valued at a foreign roundhouse far from home.\n\nRaif sucked in breath. His gaze flicked to Raina Blackhail, who stood in her own space, slightly apart from the other women. Mace Blackhail had put her in a difficult position; to speak against blood or fosterkin in front of clan was unthinkable. Most especially against a foster son who had just paid his foster mother a compliment far greater than due respect.\n\nMace Blackhail maneuvered like the wolf he was: isolating his target, then forcing it to run alone.\n\nRaina Blackhail was not the sort of woman to be hurried, though, and with a slow shrug of her shoulders she let the black bear pelt fall to the floor. Everyone in the Great Hearth watched as she deliberately stepped upon it. Her lips and cheeks were pale, her dress of housespun wool dyed a subtle shade of gray. The only bright spots on her entire body were the blood seeping from her widow's weals and the film of unshed tears across her eyes.\n\n\"Foster son,\" she said, placing a slight but unmistakable emphasis on the word foster. \"Like my husband before me I am a person rarely given to hasty judgment. You have spoken well, and humbly, and have gained the support of many of the clansmen who lie above you in rank.\" A pause followed, where Raina let the clansmen remember for themselves that her foster son was but a yearman.\n\nFor the first time since he had entered the chamber Raif felt a spark of hope. No one in the clan was respected as highly as Raina Blackhail.\n\n\"I believe you are a strong man, Mace Blackhail,\" Raina continued, \"with a strong will and a strong arm and the ability to make others do your bidding. I have seen you on the practice court and know you wield both the ax and the greatsword deftly. You are clever with words\u2014as the men from Clan Scarpe so often are\u2014and I suspect you will be clever at battle as well. Given these qualities, you may indeed make an excellent clan chief. However, I am Dagro Blackhail's widow, and his respect is my due, and as such I demand that no decision be made tonight.\"\n\nAs the last words left Raina Blackhail's lips and the clan responded to the mettle in her voice, Raif heard the pounding of footsteps on the outer stairs. Even as he gave silent thanks for Raina Blackhail's caution and saw for himself that no man or woman present would dare defy her on this matter, the double doors of the Great Hearth burst open.\n\nA clansman, his forehead and cheeks red with sudden exposure to heat, his nose and eyes running, and his oilskins shedding snow, dashed into the room, stumbling forward in his haste. Breathless, his hair damp with sweat and his boots lip high in mud, he stood a moment, gulping great mouthfuls of air to still himself. Raif recognized him after a moment as Will Hawk's son, Bron. A yearman, fostered to Dhoone.\n\nRaif felt his skin cool as surely as if Bron Hawk had brought the cold from outside with him. His stomach knotted, and beneath his buckskin tunic and wool shirt, his raven lore cooled to ice.\n\nAll gathered held their breath as they waited for Bron Hawk to speak. Mace Blackhail and the pile of pledged weapons standing below him were forgotten. Raina Blackhail's words and her husband's final token lying beneath her feet slid from the clan's minds like runoff down a slope. Five hundred pairs of eyes focused with blind intent toward the door.\n\nBron Hawk pushed the fair hair from his face. After a brief glance around the chamber, his gaze finally rested upon Raina Blackhail and the small swordsman Shor Gormalin, who stood at her back. \"Clan Bludd has taken the Dhoonehouse,\" he said. \"Five nights ago. They slaughtered three hundred Dhoonesmen with weapons that drew no blood.\"\n\nA single hiss of shock and anger united the room. Raif felt the knot in his stomach unfold with soft liquid slowness. No one would ever question Mace Blackhail's story about the badlands raid again.\nEIGHT\n\nTrapping in the Oldwood\n\n\"COME ON. PUT ON your coat and oilskin. You're coming with me.\" Raina Blackhail grabbed the corner of Effie's blanket and heaved it from the pallet.\n\nEffie Sevrance blinked. The lamplight hurt her eyes, and she didn't much like the idea of going outside. The land beyond the roundhouse was big and open and cold. A person could get lost on the fellfields and never be found. \"Please, Raina, I don't want\u2014\"\n\n\"No, my girl,\" Raina said, cutting her short. \"I don't care what you say. You need some fresh air on that pale face of yours, and sure as the Stone Gods created the clanholds, I'm going to see you get it.\" She patted Effie's thigh. \"Come on now. We're going to the Oldwood to check my traps, and I want to be there and back before morning's end.\"\n\nMoving around the small cell where Effie slept alone, Raina Blackhail plucked oilskin, dog mitts, and a wool coat from the chair and the dog hook where they had been neatly hung or folded. Effie told herself she didn't mind Raina being here, not really. She wasn't like some people who just wanted to be nosy and make fun. Letty Shank was always here, stealing stones, scattering them around the chamber, snatching the lore from Effie's neck and wearing it herself. \"Look at me,\" she'd call to Mog Wiley and all the others. \"As dim as the rock the clan guide gave me.\"\n\nEffie bit her lip. Everyone would laugh as if it were the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Crowding around Letty Shank, they would try to take the lore from her, anxious to wear it themselves.\n\nRising from the box pallet, Effie frowned at Raina. Raina wanted to put on the coat and mitts for her, but Effie preferred to do it herself.\n\nThis made Raina smile. \"There's some good rocks out on the west side of Oldwood, you know, by Hissip Gluff's place. You might be able to find something new for your collection.\"\n\n\"They're sandstone,\" Effie said. \"Like the roundhouse.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know about that, Effie Sevrance. When I was up there last I could swear I saw something shining beneath my fox trap.\"\n\n\"You did?\" Effie was instantly interested. She knew Raina Blackhail wasn't the sort of woman to lie about anything, most especially rocks.\n\nRaina bent and kissed the top of Effie's head. \"Yes. Hurry now. If your oilskins and boots aren't on in the next minute, I'll have Longhead come down here and plant mushrooms over your bed. I swear it's wet enough to grow them here.\" She shivered. \"I really do.\"\n\nEffie almost laughed at the idea of mushrooms growing on her bed, but she didn't like the way Raina had turned up her pitch lamp and was now looking around the little stone cell with a disapproving air. Effie spoke to head her off. \"I don't want to go and sleep with the other girls. Please. Anwyn has given me her best goatswool blanket. And I keep a torch burning most of the night.\"\n\nThe worried look that always made Effie feel bad appeared on Raina's face. \"Bind your mitts tightly,\" was all she said. \"It's white weather outside.\"\n\nEffie liked the roundhouse best in early morning. Few people were around, mouthwatering smells of bacon and scorched onions wafted up from the kitchen, and light pouring through the high windows promised good things to come. It was as if whatever had gone on the day before was completely canceled out. As they walked up the ramp to the entrance hall, the only person they encountered was the luntwoman Nellie Moss. The skin on Nellie's hands was red and shiny with old scars from torch bums, and all the other children including Letty Shank and Mog Wiley were afraid of her. Effie wasn't... not quite. Nellie Moss got to move about the roundhouse unheeded and did most of her work in the dark. Effie rather liked the idea of that.\n\nRaina Blackhail stopped Nellie from walking straight past by putting a hand on the luntwoman's arm. \"Any sign of their return?\"\n\nNellie shook her head. \"Nay. None's come back this night.\"\n\nRaina nodded. The worried look crossed her face again. \"If they do come back, be sure to let them know I'm in the Oldwood with my traps. I'll be back before noon.\"\n\n\"In the Oldwood with yer traps,\" repeated Nellie in her low mannish voice.\n\nEffie thought she saw something unpleasant in Nellie Moss' face, but when she blinked it was gone. Briefly Effie remembered the little luntman Wennil Drook, who had lit the torches before Nellie. Effie didn't believe what anyone said about him stealing Corbie Meese's knife. Wennil had known things about rocks. Hardly a week went by in summer when he didn't bring her some new bit of stone for her collection.\n\n\"Effie. Pull up your hood.\"\n\nEffie did as Raina said, and together they left the roundhouse by the side door that led out past the guidehouse to the stables. Everything, the stables, the graze, the clay court, and the gray slate roof of the guidehouse, was covered in a thick layer of snow. Even the little stream that ran behind the birches\u2014the one Orwin Shank called the Leak on account of its yellowy green water\u2014was now running beneath a sheet of snow-covered ice. It had been snowing on and off for seven days now, ever since Bron Hawk had returned from Dhoone.\n\nThe clan had split up the following morning. Mace Blackhail and his pledged men had ridden east to scout the Dhoonehouse. Drey was in the party... . Effie worried about that. Raif had gone with Shor Gormalin and others to Clan Gnash, to learn what they could from the Gnash chief, who shared borders with Blackhail and Dhoone. More men still had been put on east- and southwatch, and all tied clansmen had been ordered to the roundhouse to defend it in case of raids. Mace's and Shor's parties were due back any day. Then there would be a big meet where only the sworn clansmen were allowed.\n\nEffie supposed they would make Mace Blackhail chief. Finally.\n\n\"Don't just stand there, Effie Sevrance,\" Raina said, following the much trodden path toward the stables. \"You must help me kit and saddle Mercy.\"\n\nGlancing over the graze to the low sandstone ridge that lay beyond, Effie chewed on her lip. The snow made everything seem wide open. Vast. The countryside stopped being identifiable parts, like the sheep graze and the cow graze and Longhead's apple orchard and the Wedge, and became one whole thing instead.\n\nInside her chest, Effie's heart began to beat a little faster. The land was a big white nothingness, like the spaces in dreams that stretched on and on and on... .\n\n\"Oh no you don't, Effie Sevrance,\" Raina said, tugging on her arm. \"You're not bolting on me this time. There's nothing to be afraid of, only fresh air and snow. I won't leave you. I promise.\"\n\nEffie let herself be dragged into the stables. She liked the stables, but not as much as the dog cotes. The stables were enclosed by thick stone walls, but they were large and high roofed, and there was too much space above a person's head. Not like the cotes. The little dog cote was so low that no grown man could stand in it. Effie grinned at the memory of Shor Gormalin's bent back as he'd come to drag her from it two weeks ago. He was nice, Shor Gormalin. He'd understood when she'd told him that she hadn't really run away at all. \"Just finding a fair spot to think,\" he had said with a thoughtful nod of his head. \"I can see that. Do it myself from time to time. Though I daresay I'm inclined to pick somewhere warmer and less chancy than the dog cotes. Those shankshounds could tear off a man's head.\"\n\nShankshounds. Effie's grin widened. Orwin Shank's dogs were as soft as puppies around her.\n\nSeeing Effie smile, Raina smiled. \"It'll be nice, you know. I've grilled us some apple slices wrapped in bacon.\"\n\nSuddenly feeling a lot better, Effie began buckling Mercy's bridle. She loved it when Raina smiled.\n\nWhen the filly was saddled and two empty leather saddlebags were laid over her docks, Raina trotted her onto the court. The Oldwood lay to the west of the roundhouse, past the graze and up over the north ridge. Tall spires of paper birch and black spruce broke the skyline, and high overhead a line of geese flew south. Fresh snow crackled beneath Effie's boots, its surface hardened by overnight frost. It was bitterly cold, and Effie could feel her cheeks burning beneath her fox hood. Ice crystals glittered on the branches of Longhead's saplings.\n\nEffie crossed her arms over her chest and walked with her mitted hands thrust under her armpits. Winter always came fast to Clan Blackhail. Da said it was because...\n\nEffie stopped dead.\n\nThere was no Da.\n\nDa had gone.\n\n\"Effie.\" Raina spoke softly, her voice sounding very far away. \"It's all right, little one. You'll be safe with me. I swear it.\"\n\nSomething hurt at the back of Effie's eyes. She blinked, but it wouldn't go away. Raina said things and squeezed her shoulder, but Effie barely felt or heard. Her lore pressed against her collarbone like a poking finger. Da was gone. And she had known something wasn't right from the very first morning he'd ridden away. Her lore had told her so.\n\n\"Come on, Effie Sevrance. Up on Mercy.\" Effie felt Raina's hands slip under her arms and lift her clear off the ground. She saw the sky come closer, white and choked with snow clouds, then felt her bottom come down on the hard leather saddle. \"There. Take the reins. Mercy will treat you well. Won't you, Mercy?\" Raina patted her filly's neck.\n\nEffie took the reins and let Raina adjust the stirrups to her feet. Beneath her oilskins and wool coat, Effie was aware of her lore pushing, pushing, against her skin. It wanted to tell her something... like the day Da had ridden north to the badlands.\n\nEffie shook her head. She didn't want to know. Her lore told bad things. It made her feel queasy inside. Clutching the reins in her left hand, she reached down inside her oilskin and pulled out the little rock given to her by the clan guide at birth. One sharp tug was all it took to snap the twine. Even through her dogskin mitts the rock felt alive. It wasn't warm and it didn't move, but somehow it pushed.\n\n\"What's the matter, Effie? Has the rock scratched your skin?\" Raina was walking alongside Mercy, looking up at Effie, her face all creased and pale.\n\nLeaning back in the saddle, Effie reached back with her hand to feel for one of the saddlebags. When her mitt slipped under the leather lid, she released her grip on the lore and let it fall to the bottom of the bag. A tight itchiness prickled through her stomach as it dropped. She took a breath, told herself it was silly to be afraid of a rock no bigger than her nose. \"I'm fine, Raina. Just... cold. The rock felt cold against my skin.\"\n\nRaina nodded her head in a way that made Effie feel bad. She hated to lie.\n\nThey walked in silence after that. Raina led Mercy over the ridge and into the bottomlands beyond. Old elms, basswoods, oaks, and dog birches began to spike the path, their bare limbs clutching at the sky with every gust of wind. Gobs of frozen sap shone like eyes in the places where branches split into twigs, and deep within their hollowed-out boles, wet ice glittered like teeth.\n\nEffie shivered. Normally she liked old trees, yet today she found herself seeing only the bad things: the wood ear fungus eating into the bark, the slimy green moss growing on south-facing trunks, and the tubes of rootwood poking through the earth around the bases of the old oaks. Surely roots weren't meant to be seen? Just looking at them made Effie feel queer, as if she were catching a glimpse of hidden things, like the pale wingless insects that lived under the roundhouse floorboards and deep within its walls.\n\nFeeling her heart begin to patter again, Effie looked away. Fixing her gaze on the space between Mercy's ears, she tried not to think of her lore lying at the bottom of Raina's saddlebag or the roots of the old oaks. She wished she didn't have her mitts on and could touch Mercy's neck. She knew it would be warm and soft and nice. \"Good girl,\" she whispered, needing to hear the plain sound of her own voice. \"Good Mercy.\"\n\nThe Oldwood crept up on one slowly. First there was just a softening of the ground underfoot, a few bushy birches and alders, and a string of old elms. Then the ground snow thinned, revealing the broad leaves of winter ferns and stripped shoots of milkweed. A little later there were rounded boulders speckled white with bird lime and yellow with withered moss. Then every time you took a step, years of dead and frozen matter crackled beneath your feet. The light dropped, then later the wind. The smell of damp earth and slowly decaying things sharpened. And finally, after you walked a while longer past rotten stumps and needle-thin streams, you were there, surrounded by a shuddering, creaking forest of basswood, elm, and oak. The Oldwood.\n\nEffie was glad to get out of the open spaces of the valley, pleased that she could no longer see more than a short walk ahead. Still, it was very quiet and the wind didn't quite blow through the trees: It hissed. Effie glanced at Raina, wishing she would speak. Raina was quiet, though, her face tilted down toward the path. There was a ring of mud and snowmelt around the hem of her woolen skirt, and ice crystals had formed along the breathline of her hood.\n\nEffie dearly wanted to say something to Raina, something funny or interesting or clever, but she wasn't very good at talking. Not like Letty Shank and Mog Wiley.\n\nIn silence, Raina led them through the south corner of the Oldwood and onto the west fringe. The temperature had risen slightly, and the snow underfoot was no longer as brittle as it had been. A few winter birds, mostly robins and grouse, called to each other from places Effie couldn't see. Every now and then she felt something push against the base of her spine. It was a metal buckle or a hard lump of leather in the saddle. It had to be. Her lore couldn't push right through the saddlebags and Mercy's rump. It couldn't.\n\nThe east fringe of the Oldwood was best for traps. Many clans-women trapped animals here, and all had their own territories and secret places. Effie knew Raina's places well. Raina had exclusive rights to the stream between the two sister willows and the bluff, and to the bluff itself, where bearberries and blackberries grew high atop the ridge. Effie didn't know much about trapping game, but she knew that the berry bushes were a good thing. All sorts of creatures came to eat the fruit.\n\nThey arrived at Raina's trapping ground while the sun was still rising. Effie slid down from the filly's back as Raina hiked up the bluff. Reaching the top of the bank, Raina ducked beneath a bearberry bush to inspect one of her traps. After a moment she made a pleased sound. \"I've got one, Effie. A fox. A big one with a beautiful coat. It's still warm.\"\n\nEffie walked a little way up the ridge, deliberately putting some distance between herself and the saddlebag containing her lore. She wished the fox hadn't been warm. That meant Raina would stop and skin it before it froze. You couldn't skin a frozen fox.\n\nRaina emerged from the bush holding a blue fox by the scruff of its neck. Its yellow eyes were still open, but there was no fox cunning spilling out. \"Effie. Fetch the skinning knife from my left saddlebag.\"\n\nEffie wasn't very good at her left and rights. She needed to have both her hands in front of her to work it out. Making a little weighing movement with her mitted fingers, she frowned. The left bag was the one containing her lore. Heart beating just a little bit quicker than moments earlier, she weighed her left and rights again.\n\n\"Effie! Hurry now! I want to be back by noon.\"\n\nRaina's voice was sharper than normal, and Effie ran the short distance back to Mercy. Eyes closed, lips pressed firmly together, she thrust a mitted hand into the saddlebag. Even as her fingers found and closed around the cool metal of the skinning knife, her lore pushed against the back of her hand. Effie jumped. Her lore wanted to be picked up and held... like the time in the small dog cote just before Shor Gormalin came.\n\n\"No,\" Effie whispered. \"Please. I don't want to know.\"\n\n\"Effie, the knife!\"\n\nGrabbing tight hold of the knife, Effie yanked her arm free of the saddlebag. She spent the next moment standing perfectly still, her face all scrunched, the knife held out at arm's length, waiting to see if anything terrible would happen. Only nothing did. Trees creaked. An owl that didn't know what time of day it was hooted. Breathing a sigh of relief, Effie ran up the slope and joined Raina.\n\nRaina had already cut the trap wire from the fox's snout and was busy brushing away bits of leaves and snow from its coat. Effie handed her the knife, but as she did so the temptation to lean in close and hug Raina was overpowering, and she wrapped her arms around Raina's waist.\n\n\"Little one. Little one.\" Raina pulled down Effie's hood and stroked her hair. \"I shouldn't have brought you all this way. It was wrong of me.\"\n\nEffie didn't much care that Raina had misunderstood things. The sound of Raina's voice, gentle, good, and completely familiar, was all that counted. Just to hear it made Effie feel better. She hugged her for a bit longer and then pulled away. Raina let her go. The fox hung by its brush from her free hand, and Effie could tell she was eager to skin it and be gone.\n\n\"I know,\" Raina said, making a small gesture indicating that Effie should pull up her hood against the cold, \"why don't you go and check on the other side of the bushes for those shiny stones we were talking about? Right between the two oaks, under the bearberry.\"\n\nAs Effie nodded, snow and earth crackled in the bushes below. Branches moved. A jackdaw took to the air, screaming at the sky as it flew. Metal jingled softly.\n\nRaina beckoned Effie to her. She had already made the first incision along the fox's snout, and there was a film of blood on her blade. As Effie came forward, she let the fox drop to the ground.\n\nMace Blackhail emerged from the bushes below them, leading his blue roan by the reins. The gelding was lathered, its coat steaming in the cold air and its nostrils frothing with mucus. Mud was sprayed over its belly and legs, and the skin around its saddle was patchy and chaffed. Mace Blackhail looked little better. His fox hood was matted with muck and ice, and his cheeks were burned red by snow glare.\n\n\"Foster Mother!\" he called. \"I arrived back at the roundhouse a quarter after you left.\"\n\nRaina made no reply. Her fingers dug into Effie's shoulders. Mace Blackhail shrugged. Coming to a halt, he tied the roan's reins to a whip-thin birch. Effie heard metal things\u2014weapons, she supposed\u2014clink beneath his oilskins.\n\n\"We need to talk, you and I, Foster Mother.\" Mace shot a glance Effie's way. \"Alone and in private.\"\n\nNot releasing her grip on Effie's shoulder or the skinning knife, Raina began to descend the slope. \"Effie's but a child. She won't\u2014\"\n\n\"She's a Sevrance,\" cut in Mace Blackhail. \"She'll go running back to that sneak-eyed brother of hers, sniveling and telling tales.\"\n\n\"You mean Raif?\" Raina's voice had a catch to it that Effie didn't understand. \"As you and Drey seem to get along well enough. He seemed eager enough to pledge his hammer to you the same night Bron came from Dhoone.\"\n\nMace Blackhail pulled down his hood. His face was dark, thin from long days in the saddle. \"Get rid of the child, Raina.\"\n\nEffie kept herself still. She imagined she could still feel her lore pressing against her mitted hand.\n\nRaina took a small breath and patted Effie's shoulder. Lowering her head, she spoke words for Effie's ears alone. \"Run along and find those stones behind the bushes like we talked about. I'll keep watch. I won't leave without you. I promise.\"\n\nEffie twisted her head around so she could look at Raina's face. What she saw frightened her. \"Raina?\"\n\n\"Go, Effie.\" Raina patted her shoulder\u2014harder this time. \"Go. Everything will be fine here. There's nothing to worry about. It's just me and Mace.\"\n\nEffie scrambled down the slope. Mace Blackhail watched her descend. When she drew level with the horses, Mercy whickered, and Effie reached out to touch her neck.\n\nPush.\n\nSnapping her hand back, Effie bit hard on her lip to stop any noise from leaving her mouth. It couldn't be her lore. It couldn't. Turning on her heel, she found herself face-to-face with Mace Blackhail. Before she could move away, Mace grabbed her chin with a gloved hand.\n\nHis hair dripped snowmelt onto his cheeks as he angled her face one way and then the other. He smelled of skinned animals. His voice when it came was as smooth and cold as ice. \"As it is you'll be no great beauty. Though you're liable to end up looking worse if you go telling tales.\"\n\n\"Leave her alone!\" It was Raina, coming down the slope. Effie noticed she still had the skinning knife in her hand.\n\nMace Blackhail smacked Effie's buttocks. \"Don't come back until I'm gone.\"\n\nEffie dashed away into the bushes, hardly caring where she was headed. She heard Raina call out to her, some sort of warning about not going too far, yet Effie could barely hear it over the fast beating of her heart. A finger of oak scraped along her cheek. Ferns slapped at her boots and skirt, and snow and twigs crackled beneath her feet. She hardly knew if she was running from Mace Blackhail or her lore.\n\nWhen the ground finally steepened, Effie slowed. Her hood was down, but her face didn't feel cold at all. Breath fogged as it left her mouth. She glanced over her shoulder, but all she saw were oaks and elms barricading the way. Oak roots peeped out above the snow line, pale and fat like worms.\n\nEffie looked away. Up the slope and off to the left lay the backs of the bearberry bushes where Raina kept her traps. Effie frowned. Going that way would almost be the same as going back to the clearing. But Raina had told her not to go far. Unsure of what to do, she hesitated; her hand stole up to her neck, searching for the lore that wasn't there. Funny how she always held it when she had decisions to make. Laying her mitted palm flat on her chest, she tried to still her heart instead. She wished Raina were here.\n\nA light wind blew through the trees and up the slope, making topsnow ruffle like an animal's coat. Effie chewed on her lip. She didn't like Mace Blackhail, and it made her stomach go all tight to think of him alone with Raina.\n\nWith a small flick of her head, she started up the slope. She didn't need an old piece of rock to make decisions for her. She was old enough to make them herself.\n\nThe back of the bluff was harder to climb than the front. Littered with loose rocks and fallen logs all slippery and green, the south slope was normally used by foxes and Hissip Gluff's goats. The snow made everything worse, hiding brambles, sinkholes, and rootwood. Effie plucked up her skirt and held it high above her knees. Somewhere below she could hear the willow stream running over sandstone. She didn't look down. By the time she reached the top of the slope her skirt was black with snow and mud. Ahead she saw the line of bearberries and the two oaks Raina had mentioned earlier. Although she didn't much feel like it, Effie turned her mind to stones. Shiny ones, Raina had said. Beneath the bushes.\n\n\"Get away from me!\"\n\nEffie stopped dead at the sound of Raina's voice. She wondered if snow hadn't worked its way inside her collar, for something liquid and icy slid down her spine. Raina.\n\nThrashing through snow and ferns, Effie dashed to the far side of the ridge where the bushes grew. One of Raina's traps could clearly be seen on the ground beneath the densest cluster of stems, its lip open, waiting to be sprung. Swinging away from it, Effie fell to her knees and crawled the rest of the way.\n\nNo more words came from below, but she could hear twigs snapping and oilskins creaking. One of the horses stamped its hooves. A breath was sharply taken, then the clear sound of a belt buckle unsnapping chimed through the air like a bell.\n\nDown on her belly in the snow, Effie pushed herself along by her knees and feet. Her heart thumped against the ground. She was listening so hard her jaw ached.\n\nMore sounds. Oilskins, mostly, and crunching snow. Someone or something grunted: Effie couldn't tell whether it was Mace Blackhail or one of the horses.\n\nEasing her head into the tangle of stems and leaves that marked the edge of the ridge, she peered into the clearing below. She saw Mace Blackhail's roan first, then Mercy. Red bearberries, cold and almost frozen, tapped against her cheeks like glass beads.\n\nHard breaths sounded, and Effie's gaze found Mace Blackhail's back. It was moving up and down. Effie frowned. Where was Raina? That was when she noticed Mace Blackhail's hand; it was pressed hard against Raina's mouth. Raina was beneath him. On the ground. In the snow. Her oilskin was spread open about her.\n\nEffie's chest tightened. What was he doing to her? Even as she looked, she saw Mace Blackhail lean forward and kiss Raina's face. Raina jerked her head back. Mace continued moving up and down. He was breathing very hard now.\n\nA glint of silver on the ground near the horses caught Effie's eye. Raina's knife. From where she lay, Effie could just make out three blotches of blood sunk deep into the surrounding snow. Her gaze was drawn back to Mace Blackhail. He shuddered, issued a hard cry like a cough, then slumped onto Raina's chest. Raina's eyes were closed. Mace no longer had his hand over her mouth, but she made no move to cry out, simply lay there with her eyes closed, perfectly still.\n\nMace said something to her that Effie didn't catch, then he rolled to the side and picked himself off the ground. Still Raina did not move. Her skirt was hitched up about her waist and her tunic was open, revealing her linen under-bodice beneath. Effie averted her eyes: like the oak roots, they were things not meant to be seen.\n\nMace Blackhail belted and fastened himself up. His sword swung at his waist, held in place by a doeskin scabbard dyed black. As he returned to his horse, Effie saw a line of bright blood on his cheek and a second on his neck. When he approached Raina's skinning knife, he kicked it hard, sending the silver blade shooting into a tangle of snowy gorse. He spat, smoothed back his hair, and then mounted the blue roan. The gelding shook its mane and switched its tail, but Mace pulled hard on the bit, taking command of its head.\n\nTurning the gelding, Mace Blackhail took a moment to regard Raina as she lay on the ground. Raina still had not moved. Effie could just see the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes were closed, but as Mace looked on she opened them.\n\nMace's mouth twisted. \"Tidy yourself before you return,\" he said. \"If we are to be wed\u2014as this surely means we must\u2014then I will not have my wife arrayed like a coarse-house wench for all to see.\" With that, he kicked the roan into a trot and rode from the clearing.\n\nEffie watched him go. The left side of her face was numb, and her entire body was colder than she could ever remember it being before. Even her heart felt cold. For a reason she didn't understand, she began naming the Stone Gods. Inigar Stoop said they were hard gods and they answered no small prayers. Never ask anything for yourself, Effie Sevrance, Inigar's dry old voice reminded her. Ask only that they watch over the clan. To Effie, Raina Blackhail was the clan, so she spoke the nine sacred names of the gods.\n\nAs she named Behathmus, who was called the Dark God and was said to have eyes of black iron, Raina began to stir in the clearing below. Her legs came upward and her arms slid inward and her chin came down to her chest. She shrank as Effie watched, her body closing around itself like a dead and curling leaf. No noise left her lips, no tears spilled from her eyes, she just drew herself smaller and smaller until Effie thought her back would break.\n\nEffie cried for her. She didn't know that she was crying until the wetness reached her mouth and she tasted salt. Something bad had happened. And Effie wasn't sure what it was, but she knew two things without question:\n\nRaina was hurt.\n\nAnd she, Effie Sevrance, could have stopped it.\n\nHer lore had known. It had wanted to tell her. It had tried to tell her. It had pushed and pushed, but she'd refused to listen.\n\nScrambling free of the bushes, she brushed snow and ice from her oilskin, hood, and skirt. She didn't know if she was still crying; her cheeks were too numb to feel tears.\n\nShe could have stopped Mace Blackhail from hurting Raina. She could have taken the lore in her fist and held it until she saw the bad thing. It had happened like that with Da... .\n\nA deep shiver worked its way up her spine. Suddenly anxious to be away, back inside the small enclosed space of her cell, she ran along the ridge and down the slope.\n\nShe didn't know how long it took her to get back to Raina\u2014a quarter, perhaps; no longer\u2014but by the time she reached the clearing Raina had become herself. Her hair was newly smoothed, her skirt free of ice, and her oilskin fastened tightly all the way down to her knees. She smiled briefly as Effie approached.\n\n\"I was just about to come looking for you. It's time we were home. Come on. I'll put you on Mercy's back.\" Her voice was level with just a slight strain to it. Her eyes were dead.\n\nEffie didn't speak. A lump had come to her throat.\nNINE\n\nThe Dhooneseat\n\nVAYLO BLUDD SPAT AT his dog. He would have preferred to spit at his second son, but he didn't. The dog, a hunter and wolf mix with a neck as wide as a door, bared its teeth and snarled at his master. Other dogs leashed behind it made low growling noises in the backs of their throats. The wad of black curd spat by Vaylo Bludd landed on the first dog's foreleg, and the dog chewed at its own fur and skin to get it off. Vaylo didn't smile, but he was pleased. That one definitely owed more to the wolf.\n\n\"So, son,\" he said, still looking at the dog, \"what would you have me do next, seems you ill like the plans made by your father?\"\n\nVaylo Bludd's second son, Pengo Bludd, grunted. He was standing too close to the fire, and his already red face now glowed like something baked in an oven. His spiked hammer trailed on the floor behind him like a dog on a leash. \"We must attack Blackhail while the win is still upon us. If we sit on our arses now, we miss our chance to take the clanholds in a single strike.\"\n\nSitting back on the great stone Dhooneseat that formed the center of the mightiest and best fortified roundhouse in the clanholds, Vaylo Bludd considered spitting again. With no black curd in his mouth, he worked up a dose of saliva by jabbing his tongue against his teeth. Stone Gods! But his teeth ached! One of these days he was going to find a man to pull them out. Find a man, then kill him.\n\nVaylo Bludd swallowed the spit. He took a moment to look at his second son. Pengo Bludd had not shaved back his hairline in days, and a bristling band of hair framed his face. The longer hair at the back, with its braids and twists, was similarly ill tended. Bits of goosedown and hay were caught in the matted strands. Vaylo Bludd made a hard sound in his throat. Legitimate offspring were born to complacency and arrogance. You wouldn't see such sloth on a bastard!\n\n\"Son,\" he said, his voice as low as a dog growl, \"I have lorded this clan for thirty-five years\u2014a good five of that before you were born. Now I daresay you'd think it boastful of me to point out just how far Bludd has come under my lording, but I say I don't care. I am clan chief. Me, the Dog Lord. Not You, Lord of Nothing but What I Choose to Give you.\"\n\nPengo's eyes narrowed. The hand that held his leather hammer loop cracked as it curled to a fist. \"We have Dhoone. We can have Blackhail as well. The Hailsmen\u2014\"\n\nVaylo Bludd kicked out at the wolf dog, making it jump back and yowl. \"The Hailsmen will be expecting us to attack. They'll have that roundhouse of theirs sealed as tight as a virgin's arse the minute we break their bounds. Hailsmen aren't fools. They won't be found slacking like Dhoones.\" \"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Enough!\" The Dog Lord stood. All the dogs leashed to the rat hooks skittered back. \"What advantages we had here will not be easily got again. They come with a price, as such things do. And it will be for me to say when and if we use such means again. We have Dhoone. Make use of it. Go, take Drybone and as many of those useless brothers of yours as you can muster afore noon, and ride out to the Gnash border and secure it. All the Dhoonesmen that rode away are likely there, and if an attack is going to come, then it will more than likely start at Gnash.\" Vaylo smiled, showing black aching teeth. \"While you're out there mayhap you can claim what land you see fit for your steading. I heard it said once that a chief should always house his sons on his borders.\"\n\nPengo Bludd snarled. Tugging on his hammer loop, he raised his hammer from the floor and weighed its limewood handle across his chest. The spiked hammer head bristled like a basket of knives. Eyes the same color as his father's burned coldly like the blue inner tongue of flames. Without a word he turned on his heel, his braids and twists swinging out from his skull as he moved.\n\nWhen he reached the chamber door, Vaylo stopped him with one word. \"Son.\"\n\n\"What?\" Pengo did not turn around.\n\n\"Send the bairns to me afore you leave.\"\n\nPengo Bludd snapped his head, then continued his journey from the door. He slammed it with all his might behind him.\n\nThe Dog Lord took a long breath when he was gone. The dogs, all five of them including the wolf dog, were quiet After a moment Vaylo bent on one knee and beckoned them as near as their various leashes would allow. He tousled them and slapped their bellies and tested their speed by grabbing their tails. They snarled and snapped and nipped him, wetting his hands and wrists with their frothy saliva. They were good dogs, all of them.\n\nUnlike most hunters and sled dogs, whose fangs were filed to stop them chewing through leashes and ruining pelts by tearing at game, Vaylo's own dogs still had fangs of full length and sharpness. They could rip out a man's throat on his say. None of them had names. Vaylo had long ago stopped keeping track of all the names of those around him. A man with seven sons who all had wives and in-laws and children of their own soon gave up keeping tally on what people were called. What they were was the only thing that counted.\n\nFeeling separate pangs of pain in each of his remaining seventeen teeth, the Dog Lord stood. Bones in his knees cracked as they dealt with his weight The Dhooneseat, carved from a single slab of bluestone as tall as a horse, beckoned him back. Vaylo moved away from it, picking a plain oakwood stool close to the hearth. He was too old for stone thrones and too wary of growing used to them. A bastard learned early that he always had to be ready to give up his place.\n\nGlancing toward the door that his second son had slammed moments earlier, Vaylo frowned. That was the problem with all of his sons: None of them knew what it was to give up their place to another. They knew only the politics of take.\n\nBehind his back, Vaylo could hear the dogs scrapping among themselves. He heard the wolf dog's low distinctive growl, and he knew without turning to look that the dog was being attacked by the others because of the favor its master had showed it. Vaylo made no move to interfere. Such was the way of life.\n\nSo, he thought, stretching out his legs before the fire as he looked around the room, this is the great Dhoone roundhouse. Men calling themselves kings had lived here once. Now there were only chiefs.\n\nA smile spread across Vaylo's face as he remembered the last time he was here. He had not been invited that time either. Thirty-six years ago it was now, in the dead of night while Airy Dhoone, the clan chief at the time, and his sixty best men were away. Vaylo slapped his thigh. That bloody guidestone had been murder to move! Old Ockish Bull had ended up with a hernia as big as a fist! And of the other four dozen clansmen who had helped pull it free from the guidehouse, only two were able to move the next day, and none could mount their horses for a week.\n\nVaylo chuckled. The whole operation had been without a doubt the most misguided, ill-planned, fool-stupid thing fifty grown men had ever conspired to do. They never did get the guidestone farther than Blue Dhoone Lake. It was still there today, at the bottom of the copper-tinted lake, resting amid the silt and the sandstone, sunk within three hundred paces of the Dhoonehouse itself.\n\nNone but the fifty knew that, of course. When they returned to the Bludd roundhouse twenty days later, all swore blind that the collection of rocks they arrived with, pulled by a team of mules in a war cart, was none other than the broken-down guidestone itself. Not some quarry-purchased rubble and a bucket of ground glass. And it had made such an excellent outhouse... .\n\nVaylo Bludd leaned forward on his stool. Those were the days! Jaw was all that counted. Jaw had taken him, a bastard son with only half a name and enemies for brothers, to the chiefship he held today. Take, he had. But it wasn't an assuming, born-to-expect-it kind of take. It was take hard learned and hard won. He hadn't gone to his father for a handout. Gullit Bludd had said but a handful of words to his bastard son from the moment he'd acknowledged him as his own. And a good half of them were curses.\n\nKnocking.\n\nThe Dog Lord looked to the door. He had been too long alone and his mind had got thinking, and that was never what a Bluddsman was about.\n\n\"Enter.\"\n\nExpecting his second son's children, who had arrived from the Bluddhouse that morning, Vaylo had his gaze focused halfway down the door when it opened. A man's waist met his eyes. Seeing the long white robe and smooth, almost womanish hands, the Dog Lord let out a hard sigh. If you dealt with the devil, his helpers always arrived soon enough.\n\n\"Sarga Veys. When did you get here?\"\n\nA tall man with a sallow complexion and womanish eyes entered the room. Although dressed in the plain white robe of a cleric, Sarga Veys was no man of God. \"In my own small way, Lord Bludd, I have been here all along.\"\n\nVaylo hated the man's high voice and the overly fine shape of his lips. He hated being called Lord Bludd too. He was nothing but the Dog Lord, and both he and his enemies knew it. Suddenly angry, he cried, \"Close the door behind you, man!\"\n\nSarga Veys was quick to do his bidding, moving in the loose-jointed way of a man possessing little physical strength. The dogs growled behind his back. Sarga Veys didn't like the dogs, and when he was finished with the door, he moved as far away from them as possible. When he spoke, a tremor that may have been fear, yet Vaylo Bludd suspected was anger, showed itself in his voice. \"I see you're making yourself at home, Lord Bludd. The Dhooneseat quite suits you.\"\n\nA small nod on Sarga Veys' part led the Dog Lord's gaze to the foot of the Dhooneseat, where a thin strip of leather lay off the stone. Vaylo's eyes narrowed. Such a tiny thing, a bit of leather fallen from his braids, yet the devil's helper had picked up on it straightaway. Not for the first time, Vaylo reminded himself to be cautious of this man.\n\n\"So,\" he said, hands patting his belt for his pouch of black curd. \"You've been within the clanholds all along. Tell me, did you stay in the safe refuge of a stovehouse? Or did your master want you closer for the show?\"\n\n\"I don't think,\" Sarga Veys said, color rising to his cheeks, \"that where I stay is any business of yours.\"\n\nThe dogs found much to dislike in Sarga Veys' tone of voice. Snarling and snapping, they tested their leashes in his direction. The wolf dog began worrying at its tether.\n\nSarga Veys' mouth shrank. His violet eyes darkened.\n\n\"Dogs!\" called Vaylo Bludd. \"Quiet!\"\n\nThe dogs became silent immediately, dropping their heads and tails and slumping down onto the cut stone floor.\n\nThe Dog Lord watched Sarga Veys closely. Wondered, for a brief moment, if he hadn't seen the man's throat working along with his violet eyes. That was another thing to remember about devil's helpers: No matter how weak they looked they were seldom defenseless. Sarga Veys was a magic user, Vaylo was sure of it.\n\n\"Did you ride here alone, or with a sept?\"\n\n\"I head a sept as always.\"\n\nHead? Vaylo doubted that. Protected by one, more like it. Seven fully trained, fighting-fit swordsmen would hardly allow a man like Sarga Veys to lead them. Hard campaigners couldn't stand his type.\n\n\"I shall be riding south to meet my master after I've left here.\" Sarga Veys seemed more at ease now the dogs were quiet. He took a moment to smooth back his fine hair. \"I shall tell him, of course, of your great success. Assure him that everything went smoothly, and report that you are well on your way to becoming Lord of the Clans.\" Sarga Veys smiled, showing small, white, but ever so slightly inwardslanting teeth. \"My master will be pleased. He has done his part. Now it's up to you to do\u2014\"\n\nVaylo Bludd spat out the wad of black curd he'd been chewing, silencing Sarga Veys as effectively as his dogs. \"Your master wasn't the one who planned the raid and took the risks. He didn't cut through the darkness and smoke not knowing what each new step would bring him. His blade wasn't bloodied. His sons weren't risked. His balls weren't froze with the waiting.\"\n\n\"Thanks to my master,\" Sarga Veys said, his voice dropping a tone lower, \"your blades weren't as bloodied as they might have been.\"\n\nCrack!\n\nThe Dog Lord smashed his foot down on the hearth stool, breaking its carved legs like sticks. Across the hearthwell, the dogs shrank back against the wall. Sarga Veys flinched. A muscle in his throat quivered.\n\n\"Try any of your foul magics upon me,\" Vaylo roared, \"and as the dogs are my witness you will not leave this roundhouse alive.\"\n\nHearing their name spoken, the dogs thrashed their muzzles and snarled, spraying the surrounding stone with drops of urine.\n\nUnable to take a farther step back as his heels were already pushing against the door, Sarga Veys pinched in his lips. \"Yes. I see now why they call you the Dog Lord.\"\n\nVaylo nodded. \"That's me.\" With the side of his foot, he shoved away the broken stool.\n\n\"Well, Lord of Dogs, or whatever else you choose to call yourself, you took my master's help quick enough when it suited you. I don't believe your anger caused you to break any stools then. Yet now you stand here at the very hearth he helped you win, issuing physical threats to his envoy in the manner of some common stovehouse brawler.\" Sarga Veys stepped forward. \"Well let me tell you\u2014\"\n\nVaylo cut him short with a fierce shake of his head. \"Tell me what you came to say. Then be gone. Your voice grates on my dogs. If your master has brought a message, speak it. If he has named a price, then name it.\" As he spoke, Vaylo watched Sarga Veys' face. It wasn't right that a man have violet eyes.\n\nSarga Veys made a small shrugging motion. He brought his facial features under control, yet it took him a long moment to do so. When he spoke there was still a residue of anger in his voice. \"Very well. I bring you no message from my master. When the deal was struck he asked for nothing in return, and continues to do so now. As he said at the time, he wishes only to see the clanholds under a single firm leadership, and he believes that you are the man to do it. I cannot say when and if he will offer his help again. He is a man with many claims upon his time and resources. I do know, however, that he will be watching your progress with interest. I should imagine he would be quite upset if after all the trouble he has taken, you find the Dhooneseat as comfortable as a padded cot and decide to bed down upon it. There are many clanholds yet to be taken.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord sucked on his aching teeth. Glancing around the old Dhoone chief's chamber with its huge blue sandstone hearth, its comfortable animal-hide rugs and wall coverings, and its smoky isinglass windows, he thought hard upon Sarga Veys' words. They weren't truthful, Vaylo was sure of that, yet there was truth in them.\n\n\"I have plans of my own for Blackhail and the rest,\" he said. \"And will move upon them in my own good time. I must secure the Dhoonehold first.\"\n\nA quick smile flitted across Sarga Veys' face. \"But of course. My master places great store in your judgment.\"\n\nFrowning, the Dog Lord crossed toward the door. He had the satisfaction of seeing Sarga Veys shrink away from him, but the pleasure was only fleeting. He really didn't like the man at all. Veys was dangerous. He had a temper better suited to a man with the muscle to use it.\n\n\"You'll be on your way now,\" Vaylo said, reaching for the door. \"Be sure to tell your master that the message you came expressly not to deliver was heard well and good.\"\n\nSarga Veys inclined his head. As he did so, Vaylo realized that the skin on the man's face wasn't as smooth and hairless as he had first thought, just razored with an expert hand.\n\n\"I shall tell my master you find the Dhooneseat to your liking,\" Veys said. \"And that you have\u2014how should I put it?\u2014long-term plans to take the Hailhold as well.\"\n\nVaylo Bludd came close to hitting Veys then. His face flushed and his fist curled and the bones in his jaw and neck cracked all at once. Smashing the heel of his hand down upon the door handle, he fractured the oak lintel beneath. \"Leave!\" he cried. \"Take your sly half-truths and your mincing Halfman ways and get your bony, well-shaved arse off my land.\"\n\nSarga Veys' violet eyes darkened to the color of midnight. His face twisted and hardened. \"You,\" he said, his voice rising as he lost control of it, \"should watch that dog-muzzle mouth of yours. You're not talking to one of your animal-skinned clansmen now. I came here as a visitor and envoy, and at very least should receive due respect.\" Veys stepped over the threshold and then turned to face Vaylo Bludd one last time. \"I wouldn't get too comfortable on the Dhooneseat if I were you, Dog Lord. One day you just might turn around and find it gone.\"\n\nWith that Sarga Veys clutched at the sides of his robe, lifting the fabric clear of his ankles, and stalked away.\n\nThe Dog Lord watched him go. After a length of time he let out a heavy breath and closed the door. The last thing to remember about devil's helpers was that they were often more trouble than the devil himself.\n\nCrossing to his dogs, Vaylo slapped his thigh. \"What do you think, eh?\" he murmured, bending to rub throats and cuff ears. \"What do you make of the Halfman Sarga Veys?\"\n\nThe dogs yelped and growled, tussling for attention and nipping his fingers. Only the wolf dog stood his distance. Sitting close to the wall, its massive shoulders twitching in readiness, it watched the door with orange eyes.\n\n\"You're right, my beauty,\" Vaylo said to it. \"The Halfman has told me nothing I don't already know: Only fools and children never watch their backs.\"\n\n\"Granda! Granda!\" Tiny feet pattered against stone, and then the door burst open once more. \"Granda!\" Two small children appeared in the doorway, smiling, giggling, and shrieking loudly.\n\nThe Dog Lord thrust out his arms toward his grandchildren. \"Come and give your old granda a hug and help him with these uppity dogs.\"\n\nThe dogs managed something close to a collective groan as the two children raced across the room to Vaylo Bludd. The eldest child, a bright beauty with the dark skin and dark eyes of her mother, giggled madly as she hugged her grandfather with two arms and pestered the huge pony-size dogs with her feet.\n\nThe dogs knew better than to growl at Vaylo Bludd's grandchildren and allowed themselves to be vigorously petted, teased, and called by ignoble names. The children called the wolf dog Fluff! And he answered to it! It was the funniest thing Vaylo Bludd had ever witnessed, and it never failed to make him laugh out loud. He loved only two things in life: his grandchildren and his dogs, and when he had both together in one room he was as content as a man could be. Within a month he would have all his grandchildren here, in the Dhoonehouse safe and sound, where he and his dogs could watch over them.\n\nAs he tousled the hair of the youngest grandchild, a fine black-haired boy who Vaylo secretly thought looked much like himself, Sarga Veys' words prayed upon his mind. One day you just might turn around and find it gone.\n\nVaylo glanced around the chief's chamber, his eyes picking out the details of defense: the glint of spiked gratings blocking the chimney flue, the iron clamps punched into the stonework around the windows, and the pullstone lying flat against the wall beside the door\u2014all emblazoned with the Bloody Blue Thistle of Dhoone. Would his grandchildren be safe here? It was the finest roundhouse ever built, ten times more defendable than the Bluddhouse, yet it was the only thing the Dog Lord had ever taken without jaw. There was shame in that, and Vaylo knew it. The Stone Gods would rather a man win an oatfield with blood and fury than take a continent with tricks and schemes.\n\nSeventeen teeth ached with a fierce splitting pain as for the first time in his life Vaylo Bludd found himself wondering if he had done the right thing.\nTEN\n\nReturn\n\nRAIF TENDED TO HIS horse in the stables before he stepped foot inside the roundhouse. Shor Gormalin and the others had gone on ahead of him, leaving their mounts to the excited crew of children who had gathered at their return. Raif's horse was not his own, though. It had been lent to him by Orwin Shank. Orwin bred dogs, horses, and sons, and now with two of his sons dead, he claimed to have more horses than he needed. Chad and Jorry were gone, but whoever had killed them had stolen their horses as well, so Raif didn't see how Orwin Shank had any extra to spare. Yet somehow he had laid his hands upon a pair, and the day after Bron Hawk returned with news from the Dhoone roundhouse, he had offered one to Raif.\n\n\"Tis nothing,\" the red-faced axman said. \"I want you to have it. And if it suits you to call it a loan, then it suits me also, but I tell you now, Raif Sevrance, I shall not ask for it back. You and your brother took care of my boys, you drew a guide circle for them, and it eases a father's mind at night to think of them resting within it.\"\n\nLater, Raif learned that Orwin Shank had lent one to Drey, too.\n\nRaif scratched the gray gelding's neck. Orwin Shank was a good man, just like Corbie Meese and Ballic the Red, yet why did he allow himself to be led by Mace Blackhail? Raif let out a long breath, determined to control his emotions. There was no easy answer. Mace Blackhail was persuasive, he lied well, his stories fell upon eager ears.\n\nRaif dropped the latch on the horse stall. What next? That was the question that really counted. Seven days was a long time. What else had Mace Blackhail managed to manipulate during his absence from the roundhouse? He was back, that much Raif knew. The children were full of the tale of how he'd come galloping up to the roundhouse early that morning, stepped inside for just one moment, and then gone galloping back out to the Oldwood. While he was absent the others in his party returned.\n\nIt was dark now, a full four hours past noon. Mace Blackhail had had plenty of time to regain charge of the roundhouse. Raif really didn't see how rushing from the stables to hear what the self-appointed clan chief had to say would make one whit of difference to anything and anybody. Whatever new schemes Mace Blackhail had conceived were doubtless well under way by now.\n\nKicking hay from his path, Raif walked along the stable's central aisle. Drey would be inside with Mace Blackhail. Drey, who, if Raina Blackhail hadn't spoken up at the meeting before the yearmen had had chance to pledge their weapons, would have gladly laid his hammer at Mace Blackhail's feet. Raif could still see the eagerness in his older brother's face. It sickened him. It tainted everything they'd gone through together at the camp.\n\nRaif tasted bitterness in his mouth as he worked the bolts on the stable door. Now that Drey had spent the past seven days riding out with Mace. Blackhail, he would be completely under the Wolf's control. Another member of his pack. Nothing drew men closer than shared danger. Mace Blackhail had personally asked Drey to accompany him on the ranging to Dhoone.\n\nA sound not much like laughter escaped from Raif's throat. At the same time he was hand-picking one brother, Mace Blackhail was trying his damnedest to get the other brother sent away on westwatch. Westwatch, a hundred leagues west of the roundhouse in the cold blue shadows of the Coastal Ranges, where old clansmen who wanted nothing more out of life than to fish, hunt goats, smoke heather-weed, and sing the old songs of how Ayan Blackhail killed the last Dhoone King went to end their days.\n\nShor Gormalin had stepped in to stop it, though. \"I'll take the Sevrance lad wi' me to Gnash,\" he had said. \"By all accounts he's handy with a bow, and we canna afford to waste even one able man in times such as these. I'll keep my eye on him, make sure he doesna stray.\"\n\nNo one, not even Mace Blackhail, could argue with the most respected swordsman in the clan, so Raif had found himself one of a party of ten riding out to gather intelligence from Gnash.\n\nIt had been a hard seven days. They had ridden day and night. One man's horse had collapsed beneath him, and all mounts had to be changed at Duff's Stovehouse halfway. On the return journey they had changed their horses back. Shor Gormalin had said nothing about speed or haste, driven no man into the saddle before he had taken his black beer and larded bread in the morning, yet somehow he had created in everyone a burning desire to get back. More than once Raif found himself wondering if it had been Shor Gormalin's intent to return to the roundhouse before Mace Blackhail. Raif shrugged, but not lightly. If it was, the small fair-haired swordsman had failed by half a day.\n\nDone with the final iron bolt, Raif drew up his fox hood and braced himself for the short run to the roundhouse. It could not be put off any longer; his borrowed horse was brushed down and fed, and it was getting to the point where his absence would be missed. It was time to face Mace Blackhail once more.\n\nThe air outside was cold and still. Raif hardly seemed to be in it a moment before he was shouting his name through the heavily tarred oak of the roundhouse greatdoor and gaining access to the warmth and the light.\n\nThe roundhouse was crowded and noisy. Tied clansfolk stood in groups, clogging passageways, stairwells, and halls. Dressed in brain-tanned hides and roughspun woolens, they worried out loud about their crofts, their ewes, their children, and their future. Raif had never seen so many farmers and crofters in the roundhouse at one time before, not even in the heart of winter. Whoever had been sent out to the far reaches of the clanhold to bring them in had done a fine job. Raif couldn't put names to a good third of the people he passed.\n\nFewer full clansmen and yearmen crowded the halls, but that didn't mean anything. Mace Blackhail probably had them gathered in the Great Hearth for a meet.\n\n\"Raif! Over here!\"\n\nRaif recognized his brother's voice before he saw him. Hiking himself up on a luntstone, he peered over the crowd in the entrance hall. Although he had planned to be distant with his brother, the minute he saw Drey standing by the far wall, the muck and grease of the road still upon him and the shadow of a seven-day beard darkening his jaw, he breathed a sigh of relief. Drey was home. He looked tired. His braid was matted with fox fur, and the hammerman's chains that stretched across his boiled leather armor looked as if they'd been blackened in a fire. Apart from a few broken veins across the bridge of his nose, his face looked unchanged.\n\nKeeping his place across the hall, Drey waited for his brother to join him.\n\nThe two clasped hands. \"Have you seen Effie?\" were Raif's first words.\n\nDrey shook his head. \"No, but others have. She was out in the Oldwood with Raina. Anwyn saw her return. Said she was as quiet as a mouse and slipped off to her cell. Anwyn sent Letty Shank down with some milk and bannock.\"\n\nRaif nodded. A long moment of silence passed.\n\n\"So,\" Drey said, speaking to break it, \"you and the others returned safely?\"\n\n\"Yes. The Gnash roundhouse is full to bursting with Dhoonesmen. All those who escaped or were away from the roundhouse when it was taken are gathering at the old strongwall there.\" As Raif spoke he noticed Drey glance at the stairs that led up to the Great Hearth. \"Another meeting?\" he said, his voice hardening.\n\nDrey looked down.\n\nRaif breathed before he spoke. It was hard to keep the hurt from his voice. \"When were you going to tell me, Drey? Once it was over and done?\"\n\nDrey shook his head. \"No. It's not what you think. Mace Blackhail wants to marry Raina and he\u2014\"\n\n\"Raina?\" Raif inhaled sharply. He felt as if he'd been thrown into the middle of a game that made no sense. \"She'd never marry Mace Blackhail. She's his foster mother... she spoke up against him at the last meet...\" Raif shook his head savagely. \"She hates him.\"\n\nDrey swore. \"Don't start that again, Raif.\"\n\n\"Start what?\" To Raif's ears his voice sounded sullen.\n\n\"Twisting the truth. Making up things. Embarrassing us.\" Drey ran a hand over his beard. \"You're not the only one who has to live with the consequences of what you say. If you don't care about me and my standing in the clan, I understand that, but at least think about Effie. She's young. Now Da's gone she needs the clan to look after her. And every time you open your mouth and say something bad about Mace Blackhail, you hurt her as well as yourself.\" Drey reached out to touch Raif's arm, but Raif pulled away. With a small, unconvincing shrug, Drey let his hand fall to his side. \"Mace Blackhail is going to be clan chief, Raif. And you're going to have to accept that\u2014for all our sakes.\"\n\nRaif looked at his brother carefully. He had a suspicion that Drey had been practicing his piece about family and clan loyalty for quite some time. The words had a stilted, preprepared feel to them, and they didn't sound right for Drey. They sounded more like something Mace Blackhail would say. \"How long have you been waiting for me, Drey? Did Mace Blackhail make you stand watch, here, in the hall? Did he tell you that I couldn't be allowed into the Great Hearth until I'd listened to what you had to say, then nodded like a good brother should?\"\n\nThe color in Drey's face rose as Raif spoke. \"It wasn't like that, Raif. I was worried that the clan might turn against you... and Mace said that a man never listens to reason about himself, but when he's made to think of his family he'll\u2014\"\n\nRaif grabbed his brother by the shoulders. He needed to make him see. \"Drey. Listen to me. I'm not going to do anything to harm you and Effie. Mace Blackhail's putting words in your mouth. It was you and me who were together at the badlands camp. You and me. We saw what we saw, and while we kept to our story, Mace Blackhail kept switching his.\"\n\nDrey pulled himself free of Raif's grip. \"Stop it, Raif! Just stop it! Mace warned me you were too young to listen.\" With a disgusted shake of his head, Drey turned and made his way to the stairs.\n\nRaif watched his brother go. After a time his hand rose to his lore and his fist closed around the hard piece of horn. Mace Blackhail was tearing the Sevrances apart.\n\nAware that people were looking at him, Raif let his lore fall to his chest. He was shaking, and it took an effort to bring his body under control. Smoothing his hair and clothes, he followed Drey's path to the Great Hearth. Deliberately, he kept his thoughts away from his brother. He wouldn't think about Drey now.\n\nThe stairs were crowded with people. Children raced up and down, shrieking and giggling wildly. Groups of women sat on steps, talking in quiet voices, chewing on slices of dried fruit, and mending bits of cloth and leather harnesses. Twice as many torches were burning as normal, and bands of greasy black smoke choked the air. Raif resisted the desire to push people out of his way. Didn't they have anywhere else to go? Why hadn't Anwyn Bird moved them to cells of their own?\n\nHe came to a halt by the Great Hearth door. Two clansmen stood guard before it. They crossed spears the moment they saw him.\n\nRory Cleet, golden haired, blue eyed, and the object of much excited interest on the part of the maidens of Clan Blackhail, was the first to speak. \"Can't come in, Raif. Sorry. Mace Blackhail's orders. Sworn clansmen and yearmen only.\"\n\nBev Shank, the youngest of the Shank boys and not even a yearman himself, nodded. \"Sorry, Raif. Nothing personal.\"\n\n\"Mace Blackhail isn't chief yet. He's got no right to give orders.\" Raif stepped forward. \"Besides, when was the last time either of you can remember armed guards being posted outside the Great Hearth?\" Bev and Rory exchanged a glance.\n\nRory Cleet sucked in his lips, lowered his black steel spearhead a fraction. \"Look, Raif. This is nothing to do with me. Mace Blackhail says watch that none but sworn clansmen enter, so that's what I'm doing. It's only fitting that those who have spoken oaths have the right to speak clan business in private.\" Rory's blue eyes looked straight into Raif's. \"There's talk of Inigar hearing oaths next week, and mayhap you and Bev can step forward and become yearmen along with the rest. Then when you come to me demanding entry, I'll be more than happy to let you pass.\"\n\nRaif shook his head. He liked Rory\u2014he was a friend of Drey's and wasn't a bit full of himself despite his good looks\u2014but he was in no mood to have anyone prevent him from entering the Great Hearth. Shouldering closer to the door, he said, \"Let me pass.\"\n\n\"Can't do it, Raif.\" Rory Cleet pressed the flat of his spear against Raif's arm. Raif grabbed the spear shaft and pulled forward hard. As Rory stumbled forward, Raif smashed his fist into Rory's fingers. Rory's fingers sprang apart and he lost his top grip on the spear. Furious, Rory swung a punch, clipping Raif's ear and making him fall forward against the door. Wood cracked. Even before Raif could take a breath, he felt the point of Bev Shank's spear on his kidney.\n\n\"Step away, Raif,\" he said, his red Shank's cheeks flushed with excitement.\n\nRaif felt the door behind him open. He stumbled back. Warm, smokeless air breathed along the back of his neck. Someone stepped forward from inside the room.\n\n\"What have we here?\" It was Mace Blackhail. Fingers tapped against leather as he spoke. \"The Sevrance lad causing trouble again, I see.\" Raif twisted his neck around in time to see Mace Blackhail shake his head at someone in the room. \"I thought you were going to take your brother in hand, Drey?\"\n\nRaif winced. Grabbing the shaft of Bev Shank's spear, he pushed the tip away from him. Things were going from bad to worse. He couldn't hear all of Drey's reply, but the words Sorry, Mace came through clearly.\n\n\"By the weight of the Stone Gods, Mace, what did you expect? Keeping a guard outside the door.\" Orwin Shank came forward and grabbed Raif's arm. \"Got yourself in the middle of it again, eh, lad?\" He winked at his son. \"Good job wi' that spear, Bev.\"\n\nBev grinned at his da.\n\nRory Cleet stood back, his eyes not leaving Raif for a second. The fingers on his right hand were already beginning to blacken and swell.\n\nRaif went to say something to him, but Orwin Shank hauled him through to the Great Hearth before he had chance to speak. \"No sense in leaving the lad out there,\" he said, shutting the door behind them. \"He rode out to Gnash with Shor Gormalin. His report will be as good as any.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" Shor Gormalin said from his place near the fire. \"Bring the lad over to me. I'll vouch for him.\"\n\nRaif glanced around the room. Three hundred clansmen and yearmen were gathered, backs bristling with case-hardened arms and strung bows, boiled hides and blue steel strapped across their chests. Not one woman was present. Not even Raina Blackhail,\n\nMace Blackhail took a thin breath, clearly displeased. Raif thought it highly likely that Bev and Rory had been set outside the door solely to keep him out. \"This is men's parley tonight,\" Mace said, extending his arm to block Raif's path. \"Anyone who doesn't know what it feels like to thrust a hand up a girl's skirt has no business being present.\"\n\nAlong the east wall of the room, two dozen yearmen found something interesting to look at on the floor. Some coughed nervously, others blushed. Huge hound-headed Banron Lye, who had turned yearman only last spring but looked a good ten years older than his age, cracked his knuckles one by one. Raif glanced at Drey, who was standing close to a bloodwood stang. Although he made a point of not meeting his brother's eyes, he noticed that Drey wasn't among those who looked down at his feet while Mace spoke. Raif ran a hand over his roughly shaved chin. He knew less about his brother than he thought.\n\n\"Mace Blackhail,\" Shor Gormalin said softly, turning so the torchlight fell upon the short unassuming sword at his waist. \"If having a hand up a girl's skirt is test of a man, then there's a good fifty in this room tonight who you'll be needing to see to the door.\"\n\nThe room rang with laughter. Most full clansmen laughed with genuine amusement. A good portion of the yearmen laughed with relief.\n\nWithout waiting for a reply, Shor Gormalin beckoned to Raif. \"Over here wi' me, lad, and quick about it.\"\n\nMace Blackhail did not drop his arm as Raif approached, and Raif was forced to push past him to join Shor Gormalin by the hearth. Dirt and soil were lodged beneath Mace Blackhail's fingertips, and his clothes carried the damp, rotting leaf odor of the Oldwood. \"Easy with me, boy,\" he murmured as Raif shoved against him. \"You'll push me too far one of these days, I can tell.\"\n\nRaif tried to avoid Mace Blackhail's eyes, but somehow he found himself looking into them. The irises were dark and shifting like the surface of a lake by night. When Mace blinked, the water deposited over them had a greasy, reflective quality that gave his irises a yellow cast. Quickly Raif looked away.\n\nShor Gormalin patted Raif's shoulder as he came to stand beside him. The heat from the fire was hot on the backs of his legs, and despite the chimney and several open windows, Raif found it difficult to breathe. The air seemed thick and poisoned. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Drey staring at him from across the room. He had taken his hammer from the leather cradle at his back, and his fingers pressed hard against the varnished limewood handle.\n\n\"So, Mace,\" Orwin Shank said, dabbing his red and sweating cheeks with a shammy, \"what's this rumor that's spreading about you and Raina?\"\n\nMace Blackhail smiled a fraction. He shrugged and looked down at his hands. His boiled leather coat was inlaid with disks of sliced and blackened wolf bone. The Clansword was couched in a newly worked scabbard at his thigh. \"Normally I would be reluctant to talk about such things\u2014what's between a man and woman is their affair and no one else's.\" He paused to give clansmen time to nod. \"But a certain lady and myself find ourselves in a difficult position; one which, if things aren't explained good and early to as many ears as possible, could easily be misunderstood.\" A pause. \"I will not let that happen. I will hear no bad words spoken against Raina. If either of us must take blame, let it be me.\" With that, Mace Blackhail brought his hand to rest on the lead-and-bone hilt of the sword.\n\nRaif felt sweat trickle down his neck as flames roared away against his back. Where was Nellie Moss or Anwyn Bird? Couldn't someone dampen the fire?\n\n\"So,\" Mace Blackhail said with a heavy sigh, \"I must say what I must say. Early today when I returned to the roundhouse, I got word that Raina was in the Oldwood tending her traps. Naturally, as she is first respected in the clan as well as my own beloved foster kin, I rode out to greet her and give her my news.\" Mace rubbed a gloved hand over the pale skin on his face. Once again he looked down. \"This is not easy for me. A man does not like to talk of such things...\" His voice trailed away, inviting someone to speak up and encourage him.\n\nCorbie Meese cleared his throat with a rough hacking sound. Standing where he was, directly in front of a brightly burning greenwood torch, the hammer dent in his head showed up more clearly than ever. \"Tell us your story, Mace. 'Tis obvious you are reluctant to speak\u2014no one here can fault you for that\u2014but if it concerns the clan, we must know.\"\n\nMace Blackhail nodded along with a hundred others. He took a step forward, then another back, looking for all intents and purposes like a man hardly knowing what to say or where to begin. The lines around Raif's mouth hardened. He didn't believe Mace Blackhail capable of faltering for a moment. The Wolf knew exactly what he meant to say right from the start.\n\nFinally Mace looked up. \"Well, I rode to the Oldwood and came upon Raina sitting on a fallen basswood. She was in a bad way. I think everyone here knows just how much she loved her husband, and when I found her it was obvious she had come to the Oldwood to be alone with her grief. She's a proud woman\u2014we all know that\u2014and she didn't want anyone to know how deeply Dagro's death had cut her.\"\n\nMace Blackhail had nearly everyone in the room with him. Raina was proud, even Raif had to admit that. And it sounded true enough that she would go off alone before giving in to her grief... but then Drey had said Effie was there with her. The skin on Raif's face slowly switched from hot to cold as Mace Blackhail continued speaking.\n\n\"Of course I went to comfort her. We share a man's loss and are close bound by it, and we wept upon one another's shoulders and swapped our grief. Raina was understanding and gentle, and, as women often tend to, helped me more than I helped her.\" Mace made a minute gesture with his hand. He swallowed hard. \"I... I must own up to what happened next. I would not be a man if I didn't. Our closeness drew us closer, and we fell into each other's arms and came together as man and woman.\"\n\nThe clan was silent. Breath hung in three hundred throats. The light in the room dimmed as one of the central torches burned out. At his side, Raif was aware of a muscle pumping in Shor Gormalin's cheek.\n\nMace Blackhail continued speaking, his voice low and halting. \"I will make no excuses for my actions. It was wrong of me to take advantage of the situation. As an elder yearman and Dagro Blackhail's foster son, I should have known better. I should have pushed Raina from me and walked away. Yet I didn't. I let the moment get the better of me, we both did, and if I could reclaim the past five hours and undo what has been done, I would. By all the gods watching from their Stone Havens tonight, I wish I had never ridden to the Oldwood.\n\n\"Raina is no blood kin to me, but she has cared for me as family, and I owe her respect. Now I have wronged her\u2014and deeply. It matters not that she was willing. One of the first things my foster father taught me is that a man should always take responsibility for his actions, most especially when those actions concern women.\"\n\nAlthough Raif saw looks of condemnation and disapproval on many faces, especially those of the older clansmen, he also saw a good few men nodding and sighing along with the Wolf. Ballic the Red had an arrow in his cracked and callused bowhand and was stroking the fletching feathers, nodding almost continually. Nearly all the yearmen showed small signs of sympathy, pulling on their chins, pressing their lips together, and exchanging small knowing glances. Raif couldn't bear to watch them. How could they stand by and listen to the lies?\n\n\"Second, I want to say before all here and now that I will make amends for what I have done. Raina is older than me and her womb has proven barren, yet I could not live with myself unless I took her for my wife. We sinned in the eyes of nine gods, and I cannot call myself a man unless I put it right.\" Finished, Mace Blackhail stood in the center of the room and waited.\n\nAll stood or sat without movement. No matter if they sympathized with Mace Blackhail or not, they were wary. Marriage between a clan chief's widow and his fostered son was serious business. Most especially when it came a mere fourteen days after the chief's death. After a long moment, Orwin Shank made a smacking sound with his lips. \"Well, you've certainly landed in the bloody flux this time, Mace. Good and proper. What were you thinking, lad? Wi' Raina?\"\n\nMace Blackhail shook his head. \"I wasn't thinking, that was the problem.\"\n\n\"Thinking wi' your balls, more like,\" said Ballic the Red, slipping the last of his arrows into his bowcase. \"O' course you'll damn well have to marry her now. You're right about that. You can't have the ladle without taking the pot. By the Stone Gods, man! What a damn fool thing to do!\"\n\n\"Aye,\" cried Corbie Meese. \"You'll feel my hammer up your arse if you don't wed her good and proper. And prompt at that. Barren she may have proven in the past, but there's still a chance a bairn may come from the joining, and I for one won't stand by and watch as Raina's good name is dragged through the muck.\"\n\n\"Aye!\" shouted a dozen others.\n\nRaif listened as Will Hawk, Arlec Byce, and even tiny liver-spotted Gat Murdock agreed vigorously with Corbie Meese. Fierce and highly specific threats were issued concerning the future of Mace Blackhail's manhood if he failed to do his duty by Raina. Clansmen were always fiercely protective of their women, and it seemed as if the Wolf had walked himself straight into a trap. Raif couldn't shake off the feeling that the clan was responding exactly how Mace Blackhail wanted them to. There were lies here, clever ones. Yet Raif couldn't guess what they were. Had Mace Blackhail and Raina been planning to marry all along? Raif shook his head. He couldn't believe that.\n\nLooking up, he locked gazes with his brother. Surprisingly, Drey had taken no part in demanding that Mace should marry Raina. Raif remembered how Drey had carried the black bearskin from the badlands camp... all that way without saying a word.\n\nThe stone flag Raif stood upon rocked beneath him as Shor Gormalin stepped forward to speak. \"Has anyone thought to ask what Raina cares to do? I for one would like to hear what she has to say on this matter.\" The small swordsman was not as soft-spoken as normal, and his blue eyes were hard as they regarded Mace Blackhail. \"It's her future we're discussing here.\"\n\nMace nodded so quickly, Raif knew he had been expecting such a demand all along. \"Drey,\" he said, his gaze not leaving Shor Gormalin for an instant, \"run down to the underspace and fetch Raina. Tell her all that has happened so she comes upon us at no disadvantage.\"\n\nBefore Drey could move from his place near the stang, Gat Murdock spoke up. The ancient turkey-necked bowman shook his head. \"It isn't right and proper to drag Raina before us just so we can have the satisfaction of seeing her admit to her mistake. By the hells! What sort of men are we if we allow such thing?\"\n\nBallic the Red was quick to back up his fellow bowman. \"Gat's right. It's not fitting to shame Raina in such a way. It's one thing for a man to steal sauce when he can, quite another for a woman.\"\n\nMace looked regretfully from bowman to bowman. \"Aye, you're right. But there's some here\"\u2014sharp glances at Shor Gormalin and Raif\u2014\"who need to hear the truth of it for themselves. Drey, fetch Raina and do as I say.\"\n\nDrey left the room. Raif listened as he pounded down the stairs, eager to do Mace's bidding. Mace Blackhail had manipulated another situation, and Raif was just beginning to work out how he did it. He had a way of admitting to his own faults, robbing others of the satisfaction of pointing them out or using them against him. And his lies were always mixed with the truth.\n\nAfter a few minutes of silence, Mace Blackhail sighed. The wolf bones on his coat chimed like shells. \"Gat and Ballic are right. Bringing Raina here to face the clan is ill use. It's a woman's right to pick and choose what she tells of her private affairs. I for one wouldn't blame her if she denies the whole thing ever happened, or even went so far as to claim she'd been taken by force. It's her privilege to keep such things to herself, and by bringing her here before us, we rob that from her. And who amongst us can blame her for protecting her modesty by any means she can?\"\n\nRaif frowned. He didn't understand what Mace was getting at.\n\nOthers seemed to, though, and many men, mostly full clansmen in their thirties and older, nodded softly at Mace's words. One or two muttered Aye, 'tis so. Ballic the Red glowered at Shor Gormalin.\n\nMore torches went out during the wait. Raif wondered where Nellie Moss could be. She was a strange woman with the voice and hard chest of a man, yet she never missed her rounds.\n\nFinally the doors opened. Raina Blackhail walked in wearing a plain blue dress, thickly stained around the hem and cuffs. The bandages covering her widow's weals were not fresh, and dried blood and mud were caked upon the linen. Drey came to rest a few paces behind her, and then a moment later Nellie Moss entered the room, carrying bundles of greenwood and a skin of wick oil.\n\nRaina stood in the entry space, head held high, not saying a word. Raif thought he saw her hands trembling, but she quickly grasped at the fabric of her skirt and he couldn't be sure.\n\nAn awkward moment passed, where everyone assumed that someone else would be the first to speak. Everyone except Mace Blackhail, that was, who leaned against a bloodwood stang, seemingly in no hurry to do or say anything.\n\nFinally Orwin Shank spoke. \"Thank you for coming before us, Raina.\" The red-cheeked axman was clearly unhappy, and the shammy he held in his hands was dark with sweat. \"Mace has told us... well... about what happened in the Oldwood... and we wanted to let you know that no one here blames you for the incident.\"\n\nIgnoring Orwin Shank completely, Raina addressed her words to Mace Blackhail. \"So, you have told all here you took me freely?\"\n\nMace shot a quick glance toward where Corbie Meese, Ballic the Red, and others were gathered. He let out the smallest possible sigh. \"I told them the truth, Raina. If it saves your pride to present it in a different light, I for one won't stop you. I own to knowing little about women, but I hope I learned enough from Dagro to treat all with due respect.\"\n\nRaina winced at the mention of her husband's name. Her gray eyes were dull, and for the first time in all the years he had known her, Raif thought she looked her age.\n\n\"He'll marry you, Raina. You have my word on it.\" It was Ballic the Red, his normally fierce voice soft enough to calm a frightened child. \"I'd have his balls for my waxing pouch if he didn't.\"\n\nA tear slid down Raina's cheek.\n\n\"Raina.\" Shor Gormalin came forward. He tried to touch her arm, but she pulled back. The swordsman frowned. Holding up his hands for her to see, so that she knew he would not touch her again, he said, \"Raina, you know I will stand beside you whatever you decide, but I must know the truth of it. Did you join with Mace in the Oldwood?\"\n\nRaina made no reply. The room was quiet except for the sound of Nellie Moss tending the torches. Raif watched the expression on Mace Blackhail's face; the Wolf's eyes were narrow, and inside his mouth he was sucking on his cheeks. Slowly Mace turned his head toward Raif. As his gaze met Raif's, his jaws sprang apart, revealing strands of saliva quivering between his teeth. Raif had to stop himself from stepping back. In the space of an eyeblink Mace was himself once more, and Raif knew without looking that no one else had seen his wolf face.\n\n\"Raina?\" Shor Gonnalin's voice broke the silence. \"You have nothing to fear by speaking the\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Raina snapped, cutting him short. \"Yes, we joined in the Oldwood, if you can call it that. Yes. Yes. Yes.\"\n\nThe small fair-haired swordsman closed his eyes. A muscle in his cheek pumped once, then was still.\n\n\"That's settled, then,\" Orwin Shank said with obvious relief. \"You must marry Mace.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" cried Ballic the Red, hands slipping beneath his boiled leather breastplate to find his supply of chewing curd. \"And we'll have an end of this scandal before it has chance to smirch the clan.\"\n\n\"And if I choose not to marry?\" Raina asked, looking straight at Mace Blackhail.\n\nGat Murdock shook his head heavily, blowing air between his toothless gums. Orwin Shank wrung sweat from his shammy, and Ballic the Red took a handful of black curd between his callused hands and squeezed them flat.\n\nMace Blackhail sent a small look their way. What am I to do with this woman? it seemed to say. He sighed. \"Raina, you have been first woman in this clan for ten years. You know more than anyone what becomes of a woman who allows herself to be ill used by a man and then cast aside. All due respect is lost. Ofttimes the woman is shunned or reviled, and judges it best to leave the clan in order to escape the bad name she has bought herself.\" Mace thought a moment. \"And then there's the question of a woman's possessions and wealth. All here have known instances when a woman's own family have stripped the fine furs and cut stones from her back.\"\n\nClansmen nodded gravely. Raif had heard such stories himself, stories of women cast from the roundhouse wearing only rough pigskins on their backs and boasting nothing more than a week's worth of bread and mutton to their names.\n\n\"I'd try to do what I could, of course... .\" Mace Blackhail dragged his words. \"But even I must bow to clan custom.\"\n\nRaina smiled in such a way, it made Raif's chest ache. \"You are a Scarpe through and through. You can take the truth and twist it into any basket you choose to shape. If you were to cut me down with the Clansword here and now, within the hour you'd have everyone nodding and patting your shoulder and telling you how they'd known all along such a thing had to be done. Well I shall marry you, Mace Blackhail of Clan Scarpe. I will not give up my due respect and my position in the clan. And even though this is what you counted on all along, it doesn't mean you won't live to regret it in the end.\"\n\nShaking with anger, Raina looked around the room. No clansman would meet her eyes. \"You have chosen both your chief and his wife in one night, and I will leave you well alone now so you can slap each other on the backs and drink yourselves sodden.\" With that she turned and began the short walk out of the room. It was Drey who ran ahead of her to open the door, Drey who closed it gently when she was gone.\n\nRaif, along with dozens of others, stared at the space Raina Blackhail had just vacated. The silence she left pressed against his skin. No one wanted to be the first to speak into it. After a long moment, Shor Gormalin hooked his great elk cloak across his chest and walked from the room. As he passed close to Mace Blackhail, Raif saw the swordsman's knuckles whiten upon the hilt of his sword.\n\nMace Blackhail's thin-cheeked face was pale. He no longer leaned casually against a stang, and for once the Wolf was at a loss for words. After watching him for a minute or so, Raif decided it was time to go. He had been right from the start: Nothing he could do would make one whit of difference to anyone or anybody. Mace Blackhail had it all in hand.\n\nEven as he strode across the room and Drey moved to open the great metal-girded door, Mace Blackhail cleared his throat to speak. Raif passed from the room and didn't hear what he said, but a few seconds later the voices of three or four dozen clansmen filtered down along the stairs. Raif wasn't surprised when the word they spoke was Aye.\n\nDown Raif went, following a path cleared by Raina Blackhail and Shor Gormalin before him. Crofters and their families were silent as he passed. Those who had children with them held them close, and Raif could only guess what had been showing on Shor Gormalin's face to make them so afraid.\n\nRaif made good time as he traced his steps back to the stables. His chest was tight and his heart was beating fast, and something sour burned in his throat. He needed to get away. He wouldn't sleep tonight; the memory of Raina Blackhail's face wouldn't let him. What had Mace Blackhail done to her?\n\nThe raven lore lay like ice against his chest as he picked up his pack and bow from the horse stall where he'd left them. Orwin Shank's horse whickered softly as he saddled it, then sniffed his hands for treats. Raif found a couple of frost-split apples in his pack and fed them to the gelding. It was a good horse, with sturdy legs and a broad back. Orwin said its name was Moose on account of it being surefooted on snow and ice.\n\nRaif led his borrowed horse onto the clay court, strung his borrowed horn and sinew bow, and strapped it to his back. A pale moon rode low in the sky. The wind was rising and from the north; it tasted of the badlands. Iced-over puddles crunched beneath his boots. As he mounted the gelding, he noticed a second horse's tracks freshly stamped on the court. Shor Gormalin, he thought, kicking the gelding into a trot.\n\nThe land directly surrounding the roundhouse was set aside for grazing sheep and cattle and was kept free of all game by Longhead and his crew. If a man wanted to hunt he had to ride northwest to the Wedge or south to the hemlock woods beyond the ridge. The Oldwood was closer, but that was set aside for trapping, not hunting. And trapping was for women, not men.\n\nRaif rode south. Moose was not a swift horse, but he gave a steady ride. Moonlight reflecting off the snow made it easy to find a path, and horse and rider made good time. As soon as he was free of the valley and onto the wooded slopes, ridges, and grassy draws of the southern taiga, Raif began to search for game. Frozen ponds with surface ice broken, tufts of hair snagged on ground birch, hemlock girdled by wild boars and goats, and fresh tracks stamped in the snow were signs he looked for. He didn't much care what he brought down. He just needed to turn his mind from the roundhouse and the people in it.\n\nA hawk owl soared overhead, a mouse or vole twitching in its claws. Raif watched as the bird flew down into the cavity of a broken top snag. At the base of the lightning-blasted tree, two eyes glowed golden for a instant and then winked out, leaving darkness. Fox. One hand reining Moose, another reaching for the bow at his back, Raif held his gaze on the-fox space. The bowstring was cold and stiff, but he didn't have time to run a finger over it and warm the wax. He could no longer see the fox, but he knew it was there, withdrawing slowly into the tangle of gorse and dogwood beyond. Like most clansmen, Raif kept his arrows in a buckskin case at his side to cut down on the sort of motion that sent game running, and he slid an arrow from his pack and nocked it against the plate all with a single movement. The bow ticked as he drew it.\n\nRaif called the fox to him. The space separating them condensed, and almost immediately he felt the heat of the creature's blood against his cheek. He tasted its fear. Everything sloughed away, leaving only him, the fox, and the still line that lay between them. The raven lore itched against his skin. This was what he wanted. Here at least he had some control.\n\nReleasing the string was little more than an afterthought. Although he could no longer see the fox, he had its heart in his sights, and when his fingers lifted and the arrow streaked forward, Raif knew without a shadow of a doubt that the shot would find its mark.\n\nThe fox fell with barely a sound. A few leaves rustled, fox weight thudded onto hard snow. Raif peered into the killing ground beyond the base of the old snag. He wanted more.\n\nHeart racing, he slid down from Moose, bow in hand. Even as he took his first step upon the ice-crusted snow, his breath crystallizing in the freezing air, he became aware of another creature hiding far on the other side of the bluff, fast against a year-old hemlock. As he raised his bow and sighted it, Raif couldn't say if he had seen the animal's eyes, caught a glimpse of its cowering form, or simply heard it move. It didn't matter. He sensed it, that was all he knew.\n\nThe flight feathers on the arrow kissed his cheek as he called the creature to him. It was a weasel, tick infested and thick jointed with age. Its heart beat too fast in its chest, Raif's hand was steady on the belly of his bow as he released the string. By the time the twine came back, Raif was already looking for something new to kill. His lore hummed against his chest, and his bow sang in his hand. The night was alive, his senses were sharp, and every pair of eyes shining in the darkness had Mace Blackhail's name upon them.\nELEVEN\n\nOaths and Dreams\n\nWATCHER OF THE DEAD was out tonight. The Listener knew because his dreams told him it was so. The Watcher was a long way away, how far the Listener did not know. Dreams could tell a man with no ears only so much.\n\n\"Sadaluk! Sadaluk! You must wake and come inside. An ice storm is on the way, Nolo says so.\"\n\nThe Listener was not happy at being wakened. Although his dreams had gone, he was still listening to the echoes they left behind. He opened one eye and then the other. Bala, Sila's unwed sister, stood before him. She was dressed in fitted sealskin pants and an otter coat. Her hood was framed with muskox underfur, warm and golden as the setting sun. Very rare. Bala always dressed nicely. Young men lined up from the smoking rack to the dog posts for the privilege of gifting her with skins.\n\n\"Sadaluk. Nolo says you must join us in our house. You have sat with your door open for so long that your own house is too cold for waiting out a storm.\" Bala looked over the Listener's shoulder as she spoke, peeking into his ground beyond.\n\nSadaluk knew what she was after. \"Have you brought me a hot drink?\" he asked, knowing well enough she had not, as her hands were empty. \"Bear soup? Boil-off from the auks Sila caught and fermented?\"\n\nBala looked down. \"No, Sadaluk. I am sorry. I did not think.\"\n\nSadaluk made a tsking sound. \"Your sister, Sila, would not have forgotten. Whenever she comes she brings me soup.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sadaluk.\"\n\nBala looked so pretty looking down that the Listener was inclined toward forgiveness. She didn't have Sila's plump, pot-shaped lips, but her nose was the flattest in the tribe. A man could run his hand from cheek to cheek and hardly feel the bump in between. And Bala's hands were small as a baby's, made for slipping down a man's pants without him ever having to unlace a strap. The Listener sighed. The man who wedded Bala would be fortunate indeed.\n\n\"Please, Sadaluk,\" Bala said, tugging on his coat. \"The storm will be here before we have chance to seal the doors.\"\n\nThe Listener knew storms better than he knew dreams, and although one was indeed on its way, it would not arrive before dawn. \"I shall not move from my seat,\" he said. \"My dreams call me back. Now run along and return home, and be sure to tell Nolo that you did not think to bring me soup.\"\n\n\"Yes, Sadaluk.\" Again, Bala glanced over his shoulder into his ground. She bit her lip. \"Sadaluk. Nolo also asked me if you could return his wound pin to him. The seal carcass must be frozen by now.\"\n\nThe Listener tsked. The black scars where his ears had once been ached with the kind of hollow pain that only lost ears could. Nolo's wound pin was very old. It had been made by the Old Blood far to the east and was beautiful beyond imagining. Nolo was very proud of it, so much so that he was torn between his desire to use it for what it was made for\u2014fastening seal wounds closed so blood didn't drain from carcasses before they were brought home\u2014and keeping it purely for show. Those times when he did use it, he was always anxious to have it back.\n\nThe Listener stood. Bones cracked as he moved, and the necklace of owl beaks he wore at his throat tinkled like breaking ice. His boots needed tending, and want of blubber and saliva made them stiff. They cracked and flaked like tree bark when he moved. His ground was lit and heated by two soapstone lamps, yet as the door had been open for several hours, it was as cold outside as within. Frost crystals glistened on the caribou skin-covered walls and floor.\n\nThe young seal Nolo had brought this morning as tribute for the good luck he had received while hunting was indeed frozen, and its sleek cat face had lost its oily sheen. The wound pin was fastened just above its hind flipper, its purpose now made obsolete by flesh that had frozen fast. With hands that had not stretched flat for twenty years and were so black and scarred by chilblains and hard wear that they seemed more like wood than flesh, the Listener unhooked the pin. Made of no animal bone he could identify, diamond hard and diamond smooth, it belonged to an older time and place. The Listener sighed as he handed it over to Bala. It would be a fine talisman to hold in his hand when he listened to his dreams.\n\n\"Now go back to Nolo,\" he said. \"Tell him I will come and knock on his door just before the ice storm hits, and no sooner.\"\n\nBala opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She nodded. Her small hands slipped the wound pin into a fold in her otter coat. Pulling her hood close around her face against the rising wind, she cut across the cleared space to Nolo and Sila's house.\n\nThe Listener returned to his seat. Snow swirled like murky water before him, but it wasn't cold, not really. Winter had only just begun. The bear coat was enough to keep his body warm, and the thick guard hairs at his collar allowed no drafts. His head, he chose to leave uncovered. The Ice God had eaten his ears thirty years ago. If he'd had a fancy for his nose and cheeks, he would have taken them by now.\n\nFishing in his pike pouch, the Listener searched for his talismans: the narwhal tusk, the silver knife, and the driftwood. Sea, earth, and that which grew to the sky. Now. Where was I? Sadaluk shuffled the talismans in his lap, trying to recapture the images of his last dream. The two kidney-size scars on either side of his head burned beneath their bear tallow plugs. Briefly he thought back to Nolo's wound pin. He would have dearly liked to hold it in his hands. The Old Blood knew much about dreams... and even more about Watcher of the Dead.\n\nShow me the one who will bear Loss, the Listener asked for the second time that night. The one named Watcher of the Dead.\n\nTime passed. The talismans grew warm in his hands. Then suddenly, abruptly, the ground slipped from beneath his feet and he fell into his dreams. Lootavek had once said dreams were a tunnel to pass through; to Sadaluk they were a pit. Always he felt as if he had been swallowed and was falling down a great bear's throat. Voices spoke to him as he descended, so he did what he had been taught: He listened.\n\nThe dream place was dark, and there were things within it that knew and did not fear him, and unless he listened carefully, he might lose his way. Lootavek had lost his way only once, yet it had been enough to lure him out of his house and onto the sea ice, to the soft dripping edges where white floe and black water met. It was enough to make him take a step onto the colorless grease ice beyond.\n\nThe Listener closed his fist around the narwhal tusk. All those who listened to their dreams were eventually led to their deaths. Each time he listened, Sadaluk asked himself, Will this time be my last?\n\nAs the meat of his thumb pushed against the smooth ivory of the tusk, the Listener saw Watcher of the Dead. He was hunting as before, ranging over a land fat with game, Death running like a hound at his heels. Yet even as the Listener looked on, Death departed. There was someone else close by whom she must attend to this night.\n\nMOOSE'S RUMP WAS AWASH with blood. A pair of foxes, a weasel, a marmot, a side of jackrabbits, three minks, and a snagcat bounced up and down across the gelding's back. Moose's heat kept the carcasses warm. Raif scratched his horse's neck. Moose had worked hard tonight, trotting down slopes thick with new snow and over ponds hard with ice, never once whickering when game was in sight, always holding steady for those long vital seconds when a bow was drawn above him.\n\n\"Orwin named you well,\" Raif said as he walked the horse over the graze toward the roundhouse. \"I swear one morning I'll come to the stables and find two antlers sprouting behind your ears.\"\n\nMoose turned his head toward Raif and let out a long disgusted grunt.\n\nRaif grinned. He liked his borrowed horse a lot. Riding him, hunting from his back and at his side had helped the night pass quickly. And that was all Raif had wanted. It was difficult to sleep these days. More and more he needed to wear himself out before he dropped onto his bench or bedroll for the night. Sometimes it was better not to sleep at all. His dreams were never good. Tem was often in them, thrashing in his hide tent, beating against some invisible enemy, calling out to Raif to help him. Tem's skin was burned black, and his fingers had been chewed on by wolves. Raif shivered. Glancing up through the bank of frost smoke, he set his gaze on the predawn sky. This was one of those nights when it was better to hunt than sleep.\n\nFew lights could be seen within the roundhouse. Most windows were either barred by stone or wood or both. Many clansfolk believed that Vaylo Bludd would arrive any day now and attempt to take the Hailhold in the same manner he had taken Dhoone. Raif wasn't sure about that. From what he'd seen and heard at Gnash, it looked as if the Dog Lord would have his work cut out for him just holding on to Dhoone. Dhoone was a huge clanhold, with more than a dozen war-sworn clans upon its borders. A good half of the Dhoonesmen had escaped to Clan Gnash and Clan Castlemilk, and they were madder than stags in rut. Raif couldn't see how even the Dog Lord could lay siege to one roundhouse while trying to secure another.\n\nFrowning, Raif patted Moose's neck. Frozen mud cracked beneath his boots as he walked. No more snow had fallen during the night, but the temperature had dropped to the point where Raif had been forced to slather his cheeks and nose with grease. Every few minutes he had to brush ice crystals from his fox hood, where his breath had glaciated in the fur.\n\nAs he stepped onto the clay court, he spied movement to the side of the roundhouse. Pulling on Moose's reins, he altered his path and made toward the figures spilling from the door that faced the stables. Noises cut through the mist: the crunch of boiled elkskins on snow, the rattle of arrows in a bowcase, and the squeak of new leather, straining as it took its first weight. Someone yawned. Raif caught a glimpse of Corbie Meese's misshapen head, then Ballic the Red's great barrel-shaped chest. Clansmen, about three dozen in all, heading from the roundhouse to the stables.\n\nTugging Moose forward, Raif broke into a run. Even before he reached the half-light of the open door, Ballic the Red had his bow drawn and sighted. Dropping the reins, Raif raised both arms into the air. \"Ballic. It's me. Raif Sevrance. Don't shoot.\"\n\n\"Stone balls, lad!\" roared Ballic, lowering his bow. \"What were you thinking? Running up like that! I came within a rat's tail of shooting the teeth right out of your jaw.\" The bowman wasn't smiling, and his words had a hard bite. \"Where've you been?\"\n\nRaif patted Moose's flank. Dried, partially frozen blood had stained the gelding's back crimson. The carcasses strung across its rump hung limp like bags of feed. \"Been out to the southern taiga. Hunting.\"\n\nAs he spoke, more men continued to pour from the roundhouse. All were dressed for hard riding, wearing oilskins and thick furs over steel. Weapons and supplies formed jagged lumps on backs and shoulders and around waists. Pouches containing neat's-foot oil, powdered guidestone, spare bowstrings, and dried meat hung on dog hooks from their belts. Raif saw Drey bringing up the rear. He was wearing Tem's wax-stewed greatcoat.\n\n\"Did you see anything while you were out there, lad?\" Corbie said, his light brown eyes flickering toward the land far south of the roundhouse.\n\nRaif shook his head. He didn't like the look on Corbie's face. \"What's happening? Where are you going?\"\n\nCorbie Meese and Ballic the Red exchanged glances. Corbie made a rolling motion with his arm, indicating that the other clansmen move on ahead of him. \"We're riding east past Dhoone, to the Bluddroad. Mace has had word that a party of forty hammermen and spearmen will be making the journey from Bludd to Dhoone three days' hence, and we're planning to set an ambush and take them.\"\n\nRaif looked along the lines of men. He could see no sign of Mace Blackhail. \"How does Mace know this?\"\n\nCorbie Meese ran a gloved hand over the hammer dent on his bare head. \"He came by the information at Gloon's Stovehouse. Two nights back, just before we returned to the clanhold, he split from the rest of us. Said he wanted to check what travelers and other such folk had heard about the Dhoone raid.\"\n\n\"Just as well that he did,\" Ballic the Red said, cutting in, \"else we'd have nothing but fresh air to go on.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" Corbie agreed. \"Turns out that more than a few patrons at Gloon's were loose-spoken, and Mace heard tell that the Dog Lord means to make the Dhoonehouse his chief hold. Everything\u2014arms, furnishings, animals, even women and bairns\u2014has to be moved from the Bluddhouse to Dhoone. The Dog Lord means to leave his eldest son, Quarro, to watch over the Bluddhold in his stead.\"\n\nRaif nodded. It made sense. The Dhoone roundhouse was the strongest keep in all the clanholds, with walls sixteen feet thick and a roof made of ironstone. So how had he managed to take it? Against his will the memory of the badlands raid came back to him... the stench of hot smelted metal in the air.\n\n\"Are you coming wi' us, lad?\" Ballic said, his great broom of a beard catching his breath and then turning it to ice. \"Tem was always telling me how good you are wi' that bent stick of yours. We could do wi' an extra bowman. Eh, Corbie?\"\n\nCorbie Meese hesitated before answering, tugging on his dogskin gloves to make them sit right on his hands. \"I'm not sure he should come, Bal. Mace said only yearmen and full clansmen. With the dangers involved, 'tis only right and fitting.\"\n\n\"Aye. You speak the truth.\" Ballic the Red set his fierce gray eyes upon Raif for a moment before turning his gaze to the animal carcasses riding Moose's back. Raif could see him counting. When he spoke it was to Corbie, not Raif. \"Twelve skins in half a night, eh? Heart kills, too. And one of them's a snagcat. Quite a cache, and that's no mistaking.\"\n\n\"Lad's trouble, Bal,\" Corbie said. Then to Raif: \"Nothing personal, lad. You've just reached that age when you're as much harm as help to have around. And Mace Blackhail has no love of you, that's for sure.\"\n\nBallic chuckled. \"Aye, but try as he might he can't keep the lad from his meetings!\" The bowman slapped Raif on the back with a hand that was gloved then mitted. No one took as much care of his bowfinger than Ballic the Red. \"So, lad. Tell me the truth. Are you as fine a shot as Shor Gormalin and your da would have me believe?\"\n\nRaif looked down. How could he answer? \"I'm better at some things than others. I'm no good at hitting targets, but game...\" He shrugged. \"I do well with game.\" As he spoke, clansmen began to emerge from the stables with their mounts. Drey was one of the first to trot his horse onto the court. Orwin Shank had given him a fine black stallion with strong legs and a wide back. Dawn light had started to shine across the snow, and Raif could clearly see the expression on his brother's face. It made something in his chest tighten. Drey did not want him along.\n\n\"How old are you, lad?\" Ballic the Red's question seemed to come from a very great distance.\n\n\"Sixteen.\"\n\n\"So you're due for your yearing this spring?\"\n\nRaif nodded.\n\n\"Well, I say we call Inigar Stoop out here and now, and let him take your oath where you stand. Couple o' months will make no difference either way.\"\n\nCorbie Meese sucked in a good deal of air. The cold had turned his lips gray. His wedge-shaped chest and ham arms strained against his elkskin coat as he stamped his booted feet upon the snow. \"Stone Gods, Bal! Mace'll have a frothing fit if he learns you're planning on taking the lad's oath. Why, just last night\u2014\"\n\n\"Where is Mace?\" Raif interrupted. \"Is he riding with the ambush party?\"\n\n\"He'll be holding back a day to stand vigil afore Inigar anoints him as chief.\"\n\nRaif kept his features still, but he felt his pupils shrinking as they cut out a portion of the light. So Mace Blackhail would stand Chief Watch in the guidehouse, lashed to the north-facing plain of the guidestone through twelve hours of darkness, alone, unspeaking, eyes open to see the faces of nine gods. His spine would touch granite in three places, and the chief's mantle that he wore would soak up graphite oil and fluids from the guidestone. Afterward, when Inigar cut him free with the Clansword, chiefblood would be let and nine drops of Mace's blood would be allowed to fall into the Gods Bowl hewn within the stone. Later Mace would speak terrible oaths and pledges before the clan, renouncing his birthclan and giving himself wholly to Blackhail for life. Later still, he would draw a guide circle with his own hand and step within it and ask the Stone Gods to smite him down if they judged him unfit to be chief.\n\nAware of Corbie Meese's eyes upon him, Raif did not let his anger show. But it was there, hot and twisted like a piece of black iron in his chest. He hoped the Stone Gods sent Mace Blackhail to hell.\n\n\"Mace will ride to catch up with us when he can,\" Corbie said. \"He sat up all night overseeing clan defenses.\" The hammerman looked impatient to be on his way. He kept glancing at the increasingly wide circle of clansmen who had trotted their horses from the stables and were busy buckling bedrolls and feed sacks in place. \"He's heard tell that the Dog Lord has sent cowlmen to our borders. So none of us can trust our own shadows from now on. Mace'll catch up wi' us within a day.\"\n\nCowlmen. All thoughts of Mace Blackhail slid from Raif's mind. He now understood what had made Corbie and Ballic so nervous when he had first approached the court. Cowlmen were the nearest thing in the clanholds to assassins. Named after the long, hooded cloaks they wore, which were said to switch colors along with the seasons, they traveled into enemy territory, took up positions near game tracks and trapping runs, and lay low for days on end, biding their time until someone came along whom they could kill. The casualties they caused were few in relation to raiding and ambush parties\u2014lone hunters usually or, if they were lucky, small hunt parties\u2014but that wasn't the point. They created fear. When cowlmen were thought to be loose within a clanhold, no one could leave the roundhouse and be sure of returning home. A cowlman could shoot a woman out tending her traps without once showing his face. They could be anywhere: high in the canopy of a purple blue hemlock, hiding in the fecal-like sludge of a moss bog, or crouching behind the red spine of a sandstone ridge. In winter, it was said some cowlmen even buried themselves in snow, lying for hours with their weapons crossed over their chests, ready to bring cold death.\n\n\"Well, Mace Blackhail's gonna have to find my blunts and roast 'em, for the lad's coming wi' me.\" Ballic the Red's gaze was almost wistful as he studied the kills on Moose's back. \"You know how valuable a good marksman is to an ambush party, Corbie. Heart kills like these will drop the Bluddsmen where they stand.\" Then to Raif: \"Set here, lad, while I fetch Inigar Stoop.\" Without waiting for any response, Ballic made his way back to the roundhouse.\n\nRaif watched him go. He didn't know if he wanted to ride with the ambush party or not. Moose would have to be left behind; the gelding had been hard ridden these past three days and needed sleep. Drey clearly didn't want him to go. Raif could see his brother now, astride the black, edging closer so he could keep track on what was happening between the two senior clansmen and his younger brother. Then there were the things that niggled away in the back of Raif's mind, things about Mace Blackhail. It wasn't usual for the head of an armed party to split from his men on the final leg of the journey. And from one short visit to a stovehouse, Mace Blackhail had learned an awful lot, enough to spread fear throughout the clanhold and send an ambush party east to beset Bludd.\n\nIt didn't fit.\n\nRaif glanced at Corbie Meese, wondering if he should speak such things out loud. The hammerman had been quick to pledge his arms to Mace Blackhail, yet what had happened last night in the Great Hearth had not sat well with anyone, and both Corbie and Ballic seemed less inclined to keep Mace Blackhail's good opinion than they were yesterday. Still, it would all be forgotten once Mace and Raina were wed. Raif pushed back his hood, suddenly feeling hot and trapped beneath it. He didn't like to think of Rain Blackhail with Mace. It was another thing that didn't fit.\n\n\"Here! Gather round now!\" Ballic the Red's fierce booming voice broke the silence of the court as the bowman stepped from the roundhouse, dragging the little white-haired guide behind him. \"Raif Sevrance is about to take First Oath.\"\n\nA murmur passed through the ambush party. Bald-headed Toady Walker muttered, \"He's gone and done it now.\" Behind his back, Raif heard Drey swear softly, not quite to himself.\n\nInigar Stoop did not look pleased. He was dressed in a pigskin coat, dyed black as was clan way. Disks of slate, sliced so thin they looked like scales, were attached to the collar and hem. The cuffs had been singed at the Great Hearth to mark the onset of war. Judging from the flatness of the clan guide's hair and the number of untied lacings on his coat, Ballic the Red had just pulled him from his bed. Pieces of slate snapped as he moved.\n\n\"Let's get this over and done,\" he said, frowning at the dawn sky. \"Though I warn you now, 'tis not a fitting time and place.\"\n\nAlmost without thinking, Raif reached up to touch his raven lore. The black horn felt as cold and smooth as a pebble plucked from ice. He wasn't sure if he wanted to do this now, before three dozen clansmen, yet even as he let the lore drop against his chest, Inigar Stoop was taking a swearstone from the cloth pouch he wore at his waist. Warming the stone in his fist, Inigar named the Stone Gods. His voice was thin and wavering, and the gods' names had a sharpness to them that Raif had never noticed before. Ground mist receded. Light from the rising sun reflected off the downsides of clouds, washing the courtyard with a pale silver light. The wind had long since died, and the sound of Inigar's voice carried well beyond the court.\n\nWhen all nine gods had been named, Inigar uncurled his fist and held out his hand. His black eyes never once left Raif as he waited for the stone to be claimed. Even though his raven lore was outside his coat, resting against oiled hide and waxed wool, Raif felt it was inside his skin. A strong desire to flee came upon him, to knock the swearstone from Inigar's hand, drive it deep into the snow with the heel of his boot, and run off across the frozen headlands, never to return. Things were moving too fast.\n\n\"Take the stone, Raif Sevrance.\" Inigar Stoop's eyes were as dark as volcanic glass. \"Take it and put it in your mouth.\" Raif did not move, could not move. The guide raised his arm a fraction, made a jabbing motion with his hand. \"Take it.\"\n\nOver the guide's shoulder, Ballic the Red nodded vigorously at Raif. He had pulled an arrow from his case and held it in his fist, point facing down. Corbie Meese had freed his hammer from his strap and had it weighed across his chest. A glance to the side showed that the entire ambush party had drawn weapons, sliding them from horn couchings and leather cradles and scabbards lined with wool. All here had taken First Oath. Drawing weapons was a sign of respect.\n\nRaif's mouth ran dry. Inigar Stoop's old brown face, with its beaklike nose and hollow cheeks, hardened. A thin breeze gusting across the court set his slate medallions tinkling.\n\n\"Take it.\"\n\nRaif raised his hand toward the swearstone. As his shadow fell upon Inigar's open palm, a raven cawed. A bird, dark and oily as a piece of meat blackened on the fire, swooped down into the court. Descending on a cold current, it rolled its body, diving and shrieking, until a column of warm air gave it lift. Flapping its knife wings just once, it came to rest on the weathercock high atop the stable roof.\n\nThe raven watched with yellow eyes as Raif's hand closed around the swearstone. Small flecks of white metal dotting the stone's surface caught and reflected light as Raif brought it to his lips. Under his tongue it went, tasting of chalk and earth and sweat. Tiny bits of grit broke from it, filtering to the bottom of his mouth.\n\nInigar Stoop glanced once at the raven, then spoke. \"Do you pledge yourself to the clan, Raif Sevrance, son of Tern? Your skills, your weapons, your blood and bones? Do you pledge to stay with us, amongst us, for one year and a day? Will you fight to defend us and stop at nothing to save us and give your last breath to the Heart of the Clan? Will you follow our chief and watch over our children and give yourself wholly for four seasons?\"\n\nRaif nodded.\n\nKaaw!\n\n\"And do you do this freely, of your own will? And are you free of all other oaths, ties, and bonds?\"\n\nKaaw!\n\nThe swearstone was like lead in Raif's mouth. Minerals bled from it, tainting his saliva with a foul metal taste. It isn't right, he wanted to cry. Can't you feel it? Yet to do such a thing seemed like madness of the worst kind. He'd already gained a name for making trouble\u2014even his own brother had said so. Stop First Oath now and he might as well run south to the taiga and never come back; he would never be able to show his face at the roundhouse again. No. He had to take this oath. For as long as he could remember he had lived his life expecting to take it. Now Inigar Stoop stood before him, the cuffs of his pig coat burned black for war, his breath rising in a blue line from his lips, waiting on the sign that would seal it.\n\nRaif steeled himself. He nodded for a second time.\n\nKaaaaa! Kaaaaa!\n\nInigar Stoop jerked back as the raven screamed, bending at the waist as if he'd taken a blow to the gut. His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again Raif saw immediately that knowledge lay within them, like the core of blue ice that slept through summer deep beneath the badlands' crust. Quickly Raif looked away. Inigar knew. He knew.\n\n\"You have taken First Oath, Raif Sevrance,\" the guide said, the words falling like stones from his mouth. \"Break it and you make yourself a traitor to this clan.\"\n\nRaif could not meet his eyes. No one moved or spoke. The wind picked up, and the raven flung itself from the weathercock and onto its mercy, wings unfurling like pirate's sails, black so they could sail through enemy waters by night.\n\nKaaw! Kaaw! Kaaw!\n\nTraitor! Raif heard. Traitor! Traitor!\n\nHe shuddered. His lore lay like a dead weight against his chest, pressing so heavily he could barely breathe. Unbidden, a vision of the little blond-haired luntman Wennil Drook came to him: Dagro Blackhail and liver-spotted Gat Murdock pushing the bloodwood staves through the pink hairless skin on Wennil's back. Later, when it was all over and done and Wennil's corpse lay blue and frozen on the barren earth of the fellfields, Inigar Stoop had taken a chisel to the guidestone and cut his heart from the clan.\n\n\"Who will stand second to this yearman?\" Inigar said, turning to face the ambush party. \"Who will vouch for him and guide him and stand at his side for a year and a day? Who amongst you will come before me and take a beggar's share in his oath?\"\n\nShor Gormalin. Raif fought for a breath and held it. On the return journey from Gnash, the fair-haired swordsman had hinted that he would be willing to stand second to Raif's oath. Shor was not here, though. Raif didn't know where he was, couldn't even be sure if he had returned from his outing last night. And even if he had returned and was sitting in the kitchen drinking hearth-warmed beer and crunching on bacon, he would hardly be in a mood to bother with the yearing of some untested youth. The business with Raina Blackhail had gone hard on him.\n\nInigar Stoop waited for someone to speak. His beaklike nose cast a long shadow across his cheek. Raif thought he would be well pleased if no one stepped forward to back the oath. The raven circled over the court, silent except for the faint whistle of air through its pinion feathers. Corbie Meese and Ballic the Red exchanged glances. Raif saw Ballic the Red thinking hard, mitted hands smoothing the fletchings of the arrow he held in his fist. Raif could almost guess what he was thinking: The lad is a bowman, like me... .\n\n\"I will stand second to his oath.\" Drey. Drey kicking Orwin Shank's black stallion forward and trotting through the snow to stand at Raif's side. Drey saying, \"I know I am only a yearman myself, but I have sworn two such oaths of my own and will soon swear a third, and I count myself a steady man who takes no responsibility lightly. If the full clansmen will permit it, I would back my brother's word.\"\n\nA ripple of relief passed through the ambush party. For a moment it had looked as if no one were willing to step forward. Inigar Stoop did not look pleased, but it was out of his hands now. It was up to the clansmen with greatest due respect to say whether or not Drey, a mere yearman himself, could stand second to his brother's oath. Raif glanced at Drey. His brother made a small shrugging motion. Tem's elkskin coat fitted him well, made him look older than his eighteen years.\n\nCorbie Meese cleared his throat. Slapping his iron hammerhead into his palm, he said, \"You're a good clansman, Drey Sevrance. There's none here who would say otherwise. The past few weeks have been hard on all of us, yet you have kept your head and done your duty and proven yourself to be an asset to this clan. I for one can see no reason why you can't back your brother's oath. You have the heart for it and the steadiness of purpose, and if you are willing to stand before this party and swear that you will watch your charge well and closely, then that's good enough for me.\"\n\nBallic the Red and others nodded. The raven circled, slow and lazy as a dragonfly in summer.\n\nInigar Stoop's face showed no emotion. \"Will you do as Corbie asks, Drey Sevrance?\"\n\nDrey slid down from his horse. His brown eyes sought Raif. \"I swear.\"\n\nRaif felt a tightness come to his throat. Drey had not wanted him along on this trip, had warned him only last night about the damage he was doing to himself and their family, yet here he was, standing before three dozen clansmen, speaking on his brother's behalf. Shame burned Raif's cheeks. He wished he could take back what had been said between them last night in the hall. Words couldn't be unsaid, though. Raif knew that.\n\n\"So be it.\" Inigar Stoop sounded as if he were proclaiming a sick man dead. He turned to face Raif. \"Your oath has been spoken, Raif Sevrance. You are a yearman now in the eyes of clan and gods. Let neither party down.\" The wind switched as Inigar spoke, blowing hard against his face. He should have said more\u2014Raif had been present at enough yearings to know that the guide was supposed to pass blessing and offer words of guidance to the sworn man\u2014but Inigar just pressed his lips together and turned to face the wind full on.\n\nIn the uncomfortable silence left, Raif spat out the swearstone. Rubbing it dry against the fox fur of his hood, he waited for Drey to take it from him. Normally Inigar Stoop would transfer the stone from one clansman to another, yet Raif could tell from the set of the guide's profile that he wanted no more to do with this ceremony. To him it was already done.\n\nAll gathered were silent as Drey took the small dark swearstone and slipped it into one of the many pouches hanging from his waist. The ambush party was eager to be gone. Drey reached out and cuffed Raif's shoulder. \"You'd better hurry and get your roll together for the ride...\" He grinned. \"Clansman.\"\n\nRaif nodded. He couldn't speak. As he turned to enter the roundhouse, the raven began shrieking loudly. Corpse! Corpse! Corpse! Raif heard.\n\n\"Rider approaching!\" Velvet-cheeked Rory Cleet made the call.\n\nEven as Raif swiveled around, Ballic the Red brought his bow to his chest. The massive bowman bellowed for all to get out of his way so he could be sure of a clear shot if needed. Raif looked over the graze in the direction Rory Cleet indicated. A white gelding walked across the snow, picking its steps with enormous care, its back held artificially straight. Its rider was slumped forward in the saddle. The man's chest and head were resting against the horse's neck, and an arm trailed down over the gelding's shoulder, gloved fingers still tangled in the reins.\n\nA muscle in Raif's neck began to pump. The gelding belonged to Shor Gormalin.\n\nSlowly, over seconds that stretched like minutes, Ballic slid his arrow from the string. Corbie Meese's hammer thudded onto the ground, making a sound like a broken bell. Inigar Stoop's lips started moving, and even though the wind was still high and Raif couldn't hear what he said, he knew the Stone Gods were being named for the second time that day.\n\nThe gelding, long necked and finely cheeked, with large liquid eyes, slowly picked a path to the court. Everything within him was focused upon just one thing: bringing his rider home. One small misstep, one slight shake of his neck, and his rider would slide from the saddle into the snow. Shor Gormalin was dead. As the clansmen moved forward slowly, quietly, so as not to startle the fine white horse, Shor's fair hair could clearly be seen. Half the side of his head was blasted away by two fist-size quarrels shot at close range. One of the arrow shafts had broken off, the other jutted out from a mat of blood, tissue, and raised bone like something growing from Shor's head.\n\nWithout a word passing between them, the ambush party halted in a half circle and allowed the gelding to finish his journey home. Respect was due to such a horse, and twenty-nine men knew it. Shor had fallen slightly to the left, and every muscle in the horse's neck and shoulders was taut with the strain of holding his rider in place. Dried and partly frozen blood streaked the gelding's mane pink and black. As horse and rider drew close, Raif saw that Shor's small unpretentious halfsword still sat firmly in its scabbard. The finest swordsman in the clan had not been allowed chance to draw his weapon.\n\n\"Cowlman,\" whispered someone, perhaps Corbie Meese.\n\nThe gelding came to a halt before the clansmen, turned side-on, and then held his position, offering his rider to the clan. Cloud. The horse's name came to Raif like a gift. Shor had ridden him for eight years.\n\nA soft tearing sound cut the air as the raven chose that moment to fly away. Watcher of the Dead, thought Raif with a dull stab of self-hatred. The raven had known all along.\nTWELVE\n\nA Fistful of Ice\n\nSTOMACH CRAMPS PUMPED IN Ash's stomach as she and Katia descended the stairs, heading toward the quad. She was sick of feeling ill all the time, tired of being cooped up in her chamber and tended day and night. She hated her dreams, too. They came every night now. Every night. She couldn't remember the last time she had closed her eyes and simply slept. Couldn't recall when she'd last awakened in the morning feeling rested. Instead she woke in the dead of night, in those dark standstill hours where no one but thieves and nightwatchmen were about, feeling as if she'd been running through the streets. Always she awoke drained of strength and shaking. Sweat poured down her neck, her heart beat like a mad thing in her chest, and the sheets were twisted so tightly around her throat, they raised weals that stayed for hours. Lately there had been bruises... .\n\nAsh shook her head. Put that thought aside.\n\n\"What's the matter, miss. Cold already?\"\n\n\"No. I mean yes. That's it. Cold, just cold.\" Ash cursed herself. She sounded like such a fool. \"Hand me my gloves. Quick now.\"\n\nKatia harrumphed. She might have said something, only they were approaching the lower rotunda and armed men dressed in the black leather cloaks of the Rive Watch, carrying blood steel at their hips and across their backs, were walking through the hallway on their way to the Red Forge. No one, not even a sulky maid like Katia, liked to draw the Rive Watch's attention her way. The sight of their blades alone could set maidens and goodwives fainting. The red pigment fired into the steel of their longknives and greatswords was said to come from a mix of mercury and human blood.\n\nSuddenly nervous, Ash snatched her calfskin gloves from Katia and tugged them on with a great deal more force than was necessary. Knuckles cracked. \"It's not snowing, is it?\" she asked, stepping into the hallway. Perhaps a dozen or so steps above her Marafice Eye, Protector General of Spire Vanis and Lord of the Rive Watch, followed in her shadow like a terrible and silent hound. It really was quite ridiculous. Didn't he have something better to do? Ride down smugglers, burn thieves' hands black, hack the fingers from prostitutes who were slow in paying Protector's Trove?\n\n\"I said, it's cold and dry outside.\"\n\nAsh jumped at the sound of Katia's raised voice. \"I heard you the first time,\" she lied. Why did she feel so weak? Why did every sharp sound and creaking floorboard make her flinch?\n\nReaching the tall iron-gated door that led from the Cask to the quadrangle, Ash tied the last few ribbons on her cloak for good measure. Penthero Iss hadn't allowed her outside in weeks, and the last time she had ridden in the enclosed space of the quad was late autumn. Things had got a lot colder since then. Bracing herself, she stepped over the threshold. An awful lot colder.\n\nThe stone-flagged quadrangle formed the protected heart of Mask Fortress. Each of its points was occupied by one of the four great towers, and its walls were formed by fortress ramparts and great halls. The quad was long enough to race horses and wide enough to raise lists and stage tourneys each spring. In summer the grangelords held court here, and in the dark months leading to winter Penthero Iss oversaw the trials of high traitors from the obsidian ledge in front of the Bight.\n\nA thin layer of snow covered the entire quad. Bitter frosts over the past week had glaciated the topsnow, making it crackle underfoot. Every time Ash took a step she felt as if she were breaking something. Most of the quad was paved, but the horse run along the outer wall had long since grown over with the tough yellow grasses that lived on Mount Slain. Shaggy weeds peeked through cracks in stonework, and oily green mosses coated flagstones around the bases of three of the four towers. Nothing grew close to the Splinter, not one spike of grass or cushion of moss. Nothing. The ice-bound tower had foundations like the roots of a black walnut, sending its poisons deep into the soil to kill anything that grew and threatened to rob its light.\n\nAsh shivered. However did such nonsense get into her head? The ground soil was saturated, that was all. Too much water running down the walls. Aware that her thoughts were skirting dangerously close to the night she had stepped through the iron-plated door and walked along the abandoned east wing, Ash said the first thing that came into her head. \"You don't have to walk beside me as I ride, Katia. You can stay in the stables and keep warm.\"\n\nKatia grumbled something. Her dark glossy hair was currently waging war with a woolen cap, and from the looks of things the hair was winning. Great springy curls had succeeded in tilting the cap at an angle guaranteed to catch a passing updraft\u2014one strong gust and it would be off. Ash watched the maid out of the corner of her eye. Even in a temperature cold enough to freeze the brine in the curing vats, Katia looked beautiful. Her skin glowed like buttered toast, and her lips were fat with blood. Ash knew her own cheeks and lips would be as pale and bloodless as day-old bread, and the harsh light of reflected snow would do the bags under her eyes no favors. The sight of her own face had begun to frighten her. She looked half wasted.\n\nNot realizing Ash was watching her, Katia glanced over her shoulder toward the Knife. Something passed between them\u2014Ash couldn't tell what\u2014but a moment later the expression on the little maid's face changed. She shivered elaborately. \"Ooh. But it's cold, miss. I swear I'll catch my death out here. I'm not like you: iceborn. Mistress Wence says that judging from the color of my skin and the sum of hair I have to pluck off my legs afore they're decent, my family must have come from the Far South. So perhaps I'd better stay in the stables like you said. I am feeling a bit middling.\"\n\nIceborn. Ash didn't like the sound of that one bit. Stepping over a pile of steaming horse dung, she forced her mind back to the subject at hand. Katia wanted to be with Marafice Eye, she was sure of it. The stables were a common enough place for romantic assignations. For as little as a meat pie or a wedge of good cheese, Master Haysticks would turn a blind eye to what went on in any number of his vacant stalls. Some held that the eye he turned wasn't nearly as blind as it might be, and he had actually carved peepholes in the doors, which he rented out for tidy sums. Ash thought about the peepholes sometimes before she fell asleep at night. It would be interesting to see what people got up to.\n\n\"Rest in the stables, Katia. I'll be fine on my own out here. I won't gallop off, I promise.\" Ash glanced at the limestone battlements that were topped with iron railings, archers roosts, and murder holes. She wouldn't be going anywhere.\n\nKatia pouted prettily. \"I'll stay in the stables if you say so.\"\n\nAsh glanced over the maid's shoulder to where Marafice Eye stood watching from the shadows along the Cask's west wall. He had found something buried in the snow\u2014a boulder, or a frozen hare carcass, or a bit of firewood\u2014and was grinding it beneath the heel of his boot until it broke. When he noticed Ash watching him, he smiled. It was a terrible sight to see, such a small mouth stretching. The skin looked as though it might tear and bleed. Ash turned away.\n\n\"What are you waiting for?\" she snapped at the maid. \"Go on, off to the stables. Tell Master Haysticks to saddle and bring out Cob.\"\n\nSomething close to anger crossed Katia's face as she turned on her heel and made for the stables. Ash regretted her sharpness immediately yet didn't call the maid back. Rubbing a mitted hand across her face, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Coming outside hadn't been a good idea. Oddly enough, it had been her foster father who had suggested it, last night when he'd visited her chamber after dark. You are so pale, almost-daughter, like a lily trapped beneath the ice. You must go outside tomorrow. Take a ride around the quad, stretch your legs, breathe in some fresh mountain air. Your room is filled with lamp smoke and old dust. I worry so about you.\n\nAsh kicked at the frozen snow. Iss was always worried about her.\n\nMaster Haysticks emerged from the stable block, trotting his old blue cob behind him. The stablemaster wore a coat pieced together from old horse blankets and bits of harness leather. His large head was covered by a halfcap woven from horsehair, and his stirrups had once been horse's bits. Nothing was wasted in Master Haysticks' stables. Once a day he sent out grooms to shovel dung in the quad.\n\n\"'Day, miss,\" he said, inclining his head. \"Old Cob's ready for yer. Go easy on the bit; her mouth's scratched up bad. Been chewing on the stall door again.\" He shook his head. \"Terrible splinters.\"\n\nAsh took the reins from him. Although she didn't like Master Haysticks much, she did like the plain way in which he treated her. He had been stablemaster at Mask Fortress since before she was born, when Borhis Horgo was surlord and Penthero Iss held the same position as Marafice Eye did now. Master Haysticks remembered who she was. He knew she was nothing more than a foundling.\n\n\"Pass me yer foot, miss.\" Master Haysticks cupped his hands and squatted low to the ground. Ash gave him her foot, and he heaved her up over the cob.\n\nWhen she was settled in the saddle, she glanced back toward the Cask. Marafice Eye had gone; footprints driven deep into the snow led straight for the stables. Ash let out a guarded sigh of relief. It was good to be free of the Knife. \"Come on, Cob,\" she said, kicking the old work mare's flank. \"Let's take a turn or two around the quad.\"\n\nMaster Haysticks watched Ash with a critical eye, satisfying himself that her reinwork wasn't putting undue stress on the mare's mouth, before spitting in the snow and heading back.\n\nAsh felt free to relax only when he was gone. Cob was just about the gentlest horse she had ever known, and in all the years she had been riding her, Ash had never managed to coax the old mare into anything faster than a trot. She didn't have a name. Master Haysticks called her Cob because that's what she was. This past year he had taken to calling her Old Cob, which meant she didn't have many horse days left.\n\nTurning onto the horse run, Ash put aside all bad thoughts. Now she was higher from the ground, she could see a little of the city over the northern wall. Spires, sharply sloped roofs, and cast-iron turrets rose above the wall like weapons in an arms case. If she listened very carefully she could hear the clatter of carts in the street and the roar and bustle of Hoargate market.\n\nAsh had always wanted to see Hoargate. Of all the gates in the city, Hoargate was considered the most beautiful. Its great arch was carved from a thousand-year-old bloodwood, cut and carted all the way from the Storm Margin on the western coast. Hoargate faced west; that was the thing. Each of the four gates was built from materials that came from the direction it faced. Vaingate was raised from the plain cream limestone of Mount Slain; Wrathgate, which faced east, was cut from a huge slab of granite quarried from the stonefields of Trance Vor, and north-facing Almsgate was cast from the blue iron that was mined beneath the clanholds.\n\nHoargate was the only gate made of wood. Yet according to Katia, who had seen it several times, it hardly looked like wood at all, more like shiny black stone. The masons had forced hardeners and preserves into the wood, turning its insides to steel. Even so, its elaborate facing still managed to attract a thick layer of hoarfrost in midwinter, and it was after this it was named: Hoargate.\n\nThen there was Vaingate, the dead gate, built from plain limestone, carved with a mated pair of killhounds and their one silver blue egg. The gate where she was found.\n\nAbruptly Ash looked away from the city. It wasn't worth thinking about. Her foster father had never once allowed her to step outside Mask Fortress. The most she had ever seen of Spire Vanis was when she was small enough to clamber over the battlements in the Cask and wriggle her way though to the archers gallery at the top. The entire city could be seen from up there: steaming and smoking, its snow black with cart oil, its streets clogged with barrow boys, dog carts, and horses, and its street comers afire with the red eyes of a thousand charcoal braziers.\n\nBeneath it all, beneath the dark, diseased mass of Almstown, the fine mansions and lodgements of the grangelords, and the ever-expanding marketplaces with their hide-covered awnings and elk-bone struts, the hands of the original masons could clearly be seen. Walls were as wide and straight as ox backs. Original stonework was cut as precisely as clock parts, and roads were flat enough to skate on in midwinter, weighted down with enough hard stone to prevent even the dead from rising.\n\nPeople said Robb Claw had broken the back of a mountain to build Spire Vanis. Ash wondered if the mountain would ever strike back.\n\nShifting her gaze forward, she saw that Cob was picking a path toward the Splinter. Even from this distance, wisps of ice smoke steaming from its walls were clearly visible. Ash shivered. Like a belt of blackstone pines along a timberline, the tallest tower in Mask Fortress created a climate all its own. It was so cold. Icy air slipped inside Ash's chest, wrapping long blue fingers around her heart.\n\nIt's just a tower, she told herself. Stone and mortar and wood.\n\nCold or not, Cob seemed happy enough to go there. Ash reasserted her grip on the reins, ready to pull the mare away, then remembered the splinters in the horse's mouth and let the reins fall slack. What was the harm in drawing close? She glanced at the sky. It was daylight, she was in full view of the Red Forge and the Cask, and it was impossible to enter the tower from outside. The external door had been sealed shut for years.\n\nAs rational as all that sounded, Ash still found herself stiffening in the saddle as she approached. Her thighs gripped the mare's belly tightly.\n\nShe was hardly surprised when Cob took it upon herself to step from the horse run and trot over to the path that led behind the tower. The old mare was bent on going her own way. Craning her neck, Ash risked a glance at the stables. Still no sign of Katia or the Knife. Katia had once told Ash that when a man and a woman took a tumble together, it took longer for them to unlace and unhook their clothes than to do the actual act. Ash frowned. She could have her own dress stripped off within a minute.\n\nAs she puzzled on that, Cob rounded the curve and entered the short run between the curtain wall and the tower. Puzzlement slid from her face when she spotted tracks in the snow. Footsteps, two pairs of them, and two thick drag lines leading straight to the spire's unused door. Fresh tracks, by the looks of them, leading in but not out.\n\n\"Easy now,\" Ash said, as much to herself as the mare. Looking ahead, she saw that the footsteps had come from the direction of the south gate. Ash knew from experience that if she were to head that way, she'd be stopped before she reached the endwall. The gate was patrolled by a dozen brothers-in-the-watch.\n\n\"Whoa,\" she murmured, pulling briefly on the reins. The old mare seemed happy enough to stop and quickly found something to sniff at alongside the curtain wall. Ash slid down, booted feet thudding onto hard ground. Glancing left, then right, she approached the tower door.\n\nWooden boards had been pried away from the frame, leaving an outline of bent nails around the door. Candle ice hung from the lintel in fat chunks, and Ash felt water drip on her hood. The keyhole was set in a brass plate as large as Cob's head, and someone had spent many minutes scraping rime ice from the lock. Ash hesitated, took a step back, then surprised herself by reaching out and pressing against the door. It held firm.\n\nShe should have been relieved, yet the nerves in her hand continued to register the contact seconds after she withdrew. Against her will the memory of the night she had walked along the east gallery came back to her. She hardly knew what she'd felt, had tried to convince herself many times that the whole thing had been a figment of her imagination, brought on by extreme cold and fear and darkness, yet the feeling of want returned so sharply it brought the taste of metal to her mouth.\n\nSomething in the Splinter wanted what she had.\n\nA deep part of her mind had known it all along, from the very first instant she had felt the thing's presence in the tower, yet she had thrust it to the back of her mind with such force that everything had become jumbled and unclear. It was clear now, though. Perfectly.\n\nSlowly, taking a child's careful steps, Ash backed away from the Splinter. She nursed her hand as she retreated; the fingers that had touched the door felt like ice.\n\n\"Come on, Cob,\" she said, hating how weak her voice sounded. \"Let's get back to the stables.\" Cob paid her no heed, forcing Ash to spin around and fetch the mare herself. She didn't like turning her back on the door, and the desire to run was so strong that she had to bite down on her lip to fight it. Yet she couldn't very well leave a horse in the quad. Master Haysticks would have a few choice words to say to her if she did.\n\nCob was still sniffing at the wall, and as Ash dipped down to grab the bridle, she spied the object of the mare's attention. All the heat drained from her face. A blue ribbon lay embedded within the snow like a vein beneath a hand. She recognized it at once. It was a tie from a nightgown she had given to Katia to mend. The fabric was wearing thin, and several of the ribbons were loose. One or two had fallen off. Ash plucked the ribbon from the snow. Katia had asked if she had any clothes that needed mending before winter, and Ash had handed her an armful of cloaks, dresses, and nightgowns. They hadn't been returned, but that was nothing strange. Seamstressing was not one of Katia's strong points. It took her a whole morning just to pick the hem from a skirt.\n\nThe ribbon was cold and limp, a tongue of blue ice. Turning back to face the tower door, Ash studied the two drag lines that ran alongside the footprints. Something large and heavy had been hauled inside. Like a bed. Ash frowned. Where had such a thought come from? Any number of objects could have left similar tracks in the snow. In fact, things were beginning to make more sense now. The interior door was only half the size of this one, cut narrow to match the scale of the east gallery. Nothing wider than a man could be brought through. So if Iss needed something large brought into the Splinter, this was the only way he could do it.\n\nAsh rolled the ribbon between her fingers. What had her old clothes got to do with anything?\n\n... and of course there'll be a new chamber...\n\nNo. Ash shook her head, sending Katia's words away. It was madness. Her foster father couldn't be planning to move her here. Not to the Splinter. He loved her and worried about her, and just last night he'd told her how pale she looked and encouraged her to take a ride in the snow. Ash crushed the ribbon in her fist. She needed to get back to her chamber. Suddenly nothing felt right.\n\nWalking alongside Cob, she made good time. Marafice Eye and Katia still hadn't emerged from the stables, and even Master Haysticks hadn't sent out a groom to watch for the horse. Ash was out of breath by the time she reached the stable door. Her stomach was cramping rhythmically. She hardly knew what to do, didn't know what to think, couldn't believe the ideas that kept shooting through her head.\n\n\"Whoa, lady. Watcha doing in 'ere?\"\n\nAsh wheeled around. She had walked straight into the stables without thinking.\n\nA young groom with bad skin and a flat head stepped out from behind a stack of hay. \"Best step outside, lady. Haysticks don't like no high collars strutting about when he's not around.\" The groom moved forward. \"'Ere. I'll take Old Cob.\"\n\nFeeling like a fool, Ash held out the reins. What had she been thinking? Leading her own horse into the stables like a journeyman. Just as the groom took the reins, a great rumbling noise shook the building. Already on edge, Ash flinched. Suddenly the far end of the stable block was flooded with light as a whole section of the endwall was wheeled back. Of course, she thought, relaxing instantly, the stable has a second entrance to service the trade gate.\n\nMarafice Eye picked that moment to emerge from the nearest horse stall. His big dog hands were busy with the buckle on his belt. As soon as he saw Ash he sneered and turned the simple business of belt buckling into something she couldn't bear to look at. Feeling her face growing hot, she turned and ran from the stables. Laughter followed her.\n\nThe moment she was free of the building, Ash threw the ribbon onto the ground and kicked it into the snow. She was sick of being out here. She hated Marafice Eye and the pimply groom and Master Haysticks. She hated all the things going on behind her back. Where was Katia?\n\n\"Aaw, miss. Are we going back so soon?\"\n\nAsh spun around. Katia, her wool cap gone and thick curls disheveled, leaned against the stable door and smiled lazily at her mistress. \"I've come over all flushed. I swear I'll need to take a roll in the snow to cool my blood.\"\n\nThree steps and Ash was on her. Grabbing Katia's arm, she marched the girl from the stables.\n\nKatia fought back. \"You're hurting me!\"\n\nAsh wrenched Katia's arm and twisted it behind her back. She was filled with fury, angry at everyone and everything, sick to her stomach of being afraid. \"I don't care. Now walk on.\"\n\nKatia did as she was told, yet it wasn't in her nature to go quietly. \"You told me to go to the stables! Said you didn't want me around. 'Taint my fault if you're jealous of me and the Knife. 'Taint my fault you're flatter than sheet ice and no man would give you a second glance. What you need\u2014\"\n\n\"Be quiet!\" Ash twisted Katia's arm another degree. Her own anger surprised her. She was shaking, yet for the first time in months it wasn't with fear. It felt good to have control over someone\u2014even if it was just a servant girl. \"Open the door. And be quick about it.\"\n\nIn the fourteen months that she had known Katia, Ash had never seen the girl move so quickly. She snapped down the door latch faster than she pocketed rose cakes. Two brothers-in-the-watch were walking along the great circular corridor of the Cask, their leather cloaks fastened to their tunics by lead broaches the size of sparrows. Both men wore quarter helms that cast shadows across their eyes. It was telling that neither man smiled or reacted in any way to what they saw: by now the whole fortress knew that wherever the Foundling was, the Knife was only paces behind. Ash slammed the door shut with her boot heel, then pushed Katia directly into the path of both brothers, forcing them to step aside to let mistress and servant pass.\n\nClimbing the stairs to her chamber, Ash was aware of her heart racing in her chest. Just one touch! One touch and the thing, the presence in the Splinter, had known she was there. In all her life she had never felt such need. It pulled at something, some part of her she had no name for.\n\nReach, mistressss. We smell you. Smell of blood and skin and light.\n\n\"Aargh! Miss! You're breaking my arm.\"\n\nAsh started. Looking down, she saw where she was holding Katia so tightly that blood had stopped flowing to her hand. Abruptly she let her go. Katia stumbled forward and immediately began rubbing her arm. She said things\u2014a whole stream of them\u2014yet Ash cut them away from her mind. Calmly, as if Katia were perfectly silent, not in the process of sobbing and issuing threats, she said, \"Follow me.\"\n\nAsh took the final steps to her room, secure in the knowledge the maid would follow. The door was ajar, and when she pushed it she came face-to-face with Penthero Iss' manservant, Caydis Zerbina. The tall dark-skinned servant stopped dead on the spot His long, elegant arms cradled an odd assortment of her belongings: the green wool rug, a thick winter cloak, one of the amber lamps, a silver hairbrush.\n\nAsh supposed she should be surprised at seeing him here, but she wasn't. The calmness was still upon her. She made a small bobbing motion with her chin, indicating the items he held. \"It's all right, Caydis. Please continue. I realize you didn't expect me back from my ride so soon. The fault is entirely my own. My apologies. Please finish your business.\"\n\nCaydis Zerbina bore Far South blood, as Katia did, yet unlike Katia, he was soft-spoken and gentle in manner. He worshiped with the priests in the Bone Temple and never wore any fabric heavier than linen, even on the coldest day. Common was not his language of birth. \"So sorry, mistress. I stop now. Cause no more offense.\" He bowed deeply, the bone bracelets on his wrist chinking like falling rain. Slowly he began to back away.\n\nAsh raised her hand. \"No. I insist you carry on. Your actions cause me no offense.\" And the strange thing was, they didn't. Caydis Zerbina was just carrying out orders, like Katia and Marafice Eye. One person ruled Mask Fortress, one person had access to the Splinter, one person had suggested she leave her chamber this morning to go for a ride in the quad: Penthero Iss. Her foster father had wanted her out of the way so he could collect more things for her move. Chances were she wouldn't have missed anything except the rug and the lamp, and both those items were in need of cleaning or repair, and their absence could be smoothly explained.\n\nCaydis Zerbina was clearly unhappy at being compelled to finish his business. His dark eyes, with their almond-colored whites and thick lids, flicked nervously as he moved about the chamber. Ash suspected that he collected things solely to satisfy her wish that he carry on, rather than from any real need to remove anything further. She held open the door for him as he left, inclining her head in a gracious farewell. \"Caydis,\" she said after he had taken a handful of steps along the corridor, \"I won't tell my foster father about our unplanned meeting. I trust you will do the same. There's little benefit in either of us admitting our mistakes.\"\n\nCaydis bowed his long gazelle neck. \"Mistress.\"\n\nEven before he reached the steps, Ash had turned her attention to Katia. The servant girl was standing against the corridor wall, her face all red and puffy, rubbing her arm as if she couldn't quite believe it was hurt. One step forward was all it took to cower her. Ash supposed she should feel ashamed about having someone frightened of her, yet a teeny bit of her rather liked it. \"Inside. Now.\"\n\nKatia's eyes were huge with a mixture of indignation and suspicion. She moved, though. Quick enough to dislodge the last remaining hairpins from her curls. The pins struck the stone with musical notes as Ash shut the door behind her.\n\n\"Sit,\" she said, wagging her head toward the bed.\n\nKatia sat.\n\nAsh turned her back on her. \"Now. I'm going to ask some questions, and you have two choices. One, you can answer them honestly and be away from here within the quarter. Or two, you can lie and deceive me and get hurt.\" She spun back. \"Now which is it going to be?\"\n\n\"You won't dare hurt me. I'll scream. I surely will.\"\n\nBending forward so that her face was only breath away from Katia's, Ash said, \"Go ahead. Scream. The Knife is out there. He'll hear if you make enough noise. But before you do, think for just one moment. You may know and bed him, but it's me he's charged to protect. Me. Not some scrap of a kitchen girl who doesn't know what's good for her. Me.\" Ash saw hurt in Katia's eyes but forced herself to continue harder than ever. \"Ask yourself this. If you cry out and I cry out, which one of us is he likely to aid first?\"\n\nKatia made no answer. Her teeth pulled at the skin on her lips.\n\nAsh straightened her spine. \"Right. Why has my foster father sent Marafice Eye to watch me?\"\n\n\"Don't know.\" Katia sounded sulky. \"The Knife hisself thinks it's madness. Says he's sick of the sight of you, and that he's got better things to do than watch over a thin strip of bacon wi' no fat\"\n\nIgnoring the gibe, Ash said, \"So he doesn't know why?\"\n\n\"No. Says it'll be over soon, though. Vealskin promised any day now.\"\n\nAsh frowned. Marafice Eye was Protector General; he would hardly agree to act as personal guard to a foundling without good reason. He knew something, Ash felt sure of that. And despite what he said to Katia, he took a cat's pleasure in watching and taunting her\u2014though he wouldn't likely admit that to any girl he chose to bed. Suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of her thoughts and knowing that if she dwelled on them further, she would lose her nerve and weaken, Ash changed the subject. \"What happened to the clothes I gave you to repair last week?\"\n\n\"Iss took them.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\nKatia shrugged. \"Don't know. Said he wanted to start collecting a few things here and there to make the move easier when it came. Said he wanted to surprise you, and to tell you I wanted them for repair.\"\n\n\"What other special instructions did my foster father give you?\"\n\nNo reply.\n\n\"I said, what else?\"\n\nKatia shuffled her feet. \"Nothing.\"\n\nShe was lying. Ash took a breath, thinking. After a moment she began to shake her head. \"You know, Katia, my foster father isn't the only one who has power over you. I don't have to take you with me when I move to my new lady's chamber. I could tell my foster father that I no longer care for your services, that you bed any man who crosses your path, and that you stole one of my\u2014\"\n\n\"'Taint never stole nothing!\" Katia stood, fists clenched. \"You'd be lying if you say so. Lying!\"\n\n\"Hush, girl,\" Ash said in a voice she hoped sounded bored. \"I can claim anything I want and get away with it. Do you really think my foster father will take your word over mine? Do you?\"\n\nThat made Katia stop and think. All the strength and light in her face faded, leaving her looking as young and vulnerable as the girl she really was. Fifteen, that was all. Ash felt her determination waver, all she wanted to do was go to Katia and put her arms round her and assure her that she'd never say anything bad about her\u2014even if she really had stolen something. Katia was younger than her by almost a full year, yet up until today, until right this minute, Ash had always felt like the younger one. Strange, but the very thing that was frightening her was also making her strong. She had to know. And she would do anything, anything, to find out.\n\nSteeling herself, Ash said, \"I think we both know the answer to that question, Katia. You'd be back in the kitchens within a day on my say-so, no matter how diligently you carried out my foster father's orders. I am Penthero Iss' ward, his almost-daughter. Now tell me what I need to know, and I swear he'll hear nothing but good about you from me.\"\n\nAlthough she was still standing, Katia seemed smaller than usual; her shoulders were slumped, and her back was bent. Even her curls seemed flatter. \"Promise to take me with you when you go.\"\n\nAsh closed her eyes. A pain, like a sore muscle, flared softly in her chest. \"If I go to a grand chamber with isinglass windows and a fireplace all my own, then I promise to take you with me.\" She felt the lie as she spoke. It was the truth, but it was also a lie.\n\nKatia, who was such a terrible liar herself, heard only the truth. She brightened immediately. \"Well, that's settled, then. Isn't it?\"\n\nAsh nodded. She didn't know how she managed to stop her cheeks from burning.\n\n\"Well, miss, it's the strangest thing. Can hardly understand it myself\u2014'less of course it's to do with your 'tility.\" Seeing Ash's blank look, Katia expanded, her love of sharing secrets now fully engaged. \"Your fertility. You know, when you finally come into your blood and can be married and tumble with men. Well, ever since His Lordship engaged me, but most particular these past three months, he's asked that I check your chamber pot and sheets each morning for blood. You know, women's blood. Says he must be told the minute you come to your menses. Right fierce on the matter, he is. Gives me the dox just thinking about it.\"\n\n\"Sheets? Chamber pot?\"\n\n\"Aye, and your nightdress and underthings, too.\"\n\nAsh exhaled softly, her strength vanishing as quickly as it came. You can't stay a child forever, Asarhia. The old blood will show soon enough. Her foster father's words came back to her, each one a drop of ice against her face. Iss was waiting for her menses to come. All his pinching and prodding and watching was for just one thing. Why? What did he want with her? What would he do when her blood finally broke? The thought made cramps jab at Ash's stomach. Putting a hand on the wall to steady herself, she said, \"Leave me, Katia. I want to be alone.\"\n\nThe little maid brought her lips together, took a step forward, hesitated, then took one back. \"You won't tell Iss I told you, will you? He'd be madder than a snagcat in a trap if he knew. If mad's the right word for someone who never raises his voice, just fixes you with a cold stare and\u2014\"\n\n\"I promise I won't say a word.\" Ash cut her short; the last thing she wanted right now was a reminder of how cold-blooded her foster father could be. As Katia swung open the door, she said one last thing. \"I'm sorry about hurting you before. Truly I am. It won't happen again.\"\n\nKatia turned and smiled. \"Weren't nothing really, miss. I used to get worse from Mistress Wence. A lot worse.\"\n\nAsh tried a smile but failed. By the time she thought of a reply, Katia was gone. Ash stared at the closed door. Why had she never mentioned being beaten before?\n\nIt seemed like a very long time before she made her way to the bed. The cramps became stronger, rolling across her abdomen in sickening waves, and all she wanted to do was sleep. Later. She would decide what to do later. Her eyes closed, bringing darkness and peace, and before she could form another thought she fell into a deep numbing sleep.\n\nSo cold, mistressss. So dark. Reach.\n\nAsh twisted in her bed, turning her back on her dreams. They pursued her, liquid shadows with hands that cracked and bled. Their shapes massed and shifted, darkness leaking from them like water weeping from ice.\n\nReach, mistressss, pretty mistressss. Reach.\n\nAsh twisted again, saw the cavern of black ice ahead. No. Not there. She twisted back, felt shadows slide across her face, cold as water from the deepest darkest well. Things moved in the periphery, wet and twitching like skinned beasts. Ground shifted beneath her feet, and suddenly the cavern was below her, its entrance a vast hole blasted into sea ice, an ocean of black tar rolling beneath. Ash backed away. She wouldn't go there, wouldn't take that last step.\n\nReach, mistressss. Reach.\n\nWet fingers clawed at her arms, drawing them up and up and up. Ash fought to keep them from rising, but it was like trying to bend her knees backward: the joints would only work one way.\n\nReach! Reach!\n\nNo. She shook her head, tried to twist away. Nothing moved except her arms, which continued to rise until they drew level with her shoulders. Shadows pushed from all sides, eyes flickering like serpent's tongues.\n\nREACH!\n\nAsh didn't reach, she pushed. Palms falling flat against something that shone pale like ice, she thrust herself away from that place. A white-hot needle of pain raced along her arms to her heart. She felt something deep within her tear, heard a great weight of ice shatter as it hit hard ground, then staggered back and back and back...\n\nShe opened her eyes to a world dulled by pain. Belly down upon the bed, sheets bunched around her waist, she lay for a long moment without moving. Her hands were stretched high above her head, reaching for the nearest wall. Even as she worked muscles to pull them in, she knew something was wrong. The hot, angry pain that came with skin burns flared in her palms, making her wince. One palm was open, the finger and thumb pads red. Burned. Ash dragged her other hand into view. It was closed, the fingers stiff and set in place. She opened it slowly, aware of something hard pulling at her skin. When the fingers had curled halfway, a drop of clear liquid slid along her wrist. Shivering, she forced the fingers back all the way.\n\nIce. A chunk of ice slid from her palm onto the bed.\n\nIceborn. Katia's word was the first thought she had, before shock or fear or the need for explanations set in. The burns had been caused by ice, not fire.\n\nThe ice was wedge shaped, blue as frost, and stippled with the kind of pressure lines that Ash had seen on rocks dug from the base of Mount Slain. As she watched, the patch of damp beneath it spread.\n\nAbruptly she looked away. What time was it? How long had she slept? Late afternoon light made everything in the chamber seem gray. No lamps had been lit, but the little charcoal brazier was still burning, giving off a puttering last-breath sort of light. Ash brought her burning hands to her face and blew on them. After a moment she braced herself and began to rise from the bed.\n\nThat was when she felt it. Halting on the spot, halfway up from the bed, her weight borne by one elbow and one knee, she reached down with her right hand, pushing through skirt fabric and linen. Seconds passed before her fingers found the right place. Ash tensed. Wetness, warm this time, between her legs. Slowly, as if she were moving through water, not air, she brought her hand back. She didn't want to look, didn't want to see, but matters were too far gone now, and of all the changes that lay ahead, surely this one would be the easiest to bear?\n\nDark blood rolled across her fingers like treacle. Menses. Ash breathed deeply, trying to recall the calmness she had felt earlier when confronting Katia and Caydis Zerbina. She needed it more than ever now. Time passed and still her hand shook, and she realized that this was as calm as she was likely to get.\n\nMoving slowly, she brought her thighs together to prevent any more blood from staining her clothes, held her wet hand clear of the bed, and shuffled to her feet. Once she was satisfied there were no bloodstains on the sheets, she stripped bare, isolating her underskirt and underdrawers, which were the only items stained, then picked up the small fruit knife from the dresser and began to hack away at the linen. This took time. The knife was almost blunt and her hands persisted in shaking, and the linen was winter weave, so doubly thick. All the while, she pressed her thighs together and held something deep inside her clenched.\n\nWell before she was satisfied with the smallness of the linen pieces, she began to feed them into the brazier. The charcoal took a lot of stirring and blowing before it produced a decent flame, but eventually the fire got under way. The linen pieces burned quickly, crisping to nothing within seconds. There was a great deal of smoke, and Ash supposed she should open the shutters and fan it out, but she had a lot of other things to do and even more things to think about, and she would get around to it soon enough.\n\nTying a linen strip between her thighs, she crossed back to the bed. The ice was gone, melted to a dark puddle shaped like an eye. Within an hour even that would be gone, and soon there would be nothing left to prove that it had ever existed. Ash contemplated the drying stain. That's what she needed to do: melt away without a trace.\nTHIRTEEN\n\nThe Bluddroad\n\nRED FOG SURROUNDED THEM like the haze rising from a vat of boiling blood. The air was bitterly cold and so still that the sound of lake ice cracking under tension could be heard five leagues away. It was dawn, and Raif supposed the sun was somewhere, rising over the tops of the Copper Hills, casting its strange and bloody light upon the road. Raif grimaced. He couldn't see anything beyond the two riders directly ahead of him.\n\nFrost had warped his boiled leather cuirass, making it chaff against his neck. He had not slept well. No one had slept well. A cold camp raised along the northeastern edge of the Dhoonehold was no place for a Hailsman to rest\n\n\"All halt!\" Corbie Meese's hiss blew through the mist like a draft of cold air. His voice, which had been formed by the Stone Gods to do the one thing necessary to all hammermen as they fought\u2014bellow at the tops of their lungs\u2014did not sound right forming whispers. It was like listening to a dog meow.\n\nStill, everyone was quick to obey him, reining horses within a space of twenty paces. Metal on all bridles had been bandaged to prevent frostbite to the horses, so there was little noise. Even the hammermen had rubbed bat flour into their chains to prevent them from rattling and betraying a position. Sharp winds two nights earlier had dumped the snow into drifts, and Raif's borrowed filly was up to her hocks in dry white powder.\n\nThe raid party formed a loose circle on the sparsely wooded slope, their mounts tightly reined, breath venting in white bursts, eyes dark as coals beneath their fox hoods. Ballic the Red had freed his bow from its case and was busy warming the waxed string between his fingers. Drey and several other hammermen adjusted the straps on their hammer slings for ease of draw.\n\nCorbie Meese pulled back his hood so all could see his face. Jabbing his chin southeast, he said, \"Road's below us, just beyond those stone pines. Should be plenty of cover, but with this piss-thick mist about us it's hard to tell a molehill from a moose. We'll know better when Rory gets back. Last time I rode here there were trees to either side of the road, but that was ten years back, and times have changed since then. The Dog Lord's no fool\u2014you'd do well to remember that.\" A brief glance included Raif and some of the other younger yearmen. \"And he knows a likely ambush site when he sees one. According to Mace, he's ordered the felling of all trees along the Bluddroad. 'Course, unless he's got an army of woodsmen hidden up his dogskin draws, he won't be reaching here anytime soon. But that isn't the point: The Dog Lord knows the dangers. You can bet your bowfingers that any man of his traveling this road will be armed to the teeth, nervous as a wench squatting in a bush, and ready to attack at the first sound of an arrow knocking wood.\n\n\"Now the mist's in our favor, but don't let it make you lazy. There'll be foreriders in the Bludd party, and when they can't see their own horses' heads afore 'em, they'll stop looking and listen instead. So keep your horses on tight rein and no moving or drawing steel once you're in position. Right?\"\n\nRaif nodded along with the rest His mouth was so dry he could feel the ridges on his teeth. At some point while Corbie Meese was speaking, the fact of what they were planning to do had sunk in. He had never shot a man before, never set his sights on anything larger than a snagcat. But he knew, in that deep part of himself where the shots came from and the arrows passed through on their way to their targets, that he would be good at shooting men.\n\n\"'Course you'll need to keep an eye to the mist. If the wind picks up, it'll be gone afore you've had chance to shift your arses in the saddle.\" Corbie Meese looked grim. The hammer dent in his head was filled in with a wedge of red fog. \"More than likely we're in for a wait. The Bludd party could pass here any time between noon and nightfall, and we need to be ready when they come. So I'll have no man leaving his mount.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" chipped in Ballic the Red. \"So piss now or hold it in.\"\n\nWhen no one in the party moved, Toady Walker raised an eyebrow and said, \"No pissing over the horses' backs, gentlemen. Riles 'em something rotten.\"\n\nEveryone laughed in the quick, reflexive way that owed more to tension than to humor. While most in the party were busy making last minute adjustments to their weapons' casings, Drey trotted his black stallion over to Raif. Keeping his hood up so only those who were directly in front of him could see his face, Drey leaned close to his brother and murmured, \"Whatever the split, you come with me.\" Before Raif could answer, he turned away.\n\nRaif stared at the back of his brother's head. A split? This was the first he'd heard that the ambush party would be divided. Uneasy, he reached inside his oilskin and felt for his lore. It was the first time he had touched it in nearly a week\u2014ever since the day Shor Gormalin's horse had brought its master home. Raif took a breath and held it in. The hurt of Shor's death had not passed. He could still remember the dark look in Shor's eyes as he left the Great Hearth, still see him flinch the moment Raina Blackhail admitted joining with Mace. Abruptly Raif dropped the lore. Watcher of the Dead. How many deaths would he watch today?\n\nSnow crunched ahead, somewhere deep within the fog curtain. Ballic aimed his bow. Corbie Meese called softly, \"Rory?\"\n\n\"Aye! 'Tis me. Don't shoot, Ballic,\" came the reply.\n\nRaif couldn't help but smile. From his position well below them, Rory Cleet couldn't possibly see Ballic the Red, yet he knew enough about the red-haired bowman to guess that he'd already drawn his bow.\n\nSeconds passed, and then blue-eyed Rory Cleet rode into view, his hood pushed back, his sheepskin mitts caked in sap and pine needles, and his boiled-leather halfcoat weighted with clods of frozen snow. He wasted neither breath nor time. \"Road's clear. No sign of horse or cartage since last snow. Five dozen or more stone pines have been newly felled on the road's south verge, but whoever was set to the task got bored or cold or sent to another section before he could finish the job. As it is, the area around first choice has been poorly balded, but three hundred paces beyond that there's an area of newgrowth above the road. The pine crowns are at a height to conceal mounted men, and directly across from them there's a copse of dogwood and ash. Between the two, there's enough cover to conceal thirty men.\"\n\nCorbie Meese nodded. \"Aye. Well done, lad.\"\n\nRory Cleet tried but couldn't quite stop his face from coloring with pleasure. Not for the first time, Raif found himself regretting the incident at the Great Hearth door when he'd forced Rory from his post.\n\n\"Right,\" Corbie said. \"Ballic. You head the southern party. I'll take the north. We'll count a dozen men apiece, and the remaining five will form a rear guard, quarter league east of the ambush site, to block Bludd's retreat and pick off runaways.\" Corbie scanned the ambush party, his light brown eyes hard as flint, a muscle in his right cheek pumping. After a while his gaze settled on Drey. \"Do you think you can handle the lead in the rear?\"\n\nDrey pushed back his hood. His hair was plastered against his head, sweat and six days of grease making it appear darker than the chestnut brown it normally was. His face was pale, and Raif was struck by how much older he looked than the day they had shot ice hares by the lick. It was never Drey's way to speak without thinking, and when he stripped off his glove and turned down his elkskin collar, Raif guessed he was reaching for his bear lore. Raif had always envied him the bear. Tem had been a bear, like his father before him and his uncle before that. Every generation of Sevrances produced a bear.\n\nWatching as he weighed the bear claw in his fist, Raif realized why Corbie Meese had chosen him. Drey was solid, dependable, and he possessed none of the rash cockiness that took most yearmen five or more years to overcome. Raif felt his chest ache with envy and pride. One day, he thought. One day Drey will make a fine chief.\n\n\"I can handle the rear guard.\" Drey's voice was level. He slipped the bear lore beneath his softskins.\n\nCorbie Meese and Ballic the Red exchanged a glance, and Raif knew that Drey had done right in their eyes by taking time to weigh his lore. Corbie beckoned him closer. \"Right, lad. Here's the cut. If all goes to plan, there shouldn't be much for you to do. The Bludd party will pass you a good three minutes afore they reach us, so your job is to stay back from the road, high up beyond the tree line, and keep your men silent as corpses. There'll be no signaling done. I don't want to hear one clever owl hoot or loon call. Nothing. The only time you move from your positions is after you hear us attack. Then your job is to get onto the road as fast as you can, and take down any Bluddsmen who attempt to retreat. Understood?\"\n\nHearing Corbie speak, Raif began to understand why the hammerman had given the command to Drey when there were full clansmen available to take it. The real danger and the real fighting would fall upon the two attack parties: It would be they who risked their lives, they who fought at close range. Corbie Meese wanted all the seasoned clansmen with him. Raif could not fault him for that. The retreat party would be there as a fail-safe to pick off any runners or stragglers.\n\nDrey nodded slowly. \"What makeup?\"\n\n\"Yourself, another hammerman, two bowmen, and a swordsman. Remember that everyone in the Bludd party'll be a trained warrior. More than likely they'll be spearmen or hammermen. They fight fierce and their weapons are weighted, so unless you fancy a hammer notch to match mine, give them a wide berth.\" Corbie Meese poked his dent with a gloved finger. \"Keep your bowmen above the road, and have them shoot from cover.\"\n\nParty members were picked by Corbie and Ballic. When Ballic suggested that Raif go with Corbie in the north party, Drey spoke up. \"I want him with me. Take Banron Lye instead.\"\n\nCorbie Meese looked at Drey a moment, perhaps waiting for the yearman to explain himself, but when Drey said nothing further, he nodded once. \"It's your party. The say is yours. The lad goes with you.\"\n\nMinutes later they set off. Winding their way through paper birches as pale as wax candles, they headed east along the slope, high above the road. The horses' mouths had been soft bound with sheepskin to prevent them from blowing and whickering as they moved. Raif had braced his bow, and it was now balanced across his cantle. He rode with an arrow in his fist.\n\nOverhead, the sky was the color of rotting plums. The fog had begun to thin, and much to Raif's disgust it had turned from red to pink. Slowly, gradually, one tree and sandstone crag at a time, the taiga northeast of Clan Dhoone was beginning to emerge from the mist. The land was a mineshaft of drops, cut banks, and jutting rocks. Pine roots burrowed deep into the soft blue sandstone, pulverizing bedrock as they grew, making for treacherous ground. Small ponds, deep and dark as wells, beaded the creases between slopes. All of them should have been frozen, but they weren't, and Raif could only guess mineral salts or mineral oil as the reason.\n\nNo one spoke. Raif doubted if there was saliva enough in his mouth to roll his tongue, let alone utter a word. All five of them were yearmen: Bullhammer, Bitty Shank, Craw Bannering, Drey, and himself. Craw was the second bowman. Raif hardly knew him; he was older than Drey, dark skinned, with a clever face and long, tattooed fingers. He might have been betrothed to Lansa Tanner, Raif wasn't sure. Bullhammer was Bullhammer, a great big bear of a man with bristles for eyebrows and the most frightening smile the clanholds had ever beheld. Everyone loved him; it was impossible not to love a man who could uproot a five-year-old foxtail pine with a single mighty hug.\n\nBitty Shank was the swordsman. Like all the Shanks, he had a face that looked cooked. Although he was the same age as Drey, his fair hair had already started to thin. Bitty swung between tarring down his hair to prevent further loss and vigorously tugging at what little remained to show how little he cared. He was in the devil-may-care frame of mind at the moment, but come spring and wenching season, there'd be tar in his waxing pouch again.\n\nWhen the mist cleared enough to allow snatched glimpses of the Bluddroad, Drey raised an arm, gesturing all behind to slow. The path he chose became more elaborate, involving great doglegs and double-backs as he worked to bring them down the slope out of view of the road. Oldgrowth paper birches, with their long branchless trunks and high crowns, didn't provide the best cover, and bushes and ground birch were scant.\n\nAs Drey guided them toward a cluster of newgrowth two hundred feet above the road, Raif's stomach muscles began to clench. The two main parties would be in place now, waiting just off the road to ambush Clan Bludd. Raif had grown up listening to tales of Clan Bludd\u2014their fierceness in battle, their swords cut with a central groove for channeling their enemies' blood, their terrible deafening war cries, and their weapons so heavily leaded that no non-Bluddsman could raise them\u2014yet he had never seen a Bluddsman up close. To him they were the stuff of legend, like the people who were said to live in whalebone huts in the frozen North, or the Maimed Men who ranged across in the Want and were scarred by terrible beasts and crippling frosts.\n\nDrey called halt so softly it was like listening to a thought. Raif reined his horse along with the others. Beckoning everyone close, Drey positioned the entire party behind a dense growth of yearling pines. The Bluddroad lay below them, dark and straight like a fault in the earth. Raif looked west but could see no sign of the other parties. Ballic and his team must have doubled back before crossing, to prevent hoofprints and scent on the road.\n\nAs Raif looked up, he caught a glimpse of his brother's face. Drey's eyes were two frozen points on his face. Seeing them, recognizing the one emotion that lay behind them, Raif felt his bones turn to ice. Drey wasn't waiting to fight Bluddsmen; he was waiting to slay the men who killed his da.\n\nThere was nothing to do but wait. Minutes passed, then an hour, then another, then they had to cut the sheepskin muffles from the horses to prevent them from becoming agitated. Then, just as Bullhammer reached back in the saddle to fetch a feed bag for his restless stallion, a low rumbling sounded in the east.\n\nEveryone tensed. Bullhammer straightened his back, took his reins in both hands. Bitty Shank stripped the mitts from his swordhand, revealing fingerless gloves beneath. Craw Bannering pressed thin lips together and turned his cool archer's eyes to the road. Drey made no bid for his hammer. Glancing back at his men, he sent one word with his eyes. Easy.\n\nThe sound grew louder and began to separate into recognizable parts. Horses' hooves, too many to number, thumped down upon the hard surface of the road. Bushes and tree limbs cracked like whips, dumping their loads of snow. Dogs yipped and barked, carts creaked, harness metal jingled, and above it all something lurched, clattered, and shuddered like a great and terrible engine of war. Raif and Drey exchanged a glance. The mist was as stringy as rotten cobwebs. It was hard to get a clear view of the road, almost impossible to see the bend the Bludd party would round any moment.\n\nA pair of snow geese took flight from the near side of the bend, their calls harsh as saws drawn over metal. Raif's whole being was focused on controlling his horse. Her ears were flicking, and she had begun to pull on the reins. The scent of strange dogs made her nervous. Raif found himself wishing he were on Moose, not some flighty filly borrowed from Longhead at the last moment.\n\nAll thoughts evaporated from his mind as a gust of wind shifted the mist, allowing a clear view of the Bludd party as they rounded the bend below. Tiny hooks of fear pierced Raif's chest. Dark and full of purpose, the Bludd party took the road as if it were territory to be claimed like a foreign shore or an enemy camp. Riding stallions as thick necked and muscular as wolves, the foreriders held spears of black steel couched in horn casings that hung from the saddles along with their stirrups. Bull-headed dogs raced ahead of them, black and orange like hellhounds. A supply cart came into view, then a second one loaded with iron-banded kegs. Raif strained to see more, but mist poured down the slope, resettling in the lowest points. Briefly he snatched a glimpse of a team of horses flanked by a quad of heavily armed hammermen.\n\nThe grinding, shuddering noise became deafening. White smoke gouted in the air above the road. With one single fluid movement, Drey pulled his hammer from its sling. Raif noticed the metal had been abraded with steel wire. As he looked up, he met eyes with his brother. Drey looked so much like Tem for a moment that Raif felt his hand leave his bow and reach out.\n\nEasy, Drey said without speaking. Easy now.\n\nFeeling foolish and confused, Raif worked to conceal his emotions. He returned his hand to his bow and nocked his arrow against the plate. We are Clan Blackhail, the first of all clans. We do not cower and we do not hide, and we will have our revenge. The oldest version of the Blackhail boast ran through Raif's mind as he sighted his arrow. Angry words. And not for the first time, he wondered what had prompted them.\n\nThe Bludd party was directly below them now. The team of horses pulled some sort of lurching contraption that was partially obscured by mist. Raif counted seconds. The screech of wheel axles turning in their housings set his nerves on edge. The cold weighed on his bladder, making him painfully aware of its fullness. Looking ahead, he thought he saw a sliver of steel in the young growth to the far side of the road. Ballic's crew.\n\nThe Bludd dogs yelped and brayed, running rings around the trotting horses in their eagerness to be on their way. As the lead dog found something to sniff at on the road's north verge, the surrounding mist switched like a horse's tail, allowing Raif a clear view of the team and its load.\n\nBreath hissed softly in his throat. The size of the thing. A team of horses pulled a war wagon as big as a house, with iron-spined wheels as tall as men and whole elm trunks for sides. The wheels plowed into the road, churning up mounds of dirt and snow. Great gasps of smoke vented from a copper chimney fitted high into the timbered roof, and the entire structure huffed and shuddered with every rut in the road. Raif had never seen anything like it in his life. It was like watching an entire roundhouse on the move.\n\n\"Raif. Pull out your flint.\" Key's voice was as low and ragged as the mist. \"Bull. Hand him the hard liquor from your pack. Easy now. All of you.\"\n\nRaif understood at once. No one had been expecting this thing, this cart as big as a building. No one knew what horrors were housed within it. The only thing to do was set it alight. Ballic the Red and Corbie Meese were probably thinking the same thing, but just in case they weren't, or just in case they missed, Drey was making plans. Raif tore the thumb from his left mitt and used it as a hood for his arrow. Bullhammer handed him a silver flask, his meaty hands warming the metal where he touched.\n\nAs Raif doused the thumbpiece in the clear ambercolored liquor, the lead dog caught whiff of the ambush party's scent. Its joyous yelping turned to a low, dangerous growl. Raif felt the sound echo in the soft inner tissue of his bones, then all hell broke loose on the road.\n\nA salvo of arrows cut low through the mist, aimed for the foreriders' mounts. Animals squealed in terror as metal broadheads, barbed for lightness and snagging flesh, punctured horseflesh. Rearing up, they kicked and bucked, thrashing their heads from side to side and screaming. Their fear spread through the remaining Bludd animals like wildfire, yet even as other horses began to whiffle and stamp, their riders and draymen worked to calm them. A word spoken softly but firmly, a steadying hand on a neck or a shoulder, a squeeze with the thighs, and the Bluddsmen saved their mounts from panic.\n\nThe foreriders were quick to abandon their wounded horses, dismounting with heavy grace. Thudding onto the snow, they drew their ten-foot spears from their couching. All escaped injury, though with four massive horses kicking and screaming in the confined space of the road, it hardly seemed possible. Raif had no time to think on that before Corbie Meese, Toady Walker, and eight other hammermen blasted onto the road. Screaming at the top of their lungs, they rode wide of the standing spearmen, driving for the hammermen behind. As soon as they were clear of the spearmen, a second salvo of arrows shot north across the road. Most hit the panicking horses, spraying horse blood in red arcs, but one spearman took an arrow to his shoulder, and another lost a piece of his face. The injuries caused neither man to break formation, and as a single unit the four spearmen turned to pursue Corbie and his crew as they met steel with the Bludd hammermen. It was, Raif realized, the only possible thing they could do. Standing free like that, they were a bowman's prayer, but no bowman in the territories would shoot an arrow into a fray where his own men were fighting.\n\nRaif worked at the alcohol-soaked thumbpiece, pulling it down so the metal point of the arrowhead peeked through at the tip. The screams of the horses were terrible to hear, and Raif tried to cut them from his mind. He had known all along that Ballic and his crew would target horses first.\n\n\"Raif. Shoot.\" Drey. No mention of what he was to shoot or why, no caution concerning taking such a shot at such a distance. Just an order. No\u2014Raif positioned the flint and striker in his hand\u2014it was more than that. By saying the little that he did, Drey assumed not only that his younger brother knew his mind, but also that he was capable of making such a shot without injuring Corbie or one of his men.\n\nIt was a sobering thought. Raif tipped the hooded arrow on an angle to catch sparks and struck the flintstone. The alcohol on the thumbpiece ignited with a soft ripping sound that distressed the filly. Raif didn't have to worry about stilling her, as Drey was already at her head, leaning over to calm her with soft words and gentle scratches.\n\nRaising the flaming arrow to his bow, Raif switched his mind to the battle below. The remaining hammermen and swordsmen from both Corbie's and Ballic's parties were now fighting on level ground. Corbie Meese screamed at the top of his lungs as he whirled his hammer in a liquid circle above his head, his face purple with rage, his stewed leather gauntlets butcher red with blood. He was, Raif realized with a stab of quiet pride, a truly terrifying sight. It was the hammer dent on his head that did it. The Bluddsmen danced around him, reluctant to go hammer to hammer against a man who had taken such a blow and lived.\n\nWith a ghost of a smile on his face, Raif aimed his bow. The war wagon was a large and barely moving target. If it hadn't been for the mist and the men fighting about it, it would have been an easy shot. Raif took a breath, relaxed his grip on the bow, decided upon the upper quarter of the wagon wall as his target, then felt for the still line that would lead the arrow home. He did not reach inside the thing. The wagon was dead wood, and there was no question of calling it to him\u2014after the day at the lick, he knew and accepted that now. To try to find its heart was a mistake that would cost him both accuracy and time.\n\nEverything slipped away. The string creaked with strain, a good sound that brought saliva to Raif's mouth. The flames from the thumbpiece licked at his cheek. A second stretched to breaking. Then, suddenly, the mist cleared, the riders parted, and the line between the target and the bow became as broad and inviting as an open road. Raif lifted his fingers from the string, and the arrow shot toward its mark.\n\nHearing the soft thuc of the bowstring, feeling the rough hand of the recoil snap at his fingers, Raif knew he had been wrong. There was life in the wagon, inside it, and for a brief moment as the bowstring whipped air and his eye held the target, he felt hearts beating from within Dozens of them. Racing and skipping with fear.\n\nYou can't call on arrow back. That was the first thing Tem had ever taught him about shooting, and Raif finally knew what he meant. A bowman delivered his blow the moment his fingers left the string, not seconds later when the arrow sank its barbs into enemy flesh. The small distinction had never meant anything to him. Until now.\n\nThe sound of the impact didn't carry, but the flames blanket-rolled across the wagon wall, changing color from blue to yellow as they spread. The shot was perfectly placed, the alcohol fire hot enough to kindle hardwood, and the arrowhead sat snug between two elm logs, driving the flames deep. Even the wind helped, gusting along the wagon like air from a bellows. Within a minute the entire upper portion of the wagon was alight. Sheets of yellow flame rippled over the wood, spilling between cracks like molten metal and belching black, greasy smoke.\n\nThe flaming of the war wagon had a profound effect on the Bluddsmen. The drayman riding the team worked frantically to turn the horses, whipping and hollering, standing on his plate and smacking the horses' rumps. Bludd hammermen and spearmen moved into position around the wagon, defending its team and driver with hard focused force. Toady Walker fell from his horse as a lead-weighted hammer smacked into his spine. Within seconds a Bludd spearman had moved in to spike his guts.\n\n\"Raif. Craw. Cover us as we go down. Once we're there, move closer and shoot as you judge safe.\" Drey's voice was rough. His gloved hands pressed against the leather mount of his hammer. \"Do not show yourselves. Bull, Bitty. You're with me.\"\n\nRaif barely had time to nod before his brother turned his horse and cantered down the slope. Bullhammer and Bitty Shank flanked him. Bullhammer tore the oilskin, from his back as he descended, revealing his iron-banded breastplate and freeing his arms for the powerful hammer moves that had earned him his name.\n\nRaif pulled a second arrow from his case. Below, the war wagon lurched backward As one of its rear wheels rolled off the road. Saplings snapped like chair backs as the wagon tumbled into the newgrowth, sending a wedge of flames and sparks shooting into the branches. The drayman worked the team, lashing horseflesh with his whip, but the wagon was trapped in the ditch. Raif could see the outline of the wagon door and the great metal stave that held it shut. As he watched, the saw the door shake, as if someone inside were pushing against it.\n\nA bowstring hummed to Raif's left as Craw Bannering let an arrow fly, shooting at a swordsman who had moved forward to intercept Drey and his crew. The shot was sound, catching the swordsman high in the neck, dropping him where he stood. Bludd hammermen fought around him, their sable cloaks fluid as running oil, their hammers breaking up the last of the mist. Raif drew his bow, waited for a clear shot at one of them. His concentration was not good. Red and black, the angry blaze, of the war wagon kept catching his eye. The door continued to shake, yet still no one broke out.\n\nAlmost without thinking, Raif dipped his bow, aiming his arrowhead at the wagon door. Imagining it was game to be shot, he called the wagon to him. A seam of hot pain shot between his eyes as he forced his sights to focus beyond the door. It was like staring into the mist all over again. His eyes ached. Seconds of blankness passed, then just as he was about to drop his bow, he felt the wild thumping of many hearts. Terror filled his mouth like blood.\n\nTrapped. They were trapped inside the war wagon. Heat had sealed the iron bolt in place.\n\nShaking with the force of their terror, Raif let his bow fall slack. A sour metallic taste ringed his mouth. Glancing at Craw, he saw the black-haired bowman braced to take a second shot. With a furtive, close-body movement, Raif switched arrows, choosing a thick-bladed hunter shaped to take down a horse in a single strike. The weight was wrong for a bow the size and shape of Raif's\u2014he kept it only to shoot from Drey's longbow\u2014yet he raised it to the plate all the same. If he was careful and he drew enough power into the bow, it just might go where he planned.\n\nIt took him less than a moment to sight the bow. The last ropes of mist felt like a noose around his neck as he searched for the line between the tip of his arrow and the iron bolt of the war wagon. The belly of the bow shook along with his hands. He didn't dare think, didn't dare question what he was doing and why. The memory of the hell inside the wagon was too great. The line calmed him. Once it was set in his mind, his hands stilled. Gentle as a breath taken in sleep, he released the string.\n\nThe arrow split curls of fire and smoke as it raced toward its mark. Even from where he stood, Raif heard the harsh clang of metal striking metal. The arrow hit, then dropped. A moment was lost to smoke, and when Raif caught sight of the door once more, someone inside was beating hard against it. After three blows, the iron bolt gave and the door blasted open. Smoke poured out.\n\nRaif tugged a hand across his face. He had no way of knowing if his arrow had done the job, yet strangely it did not matter. The door was open, and even as he looked on, people began clambering out. Hands held to their faces, backs bent, they coughed and screamed and ran.\n\nIt took Raif a moment to realize they were women and children.\n\nHe didn't believe it at first. This was supposed to be a war party\u2014Mace Blackhail had said so. What business did children have with war? Yet even as he groped for a reasonable explanation, he began to realize there had been a mistake. This was no war party. The quad of heavily armed hammermen, the foreriders with their case-hardened spears, and the swordsmen with their blades of blue steel were here solely to guard the wagon. The Dog Lord wasn't moving troops to the Dhoonehouse, he was moving women and children.\n\nAnd Mace Blackhail knew it.\n\nThe thought seized his mind so swiftly, it was almost as if someone had spoken it out loud. No one had questioned how Mace Blackhail had come upon the information for this ambush. Corbie Meese said he'd picked it up from stovehouse talk, yet how could anyone other than a Bluddsman know about the Dog Lord's plans? Most especially when those plans concerned the moving of kin? Raif shook his head. All possible answers left him cold.\n\n\"Raif! Children.\" Craw Bannering nudged his bow arm.\n\nRaif nodded, feeling a bite of disloyalty as he feigned seeing the open wagon door for the first time. \"We'd better get down there.\"\n\nThe snow on the road was red and pink with blood. Four horses had fallen, two others fled. Toady Walker's body had been trampled facedown into the snow. Banron Lye lay in a ditch just off the road. He wasn't moving. Dogs sank their teeth into his collar and sleeves, tearing away great strips of elkskin to get at flesh. All the remaining Hailsmen, including Ballic and his bowmen, were now fighting hand-to-hand on the open road. Black blood and spittle frothed from Corbie Meese's mouth, yet judging from the volume of his screams and the swift circles he cut with his hammer, he wasn't badly hurt.\n\nDrey and Bullhammer had wasted no time driving themselves into the middle of the melee. They worked well together, their hammers as dull and ashen as charred logs, as they moved to outflank a Bludd swordsman who had just lost his mount. The spearmen were the worst danger. Fighting in tight formation back-to-back, they made it impossible for anyone to get near them for a blow.\n\nReining his horse thirty feet above the road, Raif pulled an arrow from his case. The dogs worrying Banron Lye were the first things to go. They were easy targets; once he had their hearts in his sights he didn't worry about hitting Banron or any other clansman by mistake. Down the dogs went, one after another, legs crumpling beneath them in the manner of all heart-killed beasts. The Bludd spearmen were a more difficult problem. Guarding the drayman and his team, they formed a knot of grizzled steel at the center of the road. Raif couldn't get a clear shot at any of them. Corbie Meese and Rory Cleet were too close.\n\nSweat slid down Raif's neck. The war wagon roared with flames, melting the surrounding snow with snake hisses, dripping yellow fire onto the undergrowth, and setting whole runs of stone pines alight. Fire poured along the team's harness, and the drayman began hacking at the leather traces with his sword to free the horses. Raif could no longer see what was happening at the back of the wagon. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of people running to high ground through the trees.\n\nIt was hard to focus on the spearmen, harder still to call them to him in the split seconds when the way was clear. He loosed one arrow and it went wide, glancing off a Bluddsman's hammerguard. Cursing, he tried to control the fast beating of his heart. Rory Cleet howled as a spear ripped along his thigh. For a moment Raif saw white lines of bared sinew and bone, then blood welled over Rory's flesh and everything turned red. Face pale and shiny with sweat, hand pressed to the wound, Rory wheeled his horse.\n\nRaif drew his bow, ready to let an arrow loose the moment Rory broke free and cleared the way. The spearman who had inflicted the wound moved forward for a second blow. He was armed for heavy marching, not for war, and wore a breastpiece of elkhide boiled in wax. His leather-bound topnotch swung like a sling as Raif caught his heart in his sights. A strong heartbeat slammed against his mind, shocking like a physical blow, knocking all thoughts clean away. Raif didn't need them: His eye knew to hold the target and his fingers knew when to release the string, and it was over in less than an instant.\n\nNausea bent him double as the spearman fell. His vision blurred, and sour acids from his stomach burned his throat. He lost his grip on the bow and let it drop to the snow beneath him, not trusting himself to rock sideways and catch it as it fell.\n\nHe shook his head, concentrated hard on keeping his seat. Killing men wasn't the same as game. He could do it, but it wasn't the same.\n\n\"Sevrance! Pick up your bow and ride down the survivors! Now!\"\n\nRaif flinched at the harshness of the voice. It sounded as if it were coming from behind him, but he knew now wasn't a good time to turn in the saddle and look. It took all he had to sit his horse.\n\nA horse and rider bore down through the pines. Raif saw a hail of kicked-up snow, then felt something jab against the base of his spine.\n\n\"I said, go and run down the survivors.\"\n\nMace Blackhail. The new-made Hail chief. Here? Raif's thoughts came in clumsy lumps. How had he managed to catch up?\n\n\"Craw. Go and pull Drey and Bitty from the road. I need all three of you to ride east through the woods and pick off survivors. I'll have no Bludd breeders and bitches walking free from this ambush. Now go.\"\n\nRaif spat to clean the metal from his mouth as Craw Bannering headed down the slope. Pulling himself to his full saddle height, he turned to look at the Wolf. Mace Blackhail's eyes were the color of frozen urine, his lips a hook of pale flesh. Wearing a cloak of slate gray fisher fur over a mail coat inset with wolf teeth, he sat high atop the blue roan, contemplating Raif. After a moment his jaws sprang apart. \"I am your chief. You have taken First Oath. Do my bidding.\"\n\nRaif flinched. He wished his thoughts were clearer. As he reached down to collect his bow, Mace Blackhail kicked the roan forward, ramming the filly's belly and trampling Raif's bow underfoot. The filly caught the sharp end of a spur along her shoulder and reared up, squealing in pain. Raif fought to keep his seat, pulling hard on the horse's mouth. By the time he had calmed her, the blue roan had stamped the bow into splinters.\n\n\"I've changed my mind,\" Mace said, starting down the slope. \"Use your halfsword on the runaways instead.\"\n\nRaif watched him go. The edges of his vision were blurred, and he could still feel the spearman's heartbeat rattling away inside his skull.\n\nAs soon as Mace Blackhail reached the road, he began working to take control of the battle. He moved quickly, and although he wasn't a powerful fighter like Corbie Meese, Bullhammer, or Drey, he was clever with his sword. Within a minute he had taken down one of the three remaining spearmen.\n\nDrey and Bitty were slow to pull off the road, both clearly unhappy at the order to hunt down runaways. Seeing them move into the trees, Raif kicked the filly after them. He didn't spare a glance for his ruined bow. It was a relief to have it gone.\n\nThe war wagon collapsed inward as Raif rode past it, sucking air from his lungs. The heat was fierce. Bits of flaming matter floated through the stone pines like wasps. One of the Bludd dogs ran across the filly's path, howling and frothing at the mouth, its black-and-orange coat alight. Raif found its pain surprisingly easy to ignore. He hardly knew what he was doing. Thoughts came and then slipped from his head, and no matter how many times he swallowed and spat, the copper taint of blood stayed in his mouth.\n\nHe nearly rode past the first woman. Pressed against the trunk of an old growth pine, she held still until almost the last moment, then lost her nerve and broke into a run. If she hadn't moved, he would not have seen her. A long braid of golden hair thumped against her back as she sprinted away from the road. Her cloak was dark red with gold stitching around the hem, and her leather softboots had been sewn and dyed to match. She ran fast but straight, failing to take advantage of the trees, and the filly soon outpaced her. Raif drew Tem's halfsword. \"You have it,\" Drey had said that first evening when they'd returned to the roundhouse. \"I have his coat and his lore. It's only fitting you have his sword.\"\n\nRaif rode the woman down. The thrill of the chase woke something in him, and he cut the air with his sword, growing accustomed to its balance and reach. A drift of new snow collapsed beneath the woman's weight as she stepped across a shallow draw, causing her to sink and lose her footing. Hearing the filly closing distance, she turned to face man and horse. Long strands of golden hair had worked free of her braid, framing a face hot with fright and exertion.\n\nSeeing her, Raif realized she wasn't a woman at all, just a girl, a year or so younger than he himself. Her pale eyes widened as he raised his sword. Shivering in small bursts, she brought a hand to her throat as he approached. A deer lore was fastened about her neck on a strip of birch bark. Her knuckles were black with soot and smoke.\n\nTem's sword grew heavy in Raif's hand. Girls at home used birch bark for their lores. It was said to bring luck in finding a husband.\n\nThe girl shrank back, closing her fist around her lore. She had a small dimpled scar above her lip, the sort of mark that was left by a dog bite. When she noticed Raif's gaze upon it, her hand moved to cover it up.\n\nRaif knew then that he would not kill her. She was too much like the girls at home, thinking that whenever someone looked at her it was always to find fault. Ridiculously, the scar made him want to kiss her.\n\nUnable to look the girl in the eye any longer, he turned the filly and rode away. Bludd breeders and bitches, Mace had called them. What words would he use for the children?\n\nA series of high-pitched screams led Raif to a clearing where Drey, Bitty Shank, and Craw Bannering had rounded up two dozen women and children. All were dressed finely, in thick wool cloaks, sable hoods, and softskin boots. Some women carried babes at their breasts, others hid small children behind their skirts. One woman, a tall matron with a braid that reached her hips and eyes as blue as ice, stood proud and stared her attackers down.\n\nRealizing that Drey intended to cause no harm to the women, simply capture them, Raif exhaled. He felt lightheaded with relief. The madness of the day was finally coming to an end. All he wanted to do was roll in his blanket and sleep. He didn't want to think about the Bludd spearman, or the girl with the dog scar, or Toady Walker's horse-trampled body.\n\nChest shaking with exhaustion, head throbbing to a dead man's heartbeat, Raif trotted over to join his brother. The Bludd women watched him, their faces crusted with soot and snow, their hands forming knots against their skirts.\n\nDrey's face was grim. \"Pull up your swordarm.\"\n\nBefore Raif could obey the order, Mace Blackhail broke through the trees on the roan. His broadsword rested against his dogskin pants, a thin line of liver blood bleeding along the blade. He looked first at Raif, then Drey. \"What are you waiting for? I said slay them.\"\n\nNo muscle on Drey's face moved. From the near side of the glade, Bitty looked his way, waiting to see what Drey would do.\n\n\"They killed our chief in cold blood,\" Mace Blackhail said, walking the roan forward, his yellow-and-black eyes fixed solely on Drey. \"They slaughtered your father in his tent. Bitty's brothers were taken where they stood. And just five days ago, they sent cowlmen into our woods to slay our women and children on home ground. Yes, they shot Shor Gormalin, but don't be mistaken: If Raina or Effie had been riding that trail, it would have been they who rode home dead.\n\n\"Bludd broke faith first, Drey. Not us. If we let these bitches and their litters go, then both our fathers' deaths go unavenged.\" Mace Blackhail wiped his blade clean against his pants as he spoke. \"We are Blackhail, the first amongst clans, and our chief's life is worth a hundred of their women's.\"\n\nMace Blackhail stared at Drey with such force, it was as if he were physically pushing against him. Drey didn't blink or move, but something in his face changed. Raif couldn't tell what his brother was thinking, didn't know what the sudden lack of light in his eyes meant, but words Drey had spoken on the journey home from the badlands slipped into Raif's mind like cold poison.\n\nWe'll make Clan Bludd pay for what they did, Raif. I swear it.\n\nRaif had no way of knowing whether Mace Blackhail saw the answer he wanted in Drey's face or not, but something made Mace move. Kicking bronze spurs into the roan's belly, he began the charge. Light ran down his newly cleaned sword like water, gleaming with all the cold colors from white to blue. He howled as he rode, baring his teeth and drawing low in the saddle like something not quite human. The Bludd women and children began to run, scrambling awkwardly through knee-deep snow.\n\nAfterward, when he thought back on it, Raif realized that by forcing them to run, Mace Blackhail changed them from wives and children and turned them into game instead. Drey Sevrance, Bitty Shank, and Craw Bannering could not have slain the women and children where they stood\u2014Raif believed that completely. He had to. But Mace Blackhail had all the inborn cunning of his lore. A wolf hunts nothing that does not move, and when words failed him, Mace Blackhail fell back on instinct, changing slaughter to a chase.\n\nRaif felt its pull. Tired and headsick as he was, part of him wanted to go after them, run them down, hack them at the knees with his sword, and bring them to ground. He wanted it so badly, the saliva in his mouth ran clean. The children shrieked and cried, herding close to their mothers as if somehow they could save them. Clumsy things, they were, foolishly heading into thicker drifts, bereft of even an animal's sense to pull out from the snow and head for the shelter of the trees. The women were worse, stopping to pull one another up when they stumbled or fell behind, lifting children too heavy to carry. They acted like a flock of mindless sheep. Covered in snow as they were, they even looked like sheep.\n\nWhen Bitty Shank rode alongside a thin mewling child whose cheeks were showing the first yellow blush of frostbite and plowed his blade into the child's shoulder, forcing him under his horse, Raif felt a hot surge of excitement take his chest. The thumping in his head changed to a drumbeat, and the weariness in his bones shifted into something else. He wanted to join Bitty and take his share of the game.\n\nThe sight of Drey stopped him dead: Drey with his hammer whirling above his head, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets, and his lips pulled back to his gums. Drey. He was chasing a young mother and her two small children, and every muscle on his face and neck pressed against his skin like bone. Raif felt shocked to his core. His raven lore cooled against his skin, quick as red-hot metal plunged into snow.\n\nSobered as surely as if someone had slapped him in the face, Raif took an arrow from his case and reached to his saddlebag for his bow. He was going to bring down Drey's horse, heart-kill the beast, make it drop from under him.\n\nGone. The bow wasn't there. Raif swore as he remembered what Mace Blackhail had done to it. He couldn't understand why he'd just sat by and let him do it. What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he got angry? Raif shook his head. It didn't matter. He was angry now.\n\nKicking the filly into a gallop, he cut across the glade. A killing field of sounds filled his ears: terrible wails and screams and panting, the crack of severed bones, and the thick liquid gurgle of blades yanked free of flesh. Children rushed before him, bare hands clutching at their hair and faces, hoods and mittens lost in the chase. Mace Blackhail rode through them like the shadow of a Stone God, forcing them to move, flee, run. Any who didn't were cut down and then trampled, their bodies driven deep into the snow.\n\n\"Drey!\" Raif screamed at the top of his voice as he drew close to the cut bank where his brother had cornered the young mother and her children. \"Stop!\"\n\nDrey looked round. Momentarily his hammer slowed in his hand. He looked at Raif a long moment, a trickle of saliva rolling down his chin, then he turned and drove his hammer into the side of the woman's face. A sickening crack split the air as the woman's neck broke and her head twisted to a place where no amount of sideways glances would ever take it.\n\nThe two small children screamed. Tearing and clutching at each other, heads and shoulders knocking together, they tried to squeeze themselves into one. A shudder worked through Raif's body, rattling his bones like pebbles in ajar. Wrapping the reins around his fingers, he bore down on his brother, setting his filly on a path to smack into Drey's horse. The filly turned at the last moment to save herself, and Raif's shoulders slammed into Drey's side. Drey was knocked forward in the saddle, his hammer losing momentum and crashing into his thigh. Furious, Drey shoved Raif with all his might.\n\n\"Get away from me! You heard Mace Blackhail. We weren't first to break faith.\"\n\nRaif smashed the heel of his hand into Drey's hammer arm. \"Run!\" he called to the children. \"Run!\"\n\nThe oldest child simply stared at him, and the younger one sat down in the snow and began shaking his mother's arm as if she were asleep and needed waking. Raif wheeled the filly around, preparing to scare the children into running. As he dug his heels into horseflesh, a fist of pain exploded in his lower back. Breath rushed from his lungs in a harsh gust, leaving a sucking emptiness in his chest. His vision shrank to two dots, and he grasped at air and bridle leather as he fell into a tunnel of spiraling darkness where the snow was as hard as glass.\n\nHE CAME TO. A spasm of pain ripped along his backbone, sharp as if someone had gouged a rusted nail down his spine. Rolling over, he coughed blood into the snow. Something warm pushed against his ear, forcing him to twist back and confront whatever it was: the filly, her great wet nostrils pulling in his breath, testing if he were still alive. Raif raised a hand and pushed her nose away. The effort cost him. He lost seconds as he dealt with the pain. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the glare of snow. Three dark forms, impacted in the snowdrift like rocks, broke the line of perfect whiteness. A pitifully small amount of blood stained the surrounding snow.\n\nRaif closed his eyes. His heart grew unbearably light in his chest. Both children had been younger than Effie.\n\nSounds far behind him told of a hunt still running. Those still alive had little breath to scream, and hoarse cries and sobs were almost drowned out by the noise of hooves churning snow. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Raif caught sight of Corbie Meese and Ballic the Red entering the clearing from the west. Blood had turned their horses and armor black. When they saw what was happening they exchanged a small, worried glance. Hope surged in Raif's chest. Corbie and Ballic were good men; they would do what was right.\n\n\"Stop her! She's getting away!\" The call came from Mace Blackhail, who rode across the glade toward the two men, chasing a heavyset Bluddswoman before him. Mace Blackhail could have taken the woman himself\u2014she was struggling in the snow less than thirty paces ahead of him\u2014but that wasn't what he wanted. Raif knew that at once. The Wolf needed to share the responsibility for the killing. He needed the two senior clansmen to run with his pack.\n\nRaif watched for a while, long enough to see Corbie and Ballic succumb to the lure of the chase and move swiftly to head off the enemy that Mace Blackhail was intent on driving toward them, then turned away. Softly he called for the filly. Leaning heavily against her, he rose and brushed himself clean of snow. His back burned. When he probed it with his fingers, tears filled his eyes. At the very least he would have a hammer-size bruise there tomorrow.\n\nNot trusting himself to mount, he took the filly by the reins and led her northwest from the glade. He had to get away. Suddenly he didn't know his brother or his clan.\nFOURTEEN\n\nEscape\n\nI MAY STOP By and visit the Knife tonight. What's it to you? Katia's words echoed in Ash's mind. The tiny dark-haired maid had said them four hours earlier, and Ash stood in the shadows behind her chamber door and waited to see if they were true. Her back ached from standing still for so long, but she didn't dare risk moving away. Barring opening the door and checking for herself, listening was the only way she had of knowing for sure if Marafice Eye had left his post. She didn't want the Knife catching her peeking around the door. It would only make him suspicious. No. Better by far to keep her position and wait.\n\nKatia has been telling me how your charcoal brazier was choked with ashes the other night, almost-daughter. You haven't been burning anything upon it, have you? I'm sure I don't need to tell you how very dangerous such a thing would be.\n\nAsh shivered. Penthero Iss had visited her room late last night, and although he'd said many different things on many different subjects, she was sure all he had really come to say was that he knew about the extra cinders in the brazier. He was sly like that. What the whole thing really meant was that from now on he would be watching her more closely, as he was now well aware that she was up to something improper. Ash cursed Katia under her breath. Cinders in the brazier? Was there no secret, no matter how inane, that the girl wouldn't tell?\n\nFrowning, she turned her attention to the door. Little mouse steps pattered on the stone beyond. Something creaked. Silence... then a bright laugh quickly muffled. Katia. Katia was on the other side of the door, talking with the Knife.\n\nPlease take him to your room, Katia. Please. Ash hated herself for wishing it, hated the thought of Marafice Eye's massive hands pressing against Katia's spine, yet she needed the little maid to distract the Knife. She had to leave Mask Fortress. Tonight. And the only way she could slip from her chamber undetected was if Katia lured the Knife away for a bedding.\n\nBedding. Ash rubbed a hand over her eyes, trying to dispel the image the word showed her. Bedding wasn't the right word for it at all.\n\nFeeling her cheeks grow hot, she risked taking one more step toward the door. Marafice Eye could speak quietly when he chose to, and she couldn't hear his voice, though a conversation was taking place. Katia spoke, her voice low for moments, then high with excitement as she continually forgot the need for secrecy. Ash caught the words kiss and gift. A long silence passed, and when it broke rough breaths could clearly be heard.\n\n\"Witch.\" Marafice Eye's voice cut through the wood. The word had a nasty edge to it, and Ash felt the flesh on her arms pucker. Sounds followed, a whole lot of them, then two sets of footsteps padded along the hall. Ash rested her head against the door. They were gone, but she didn't like it one bit. Was it her imagination, or did the lighter set of footsteps appear to drag? Knowing such thoughts would only slow her down, she pushed them aside. This wasn't the first time Katia had been with the Knife. The little maid could look after herself.\n\nAsh moved around her chamber, checking the bodyshaped lump of cushions beneath the sheets, pulling on her thickest, plainest cloak, and opening the shutters so that those who eventually discovered she was gone would think she had somehow managed to escape by lowering herself down the Cask's outer wall and so misdirect the search. Stopping at the brazier, she raised the brass lid and thrust a mitted hand into the black, powdery soot. The soot was hot as she worked it into her hair, hot and itchy as sin. It caught in her throat and made her eyes tear, so she scrunched up her face until she was done. When she opened her eyes a minute later by the mirror, she saw a strange girl staring back. Matt black hair did not suit her at all, making her face look like something preserved in wax. Abruptly she turned away. It would have to do.\n\nWhat to take with her? What would she need? She had thought everything through beforehand, thinking of little else for the past six days, but for some reason she had avoided thinking about what she would have to take. Everything in her room belonged to Iss. Oh, he said it was hers and made a point of giving her many pretty and inexpensive gifts, but when it came down to it he took them back at will. She'd seen the truth of that herself these past few weeks, as Katia and Caydis Zerbina plucked objects from her room on his say. She wasn't Iss' real daughter at all; he never let her forget that. Almost-daughter was what he called her. Almost daughter was what she was.\n\nFoundling, Ash told herself. Left outside Vaingate to die.\n\nAngry now, she felt less inclined to leave empty-handed. That silver brush on the dresser would fetch a price at Alms Market, and the pewter cloak pin was set with some kind of red jewel that might be worth something to someone. She snatched them up and bundled them into her cloak lining before her resolve had chance to turn. What else? Spinning, she examined her chamber. Horn books bound with pigskin, their library chains still attached, would be worth a good few coins apiece, but Ash quickly rejected them. Too heavy. Too noisy. If she tried to sell them, the chains would surely give her away.\n\nAbruptly she turned toward the door. She didn't have time to conduct an inventory of her chamber. It was leave now or lose her chance.\n\nIf only I could be sure.\n\nNo. Ash shook her head so hard a cloud of black soot wafted from her hair. She had to go. Stay and she would be a fool, and anything that happened to her would be no one's fault but her own. She was a foundling; no one would care for her but herself. Penthero Iss did not have her best interests at heart. Worse than that, he planned on taking her to the Splinter and... Ash hesitated, took a breath. Truth was, she didn't know what her foster father intended to do. She only knew that her belongings had been taken to the Splinter, the second most powerful man in Spire Vanis had been set to watch her door like a common foot soldier, and every morning while she washed her face and dressed her hair, her maid rifled through her underclothes, looking for blood.\n\nAsh took a final look around the room. None of those were the real reason she had to go, though. Whatever was trapped inside the Splinter, aching with hate and need so great that all she had to do was put her hand against the door to feel it, was what finally forced her into action. Just the memory of the thing's desperate, unspeakable misery was enough to turn her stomach to lead.\n\nIt wanted what she had. And Ash March, Foundling and almost-daughter, wasn't prepared to give it one whit.\n\nSteeling herself, she pushed against the door. Cold bit her like a snake, and she had to fight the urge to step back. Weeks of poor sleep had worn her down, and little things like the constant cold in Mask Fortress now affected her more than they used to. Almost as if she were about to plunge into water, not darkness, Ash took a breath, held it in, and stepped into the corridor. It was deathly quiet. One greenwood torch smoked above the stairs. No light at all reached beneath Katia's door.\n\nAsh moved quickly. She had already lost minutes to indecision, and she knew from observation how little time it took Marafice Eye to do his business. He might step from Katia's room any moment, hands tugging at the leather straps on his pants, small mouth still wet with Katia's saliva.\n\nPromise to take me with you when you go.\n\nKatia's words made the heat come back to Ash's face. It was the only serious promise she had ever made in her life, and although she had chosen words to deliberately mislead the little maid, she felt no better for it. After tonight Katia would find herself back in the kitchens, and that was the one place in the fortress she didn't want to be.\n\nBetter the kitchens than where I go. Hardening herself against emotion, Ash rushed down the stairs. Tonight was Slaining Night, and the Rive Watch would be out in force, patrolling the city and keeping order. Brothers-in-the-watch would be thin on the ground within the fortress.\n\nSlaining Night was the oldest of the Gods Days, and people celebrated it only after dark. Ash was not really sure what the festival marked. Her foster father said it was a celebration of the founding of Spire Vanis, marking the erection of the first strongwall at the base of Mount Slain by the Bastard Lord Theron Pengaron. It sounded reasonable enough, and people did warm rocks from Mount Slain in their hearths or charcoal burners, yet Ash had heard other things said. Old servants in Mask Fortress talked about death and sealing darkness and keeping old evils in their place. Ash had even heard that the name Slaining Night had nothing to do with Mount Slain at all and that in some cities to the east it was called by its true name instead: Slaying Night.\n\nAsh frowned into the darkness. What in the Maker's name was she doing? Tonight was quite frightening enough without digging up a lot of old nonsense to frighten herself even more. Sometimes she could be as dim as a lamp trimmer. Tonight was her best chance of escaping from Mask Fortress. She had spent all day hoping Katia would lure the Knife from her door, and now that she had gotten her wish and was well under way, she had to keep her mind to the task in hand.\n\nSetting her jaw in place, she approached the last run of stairs. A graymeet bench and its accompanying alcove created a trap for shadows on the landing. Torches were sparse, as any flame without a Slain Stone at its base was considered ill luck tonight. Ash shivered. Penthero Iss probably hated that. He hated the old ways and the old traditions\u2014anything that spoke of Spire Vanis's barbaric beginnings and past.\n\nHearing footsteps below, she slipped into the graymeet alcove to wait until whoever caused them passed. The limestone wall was as cold as iron against her back. The stone bench, with its hard seat and sculpted backpiece, couldn't look less inviting to sit on. Funny to think that grangelords and their ladies had once sat here and flirted, their golden wine cooling as they stole kisses and slid their hands beneath silk. All gone now. Penthero Iss had seen to that. He claimed to be a man who liked culture and art and high things, yet although he tore down or put an end to many things that had been common in the fortress in Borhis Horgo's day\u2014dances held in the barbaric light of a burning pyre, death duels fought with broadblades in the quad, and the yearly slaying of a thousand beasts to mark winter's end\u2014he seldom introduced anything new in their place. Penthero Iss seemed more concerned with destruction than creation.\n\nChilled, Ash slipped from the graymeet and took the last steps down to ground level. The footsteps faded into the distance, and she guessed that a single brother-in-the-watch was making his rounds of the Cask. That meant she had only a few minutes before he appeared again.\n\nThe black oak door and its gate were open and raised. Even though Ash knew brothers-in-the-watch used the gate constantly throughout the night to move between the Red Forge and the Cask, it didn't stop her from feeling relieved when her booted feet sank into snow. Wind ripped the cloak from her chest, driving the metal fastening against her throat. Tears stung her eyes as she forced the door closed and stepped into the shadows close to the wall. The snow was old and slippery, polished to ice by the winds of Mount Slain.\n\nIt was not dark. The Red Forge was kept burning through the night, and the red light from the forge fire combined with lamplight from the three occupied towers to make the snow glow like human skin. The Horn was especially bright. The most intricately worked of the four towers, with its iron outwork and lead cladding, was positioned due west of the Cask. Katia said that the Lord of the Seven Granges was holding a gathering there tonight. Wicked it is, miss. Right wicked! There'll be prostitutes and shaven women and worse!\n\nAsh edged along the west gallery wall, heading in the direction of the Horn. The faint, tinny sound of muffled music grazed her ears. Singing followed, then high tinkling laughter, then the wind blasted it all away.\n\nAsh fought with her cloak. \"Thirteen,\" she whispered softly to herself for no reason. Thirteen doors and gateways led out onto the quad. As a child she had sat on the practice court and counted them. She could recall a time when twelve of the thirteen had been in use, but then Penthero Iss had shut down the entire east gallery and sealed off the Splinter, and now only eight doors were left. Eight. And the Rive Watch had keys to them all.\n\nDirectly opposite, set deep within the carved limestone facade of the east gallery, lay the boarded and defaced Shrine Door. The door, which led down to a small crypt once used by the Forsworn, was made of wood that had been ported all the way from the Far South and was gray and hard as nails. It had defied defacing by Spire-made chisels and blades and had been painted with a grotesque likeness of the Killhound instead. The bird leered at Ash from across the quad, its sexual organs red and swollen, not like a bird's at all. Ash could not remember a time when the door was unmarked. In Borhis Horgo's day the knights who named themselves the Forsworn because they renounced all prior oaths upon entering the order had moved freely about Spire Vanis. They had helped Horgo defeat Rannock Hews at Hound's Mire; and forty years later Iss had expelled them for it. Like everyone else, Ash had heard the tales about the twelve old and infirm knights who had fled to the crypt during the expulsions, sending messages to Penthero Iss, begging for asylum. Iss had supposedly granted their request, commanding carpenters to seal the Shrine Door and the crypt's three small windows, interring the men alive.\n\nAbruptly Ash took her gaze from the door. Suddenly everything she looked at seemed to be warning her to turn back, to return to her chamber by the fastest route and put all thoughts of leaving behind her. It was unnervingly easy to imagine herself in a room built of stone with no way out.\n\nNo. No. No. Ash fought the fear before it came. Tonight or never, she told herself, deliberately increasing her pace.\n\nAhead a pale slash of light marked the stable door, drawn together but not yet closed for the night. Lying halfway between the Cask and the Horn, the stables were her intended destination.\n\nAs she headed for the light source, she heard the Cask door creak open behind her. Not daring to look around, she stopped dead. Her heart thumped like a cracked bell in her chest. Remember the hares, she told herself. Only things that move get hunted.\n\nSounds were difficult to catch in the wind. Ash heard nothing she could put a name to at first. It could be a routine patrol, a brother-in-the-watch changing guard, servants bringing spitted meat and kegs of black beer to the Horn. Surely the fact that no one was shouting and running was good? Ash thought it highly likely that news of her escape would be greeted by something harsher than a softly creaking door.\n\nHaving waited for over a minute, she risked glancing back. The Cask door was closed. No one was in sight. The chains holding the gate raised were still. Satisfied, she carried on toward the stables.\n\nSounds of music and laughter from the Horn grew louder. A side door opened as she watched, and a fat man dressed in shiny silk stumbled out. Bending double, he promptly vomited against the wall. Ash didn't stop. The man was too drunk to notice anything moving in the shadows behind his back.\n\nA half-moon rode low over Mount Slain, casting a welldefined shadow for the Splinter. Ash tried not to look at the ice-bound tower, preferring to watch steam rise from the fat man's stomach contents, ice crystals form on her boots\u2014anything rather than the Splinter itself. It was foolishness of the worst kind, yet she couldn't help herself. To look meant to think, and Ash didn't want to turn any portion of her mind that way. Not now, while she was this close.\n\nPaces away from the massive crossbeamed door of the stables, she stepped as quietly as she could. The dry, sawdusty odor of hay and oats mingled with the stench of horse sweat and urine. Ash was glad of smells that had names, rather than the strange, slightly chemical odor that blew with the wind from Mount Slain. Rubbing her eyes to clear away the last traces of wind tears, she padded to the door's edge. All was quiet, and after a moment she braced herself and peeked inside.\n\nMaster Haysticks and two grooms sat on wooden crates with their backs to the door, drinking something hot from pewter tankards and playing blocks with the hard focused attention of men serious about their game. The stone floor was brushed clean and all the horses were boxed. A pair of safe-lamps hung from brass pegs on the wall above Master Haysticks' head, their horn guards yellow as an old nag's teeth.\n\nAsh didn't pause to take a breath before entering. She had to risk this. The stables were her best chance\u2014she had known that from the moment she had decided to go. The gate beyond the stables was the most used and the least checked. The brothers-in-the-watch who manned it were more interested in who was going in than coming out. Those who entered through the stable gate were usually tradesmen or deliverymen or fellow brothers-in-the-watch. Grangelords, petty gentry, rich merchants, and anyone else who thought enough of themselves to worry about appearances always used one of the other gates, preferring to call grooms to lead their horses away.\n\nMaster Haysticks and the two grooms did not hear Ash enter. A groom with a neck as red and shiny as a loin of beef had just thrown the blocks, and Master Haysticks and the second groom were studying the lay of the wood. They did not look pleased. Loin Neck had thrown a good hand, and Ash could tell from the shell-like clink of coinage that money was riding on the wood.\n\nShe took a moment to recover from the ravages of the wind and cold. The stables were dim despite the two safe-lamps, and sounds of horses blowing, feeding, flicking their tails, and snoring were comforting to her ears. She liked horses. After a moment she began edging toward the long line of horse stalls that lay directly across from where the men sat gaming.\n\nShe had to get to the far door. The stables were the reason the brothers-in-the-watch manning the gate were lax; they knew that whoever presented themselves for leavetaking had already passed through the stables and therefore the inspection of the stablemaster and his grooms. Ash had thought this through. She wouldn't stand a chance at any other gate. Brothers-in-the-watch were on guard day and night. They asked questions and would call a commanding officer rather than risk letting anyone of uncertain credentials pass. Why, the west gate alone was manned by a full sept and lit by so many torches that Katia said that all the snow for thirty paces melted.\n\nAsh sucked in her cheeks. If there was any way to leave Mask Fortress other than through one of its four gates, she wished she knew it. Climbing over battlements and roofs was out: She had broken her arm falling against an iron siege guard when she was six. She knew just how treacherous the walls of Mask Fortress, with their iced-up stonework, murder holes, and spiked embrasures, could be.\n\n\"Hey! That throw doesn't count. Bloody rat over there turned the tally.\" Master Haysticks' voice rose in anger. \"Throw again or I'll have you on dung duty for a week.\"\n\n\"'S not my fault the rat\u2014\"\n\n\"Throw again!\"\n\nSounds of crates creaking and grown men huffing muffled the click of Ash's bones as she crouched close to the floor. Shadows deepened as she crawled toward the line of stalls that ran the length of the stables. Every stall in the stables had dividing walls that came to an end a full foot above the floor. Once a week the stables were sluiced clean, and the gap between the walls and the floor was needed to allow all the horse muck, shed hair, and moldering grain to be carried away.\n\nTucking her head close to her body, Ash ducked under the wooden divide and into the first stall. It had to be safer than iced-up stone.\n\nA black gelding stood asleep close to the door, its legs locked in position, its eyes closed and tail slack. The sound of hay snapping beneath Ash's chest woke it instantly. Ash held herself perfectly still as the large, liquid brown eye of the horse regarded her. The gelding dipped its head and smelled her breath. Dust itched in Ash's nostrils and hay stalks scratched against her cheek as she worked to control the impulse to shy away. The gelding's forehooves were big as war hammers, shiny with neat's-foot oil, and shod with iron.\n\nThe gelding whickered and shook his head. Prodding Ash with his nose, it waited to see what she would do. Ash glanced ahead. The stone manger for the feed and the leather water bucket were pushed hard against the back wall. To keep as far away from the gelding's hooves as possible, she would have to scramble over them to reach the next stall. Gathering the ends of her cloak to her chest so they wouldn't snag on splinters, she began crawling forward... slowly.\n\nOnly a short stretch, she told herself, gaze darting between the next divide and the gelding. It was a good horse, she was sure of that. But it was used to seeing rats, not humans, crawling in its stall after dark.\n\nScrambling over the stone manger proved difficult and painful. Ash struck her shin on a sharp edge, and although she didn't dare spend a minute inspecting the damage, she knew there was blood. The gelding watched her. Any time she moved too fast, it changed positions, stamping its hooves onto the dung-packed stone. Ash's heart beat unsteady in her chest. The skin on her face felt too tight. Every second she expected to hear a cry rip through the fortress and the night come alive with armed men and light. Where was Marafice Eye? Was he back outside her chamber? Had Katia slipped inside to check on her one last time before she slept?\n\n\"Damn!\" Ash cursed under her breath as her elbow caught the water bucket, causing it to tip over onto the stone. The floor slanted forward slightly, and the water ran straight under the stall door.\n\n\"Damn black's knocked its bucket again!\" came Master Haysticks' voice. \"Skimmer, spread some new hay before the damp gets in his hooves.\"\n\nFree of the stone manger and the bucket, Ash pushed herself through to the next stall. Her cloak caught on a bit of wood, and just as she tugged it free the black gelding's door swung open. Ash froze. The groom called Skimmer whistled as he spread fresh hay. The gelding, angry by now at all the disturbances, snorted and kicked. Skimmer swore. Master Haysticks and the other groom laughed. Ash thought she heard the faint click of wooden blocks, then Skimmer closed the door.\n\n\"Bloody black's a devil,\" he said. \"That's the last time I go in there after dark.\" He crossed back to the crates. \"Hey! Thems blocks been handled! They weren't laying like that afore I fetched the hay!\"\n\nA lively argument broke out between the men, where Master Haysticks and the second groom swore by every blind dog that had ever frozen to death on a street corner that they hadn't even looked at the blocks, let alone handled them.\n\nAsh turned her attention to the stall she was in. Apart from a harness of fine dark leather hung from a dog hook next to the door, it was empty. The red-and-black insignia of the Killhound on the Iron Spire was stamped across the noseband, indicating that a member of the Watch normally stabled his horse here. Ash didn't permit herself a sigh of relief, though she was relieved. Most of the Watch were out in the city, patrolling the Slaining Night crowds, and that meant many of the stalls would be empty.\n\nShe moved quickly after that. The argument over blocks raged nicely\u2014Master Haysticks' voice rising from mild indignation to thundering outrage as Skimmer continued to accuse him of cheating\u2014and the sharp voices helped mask all the little noises Ash made as she crawled from stall to stall. A fair number of stalls were empty, as she had predicted. The more crusted in hay, horse muck, and horsehair she became, the more the horses seemed to accept her. Apart from a nasty clip from a pregnant mare who was sleeping lying down and struggled to stand as her stall was invaded, Ash avoided further injury. The secret, she found, was to turn on her back, then stay perfectly still for a moment, offering up the soft flesh of her throat, until the horse had smelled and inspected her. They usually let her pass after that.\n\nFinally she found herself in the stall nearest the far door, sharing space with a one-year-old filly who was bright, alert, and not the slightest bit sleepy. The filly was wary at first, but after a few minutes of continuous sniffing, she began nudging Ash's cloak for treats.\n\n\"Sorry, girl,\" mouthed Ash, strangely affected by the gentleness and beauty of the young mare. \"No treats tonight.\"\n\nAfter a quick peep under the stall door had assured her that Master Haysticks and his grooms were too caught up in their argument to notice someone slipping through the outer door, she mouthed her farewell to the filly and slid under the wall.\n\nSlipping into the deepest shadows, following the line of the stable wall, she worked her way toward the exterior door. The men's gazes were turned inward, heads wagging, booted feet cuffing stone. The argument had turned nasty. Money was under dispute now, not wood. One of the safe-lamps was now burning dregs, and the flame was orange and weak. Ash chose her steps carefully, pressing her chest against the damp stone and walking on the balls of her feet. She wanted to run as fast as she could for the door, but the noise and sudden movement would give her away.\n\nLike the quad door, the far door was open slightly to let in latecomers and brothers-in-the-watch. Ash felt a stream of cold air blow against her cheek. As she took the final step toward the opening, the quad door rattled into motion. Quick as she could, she shrank back into the shadows. Someone was entering the stables from the other side.\n\nThe quad door rumbled open, and the massive, bullnecked form of Marafice Eye stepped into view. Cloaked in the skin-soft leather of his office, he carried a horn lamp burning with a hot blue flame in one hand and a crab-hilted dagger in the other. Master Haysticks and the grooms fell silent. The wooden blocks tumbled from Skimmer's hands onto the floor.\n\n\"You!\" said the Knife to Master Haysticks, stabbing the air with his dagger. \"Has the Surlord's ward come this way tonight?\"\n\nMaster Haysticks shook his head with feeling. \"No, sir. All's quiet. No one but the Watch and their parties have passed through.\"\n\nThe Knife grunted. His small mouth gathered to itself like something pulled shut with a wire. Watching him, Ash felt the bones in her legs turn to water. How much of the stables could he see from where he stood? Were the safe-lamps throwing light to the far door or shining in his face? \"Get this place lit up! Lock all doors and let no one pass until you hear from me again. Is that clear?\"\n\n\"But, sir, what about the other brothers-in-the-watch... .\"\n\nMarafice Eye didn't have to say anything to make Master Haysticks fall silent. His eyes glittered, that was enough. With a shrug of his shoulders that in any other man would have been a gesture of uncertainty, but in the Knife was a violent switch of muscle and bone, Marafice Eye turned and walked away. A line of blue light trailed behind him like smoke.\n\nMaster Haysticks followed after, a lot happier to talk to the Knife's back than his face. \"As you say, sir. As you say. Skimmer, get the lamps. Cribbon, help me with this door.\"\n\nAsh didn't wait another moment. While all three men were intent on watching Marafice Eye leave, she slipped from the far door out into the night\n\nCold and darkness enveloped her so completely it was like diving into a pool of black water. The wind hissed. Hard snow squeaked beneath her boots as she moved. Walls, their mortar fresh and in good repair, towered to either side like stone giants. Thirty paces ahead lay the gate.\n\nStable gate, trade gate, whatever one chose to call it, was an iron jawbone of spikes. Two guardhouses, cut from pale limestone and scoured smooth by centuries of hard wind, flanked the gate itself. The gate was up, its great metal teeth suspended above the crossbeam, dripping clods of snow and horse dung onto the ground below. Chain rigging held it in place. Stretching from the crossbeam to the guardhouse, wrapping around gears and levers, forming knots of black iron, the gate chains shuddered like metal foliage in the wind.\n\nAsh stood and looked, her breath shallow and halting. Her only chance now was if the brothers-in-the-watch guarding the gate hadn't heard of her escape. She knew they shouldn't have\u2014someone would have had to travel through the stables to tell them, and Ash knew for a fact that had not happened\u2014but the presence of Marafice Eye made her unsure of herself. He would crush her skull between his bare hands if he could... .\n\nStop it. Ash jabbed her knuckles against her forehead, trying to knock out the fear.\n\nThe snow at her feet began to glow as many lamps were lit in the stables behind her back. Hearing the door rattle closed, she stepped aside and waited until it was locked and bolted. The fortress was coming to life. The stables weren't the only new source of light, and quick glances to either side showed torches being lit around the curtain wall. Sounds broke through the driving roar of the wind: shouted orders, the whir and clank of sealed gates, and the harsh percussion of metal arms.\n\nAsh stepped toward the gate. Tidying herself as she moved, she brushed scraps of hay and muck from her cloak and tucked her hair beneath her hood. She smelled bad and couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. A square of pale light escaped from the grille-covered window on the left gatehouse, and several lines of freshly trodden snow led to and from the door, so Ash headed that way. A man appeared at the grille as she approached. Knowing she was being watched made it difficult to appear natural, and her movements became jerky and stilted.\n\nThe gatehouse door swung open, and a brother-in-the-watch stepped out. The man was young and black haired, with a well-shaped mouth and eyes set too far back in his skull. A cruciform insignia stamped high upon his steel gorget marked him as a grangelord's third or fourth son. He drew his sword. \"Who goes there?\"\n\nThe second man behind the grille raised a bright-burning lamp to the window, throwing light onto Ash and the surrounding ground.\n\nAsh blinked. She thought a moment, then curtsied. With her gaze carefully lowered, she said, \"Please, sir. May I pass?\"\n\nThe guard took a step forward. Like all members of the Watch, he was clean shaven and clad in soft beaten leathers worn over plate. The red steel of his blade shimmered and rippled as the patterns forged into the metal drew the light. Out of the corner of her eye, Ash saw his gaze flick behind her to the growing ring of torches spewing light and black smoke over the wall. When a cry broke through from the other side, he stilled himself to listen.\n\nAsh held her jaw so tight it ached. Grinding the heel of her boot into the snow, she forced herself to stay calm. She was a servant, a messenger girl, a seamstress. She couldn't afford to act afraid.\n\n\"One of Till Bailey's girls?\"\n\nAsh had been concentrating so hard on grinding her heel into the snow that the question startled her. Lifting her head, she risked glancing at the watch brother.\n\nHe did not look pleased. Sharp noises continued to sound within the fortress. \"I said, are you one of Till Bailey's?\" He made a cutting motion with his sword in the direction of the Horn. \"One of those brought in for Slaining?\"\n\nAsh took a breath. He thought she was a prostitute.\n\n\"Answer, girl.\" The guard's well-shaped lips slid across his gums, revealing small, yellow teeth.\n\n\"Yes.\" Ash nodded, her eyes fixed on the man's sword. \"One of Till's.\"\n\nThe watch brother spat. Ash thought for a moment he would let her go. He altered his grip on his sword, preparing to resheathe it, but as he did so a great bell began to toll within the fortress. Ash's heart dropped in her chest. It was the Quarter Bell, hung in the topmost chamber of the Cask. Sounded in times of war, riots, or sieges, it was the signal to secure all gates.\n\nLunging forward, the warden caught hold of Ash's arm and yanked her toward the gatehouse window. Sharp fingernails, the same yellow as his teeth, hooked into her flesh. Inside the gatehouse, the second man moved away from the window, and a moment later metal chains began to shudder and hum as gears and pulleys creaked to life. Stable gate was being lowered.\n\n\"Please. Could you let me out before it drops? Till's expecting me back.\" Ash tried to match the sly charm Katia used when rooting after favors or rose cakes. It was a mistake. She ended up sounding desperate instead.\n\nThe watch brother pulled her up to the window and forced her face against the grille. \"Grod. What should we do about this? She's one of Till's.\"\n\nThe one called Grod was working the crankshaft. He slowed but did not stop as he took a look at Ash. Graying and nearly bald, he had the look of a man who had soldiered for many years. His eyes were sharp as a pig's, and he wore no fancy insignia at his breast, shoulder, or throat. Ash's first reaction was to back away, but the first brother had his hand on her scalp and was holding her fast against the grille. The crisscross iron cut her face into squares, and she could feel the cold metal stealing warmth from her cheeks. Slowly, carefully, using the arm that was pressed against the gatehouse wall, she reached inside her cloak for the jeweled pin she had taken for selling.\n\nThe bell continued to toll, sending out deep, wailing notes that hurt Ash's ears. Overhead, the gate clattered and screeched, descending in small, lurching stages as its weight fought against the chains.\n\nAs Ash's fingers found and then closed around the smooth brass of the cloak pin, Grod shook his head. \"She's not one of Till's. Thin scrap of nothing like that. With that hair and that mucked-up cloak. Till likes 'em plump and pretty, not dark and scraggy as a strip of trail meat.\" Grod's eyes narrowed. His gaze focused on a lock of Ash's hair that had poked through the grille. Releasing his hold on the crankshaft, he straightened his back and snatched the lock. Ash's eyes teared as he ran his fingers along its length.\n\nSoot rubbed off in his hand. A cold smile hardened his face as he rolled the newly cleaned lock between his fingertips. Abruptly he tightened his grip. \"This one stays with us. Bring her round, Storrin. And we'll bind her fit for hauling.\"\n\nOn the word hauling, Ash yanked her head free of the grille. Pain stung her scalp as she lost a lock of her hair to Grod. Swiftly she swung her arm forward and drove the brass spike of the cloak pin into Storrin's well-formed mouth, driving hard through lip tissue and gum to the smooth bone beneath.\n\nThe man swore viciously. Blood welled from his upper lip as he lashed out in anger with his fist. Ash took a hard blow on her shoulder but managed to keep her footing. She had to get through the gate. Inside the gatehouse, she was aware of Grod working on the crankshaft, meaning to lower the gate before he came to the aid of his partner. It was the move of someone practical and cold-hearted. Ash despised him for it.\n\nShe ran for the gate. Storrin was faster, seizing her cloak tails and yanking her down into the snow. Falling to her knees, Ash struggled with the ties at her throat. She couldn't breathe. Snow crystals ground into her shins like powdered glass. Storrin held her cloak like a leash as he jabbed his blade into her back and yelled at her to stop fighting. Ash felt little pain. She was concentrating on loosing the ties and freeing Storrin's stranglehold on her throat.\n\nThe gate juddered to life almost directly above her, fresh gobs of snows dislodging from its spikes as it dropped. Ash's hands felt big and clumsy as she clawed at her neck. Why won't the damn thing come undone?\n\nStorrin yanked hard on her cloak, making Ash slide backward in the snow. A moment was lost to blackness as she fought to regain her footing and stand. Jab! Jab! Storrin poked his blade into her ribs.\n\n\"Stop fighting me, bitch!\"\n\nAsh's mouth flooded with something that had to be blood. Her head felt heavy and swollen, and suddenly there was no room for her thoughts.\n\nReach! Reach!\n\nVoices hissed through her mind like scalding steam. The pressure was unbearable, forcing blood and heat to her face.\n\nAnother yank on the cloak. \"Get back here.\"\n\nREACH!\n\nAsh reached. With numb, frozen fingers, she reached into the taut hollow of her throat and tore at the cloak. The fastening broke. Hot blood rained down her neck, steaming in the freezing air. Gasping and shaking, she took a diving man's breath. Stumbling forward, she dug the toe of her boot into the snow. Storrin was at her back, still pulling on her cloak tails. It took him a moment to realize she was no longer attached.\n\nThe second was all Ash needed. Forcing strength into legs that felt cold and oddly numb, she hauled herself to her feet. And ran.\n\nThe gate was two-thirds of the way down. As Ash fell under its shadow, she heard a high-pitched wail crack the air. All the chains rattled, and gears and pulleys began to spin out of control. The gate dropped. Ash screamed. Storrin reached.\n\nTwo tons of black iron smashed to the earth. A soft gurgle sounded, like water forced from a pipe. Ash felt air and snow and something else spatter against her back. She was on the outside. Outside!\n\nBehind her, she heard the gatehouse door blast open and Grod cry out to the Maker. Strange. He didn't sound angry. He sounded scared.\n\nAsh glanced back. Storrin was under the gate. An iron spike had entered his spine. His legs were jerking, the muscles contracting and relaxing so it looked as if he were performing an obscene dance in the snow. Blood from the impact had sprayed all the way to her feet.\n\nAsh swayed and nearly fell. Turning, she ran into the night.\nFIFTEEN\n\nWithin Mask Fortress\n\nSHE ESCAPED THROUGH THE stable gate. Grod watched her run east. By the time he'd raised the gate and called for aid she was gone. Lost in the Slaining Night crowds.\n\n\"And the other man... What was his name again?\"\n\n\"Storrin.\" Marafice Eye spat the word, clearly displeased that Iss had already forgotten the man's name. \"He's dead. It wasn't the falling of the gate that killed him, but the raising.\"\n\nIss nodded, interested despite all he had on his mind. \"Yes. I've seen things like that before. As long as a man isn't moved and the spikes stay in place, he lives. The moment one tries to free him, the internal organs tear apart and the lungs flood with blood. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate. You have saved the body?\"\n\n\"You're not having it.\" The skin over Marafice Eye's lips stretched white as he spoke. Seeing him standing there, his back to the great Roundroom fire, his boots dripping snowmelt onto the gold-and-turquoise rug, his entire body shaking with fury, Iss decided to say no more. Marafice Eye was protective of his men, fiercely so. The Red Forge would burn long and bright this night in memory of a brother lost.\n\nTurning his back on the Knife, Iss stared into the yellow flames blazing in the hearth. How could Asarhia have gone? Didn't she know he would never hurt her? Hadn't he told her a hundred times that he loved her more than any real father could? Damn her! She had to be found. There was no telling whose hands she might fall into out there. The Phage might find her... or even the Sull. Iss took the black iron poker from its stand near the hearth and turned over piece after piece of burning coal. After a few moments he had collected himself enough to finish the matter at hand. \"Have Storrin's body brought before the White Robes for blessing and annunciation\u2014wake them if you must. If they complain, tell them that the Surlord himself commands it. And see to it that the man's widow, his mother, or whoever else he leaves behind is adequately compensated for the loss.\"\n\nMarafice Eye grunted. Even in a chamber the size and height of the Roundroom, which occupied a full quarter of the ground floor in the Cask, the Protector General of Spire Vanis dominated the space. He was a dangerous animal, not to be toyed with\u2014Iss knew that.\n\n\"You never mentioned what business was so pressing it pulled you away from Asarhia's door.\"\n\n\"No. I didn't.\"Marafice Eye stood his ground, his eyes hardening along with his tight little mouth.\n\nIss held his gaze. Information was cheap to come by in Mask Fortress: He'd have answers soon enough. Caydis Zerbina, with his soft linen slippers that never made a sound and his long agile fingers shaped for foiling locks, would see to that. There was little Caydis and his dark-skinned brethren did not know about Marafice Eye. The Knife prefers to court his women in the dark, Sarab, Caydis had once breathed in his soft musical voice. His night mushrooms is sadly misshapen. Iss found such information both useful and distasteful. And he always sent Caydis in search of more.\n\nReturning the charred black poker to its stand, he said, \"No matter. Asarhia must be found. The servant girl must be questioned. It seems highly unlikely to me that Asarhia could have orchestrated such a clever escape on her own. My ward is a bright girl, but far too naive and timid to have carried off something so cold-blooded without help. Soot in her hair, crawling under horse stalls, strutting to the stable gate, and declaring herself a prostitute!\" Iss paused, his pale hand knotted around the poker shaft. \"The servant girl must be involved in some way.\"\n\nHe looked at the Knife without seeming to. The man's face gave nothing away as he murmured, \"I'll take the truth from her.\"\n\n\"Call her now.\"\n\nIss released his grip on the poker as Marafice Eye left the room. The Roundroom was bright and warm, decorated with silk hangings and silk rugs and thirteen black pewter lanterns that burned the fragrant flume of sperm whales, giving off a sweet childlike scent. Iss had taught Asarhia to read and write here, beneath the light of the pewter lanterns. Once when she was nine years old her feet had frozen to blocks in the quad, and he had stripped her down in front of the fire and warmed her pale little toes in his fists.\n\n\"The girl will be here soon.\" The Knife strode back into the chamber, shaking tapestries and wall-mounted weaponry as he moved. \"Ganron has reported back. Watch has been tripled on Almsgate, Hoargate, and Wrathgate. The east\u2014\"\n\nIss flicked a wrist, silencing the Knife. \"Vaingate must also be watched. I want a triple guard posted there as well.\"\n\n\"Vaingate leads nowhere. No one in their right mind would leave the city by way of Mount Slain. I'll not waste my men setting them to guard a dead gate.\"\n\n\"Indulge me,\" Iss said. \"Waste them.\"\n\nMarafice Eye glowered. His big hands crunched the Killhound broach at his throat, forcing the soft, lead-based alloy into a shape that looked more like a dog than a bird.\n\nThe Surlord explained himself only once his Knife had nodded and said, \"Aye.\"\n\n\"You know Asarhia's history as well as I do, Knife. She was abandoned outside of Vaingate. Vaingate. Now, for the first time in her life she's free to go where she chooses. If you were in her position, wouldn't you be curious about the place where you were found? Wouldn't you like to stand upon that frozen ground and spend a moment wondering why your mother left you for dead? Asarhia is a sensitive girl. She hides things even from me, yet I know she feels her abandonment keenly. Some nights she even calls out in her sleep.\"\n\nMarafice Eye took this information and chewed on it, his hands dropping to his waist where his red sword was sheathed and hung. After a minute of silence he spoke. \"If you're so sure she'll visit Vaingate, then I say we don't increase the guard at all. Visibly. The girl's not stupid\u2014we've seen the truth of that ourselves tonight\u2014and she won't show herself by the gate if she judges it unsafe. Let her come. Let her see only beggars and vendors and street filth. Let her come in good faith, unawares. And let me be there to stop her when she does.\"\n\n\"She is not to be harmed, Knife.\"\n\n\"She killed one of my men.\"\n\nIss felt the anger come to him but did not show it. His voice was quiet as he said, \"You will not hurt her.\"\n\n. \"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Enough!\" Iss kept his eyes upon Marafice Eye until he was satisfied that Asarhia would be returned to him whole. Turning his back on the Knife, he contemplated the stone reliefwork above the hearth. Impaled beasts, two-headed wolves, goats with women's heads and breasts, and serpents with the angled, segmented eyes of insects looked down at him from their limestone poles. Iss shivered. Asarhia! The stupid girl. He would not have hurt her if she had stayed. Caydis would have seen to it that she had every comfort. Her life would have barely changed.\n\nKnuckles rapped against wood. \"Girl's here, sir.\"\n\nMarafice Eye opened the door, and a brother-in-the-watch pushed the little dark-haired maid into the room. With one quick movement the Knife caught the girl's arm and twisted it hard behind her back. The girl let out a small cry but was sensible enough not to fight him.\n\n\"Leave us,\" Iss said to the watch brother. When the door was closed, he turned to the servant girl and shook his head. \"Katia. Little Katia. I trusted you and you let me down. Now look at the terrible mess you are in.\"\n\nKatia's lips trembled. Her fine dark eyes glanced sideways toward the Knife. He looked away.\n\nIss took pity on the girl. She was so very frightened, and she had already been beaten once this night. \"Let her go.\"\n\nThe Knife released her immediately. The girl let out a sob and stumbled forward, hardly knowing what to do. She looked around the room for a moment, then flung herself at the Surlord's feet. \"Please, sir. Please. I didn't know what she was planning. I swear it. She told me nothing. Nothing. If I'd known I would have come to you... like I always do. I would have told you, sir. I swear.\" Finished, she broke down into soft, shuddering tears, her head shaking, her little hands grasping at the watered silk of Iss' robe.\n\nIss patted her shiny curls. \"Hush, child. Hush. I know you would have come to me.\" His fingers slid under her chin, forcing her to look up. \"You're a good girl, aren't you?\" Katia nodded, tears pooling in her eyes, mucus running from her nose to her mouth. \"There. Wipe your face... That's better, isn't it? No need to cry. You know me and you know the Knife, and neither of us has ever hurt you, have we? So there's nothing to be afraid of. All we need from you is the truth,\"\n\nKatia was quiet now but still shaking. \"Sir, I told you all I know. Ash\u2014I mean Miss Asarhia\u2014said nothing to me about wanting to leave the fortress. She kept to herself this past week. Ever since the day she went riding in the quad and came back and found Caydis in her chamber, she\u2014\"\n\n\"She saw him there?\"\n\nKatia nodded. \"Yes, sir. Made him feel bad. Promised that she wouldn't tell on him being slack about his business if he didn't tell on her.\"\n\n\"I see. And did she say anything to you?\" Katia hesitated. \"Tell me the truth, child.\"\n\n\"Well... she hurt my arm, and said she'd hurt me more if I didn't tell her what you asked about whenever you summoned me to your chamber.\" Katia twisted silk in her hands. \"So I told her how you're most particular in wanting to know when her menses start... but that's all I said. I swear it. She was right queer that day. All cold and angry. Told me to leave straight after.\"\n\nIss patted the girl's head. \"Good girl. You're doing very well. Now. This past week, have you seen any sign of her menses? Think hard, girl\"\n\n\"No, sir. All her underthings were as clean as if she'd never even worn 'elm.\"\n\nA soft breath puffed from Iss' lips. \"As if she'd never worn them.\" He exchanged a glance with Marafice Eye. It took him a moment to settle his mind. \"Now, Katia. One last thing and you may go. Have you taken inventory of all the items in Asarhia's chamber?\" Katia nodded. \"So, discounting the jeweled cloak pin we found in the snow and the silver brush we found in her cloak, do you know of any other items she may have taken?\"\n\n\"No, sir. The brush and the pin are the only things that have gone.\"\n\nIss continued to stroke Katia's hair. \"So she has nothing to sell for coinage, and no cloak to keep her warm. What a poor affair her first excursion into the city is likely to be.\"\n\n\"She'll end up in Almstown, most like.\" Marafice Eye had sat himself on one of the dainty satin-upholstered chairs near the door, and judging from the way he was pressing his forearm against the armrest, he seemed intent on breaking it. \"I'll double the Watch numbers there as well.\"\n\nIss nodded, well content to abide by the Knife's judgment. He'd never had occasion to doubt its worth before. Turning his attention to Katia, he said, \"Look at me, girl.\" Katia raised her chin. Such a pretty, plump little thing. A perfect mix of servant girl cunning and little girl fear. Asarhia had cared for her very much.\n\n\"Please, sir. I won't have to go back to the kitchens, will I? Please.\" Large brown eyes pleaded as small, slightly grubby hands clawed at the silk of his robes.\n\nIss was not unmoved. His hand slid across her hot cheek. \"No. You won't have to return to the kitchens. I promise.\"\n\nThe girl was so relieved and delighted, her face was a genuine pleasure to watch. As she kissed his silk robe, teared, and murmured a hundred little words of thanks, Iss nodded to Marafice Eye across the room.\n\nKatia was so caught up in relief, she didn't hear the Knife approach. For an instant, as his hands clamped around her head, she thought it was a caress. One of her hands even fluttered up to touch him. Then the Knife's grip tightened and she knew to be afraid, and the look she sent Iss tore at his heart.\n\nOne quick wrench was all it took to break her neck.\n\nPEOPLE WILL DIE FOR THIS.\n\nFire and ice burned his flesh and his soul. The pain was as deep and many layered as rock formed and then compressed over millions of years beneath the sea. The Nameless One knew pain. He knew its weights and measures, its aftertaste and its cost. His joints ached with the soft calciferous pain of old age, and even to rest them curled and at ease brought no relief. His broken and mismended bones burned within his flesh like heated rods, and his organs shrank and hardened, losing function bit by bit. He no longer knew what it was to straighten his back or urinate without pain. He could not recall when last he had taken a breath that satisfied him wholly or chewed a piece of meat until it was flat.\n\nPain he knew.\n\nThe past he did not.\n\nHe strained for it every day, strained until blood vessels broke in his belly and spine, until his jaw locked, his wounds wept, and the shaking of his body opened sores upon his skin. His fear of harming himself\u2014once so strong that it was the only thought he could retain in his mind from one year to the next\u2014had now faded to a mild concern. The Light Bearer always fixed him. The Light Bearer with his salves and bandages and gauze bags and tongs. The Light Bearer would not let him die. It had taken many years for the Nameless One to learn this, and more after to accept it, but now it was set firmly in his mind.\n\nKnowing this had freed him, not from pain\u2014nothing and no one could free him from that\u2014but from fear of death. The Nameless One no longer had complete control over his face muscles, but bitterness still leaked across his face. Even pain so terrible it tore whole years from his life could not make him welcome death.\n\nHe did not want to die; that was another thing he knew. In time he would know more.\n\nWaiting. That was his life. Waiting, pain, and hate. He waited for the Light Bearer to come, waited for the scraps of light and warmth he brought, ate them up like a dog after bones. A hand on his shoulder, a warm hand, could burn him now. He yearned for the warmth and the touch and the contact, but when he received it, it was too much. When the touch was withdrawn he felt nothing but relief, yet even before the memory faded and the imprint of the Light Bearer's hand left his skin, he yearned for it all over again.\n\nLoneliness wasn't like pain. It had no degrees and niceties; it did not shift and deepen and lighten, or change from day to day. It fed consistently moment after moment, hour after hour, year after year, gnawing away at the back of his throat, consuming him piece by piece. What it left behind scared him. The confinement he could stand, the torture and usage he could stand, even the red-and-blue flames of fire and ice that burned in place of his past. But the loneliness, the utter loneliness, ached with a pain he could not bear.\n\nIt turned him into something he hated.\n\nThe Nameless One shifted in the iron chamber that was his home, his chamber pot, and his bed. Chains, their metal mottled and corroded by years of sweat, urine, and feces, did not rattle so much as crack like the knuckles of a young and soft-boned child.\n\nHate was not new to him; that was the last thing he knew. It came too easily and fit too well to have been something newborn during his confinement. Even as he craved each visit from the Light Bearer, craved the world of light, warmth, and people, he hated all he craved with utter coldness. Loneliness fed off him, and he fed off hate. Hate was how he lived through years of darkness, how he survived the aching stillness and the separate weights of physical pain. It was how he faced a world with neither day or night, seasons, sunlight, nor cool rain. It was how he clung to the last shred of self.\n\nPeople will die for this.\n\nCounting was beyond him\u2014he knew nothing of numbers and their kind\u2014but the words he whispered into the darkness had the feel of things many times said. They were a comfort to him. They made tolerable the wriggling and pinching of the creatures inserted beneath the skin on his forearm, back, and upper thigh. They turned the sawing of their chitinous mouthparts into a soft bearable hum.\n\nSkin on the Nameless One's face cracked and bled as he forced muscles to work upon a smile.\n\nPeople will die for this.\n\nAll he had to do was remember the past, that was the thing. Remember who he was.\n\nAlready he was stronger than he had been. The Light Bearer did not know this; he thought his charge the same. But he was wrong. The Nameless One added to himself in cornea-thin slivers, cumulating in the darkness like rotting meat growing mold. He could retain thoughts from one day to another now. It cost him in other ways, forced his body to fight the pain alone as his mind wet-nursed a thought, and his joints ached to bleeding as he held himself still while he slept. Still, he knew things now, and he judged it worth it. For uncountable years he had known as little as the creatures that grew to maturation beneath his flesh, aware of nothing except hunger and pain and thirst.\n\nHe had himself now. And he spent his days waiting for the chance to reclaim more.\n\nWhen the Light Bearer took, when he descended into the chamber with his light and his warm packages oozing honey and bean juice and stole that thing he needed from the Nameless One's flesh, he uncovered a river of dark currents as he worked. These glimpses of darkness, swells, and eddies of liquid glass whetted the Nameless One's tongue. The current ran for him alone. And every time the Light Bearer slit open skin with his thin engraver's knife and extracted what he needed with his little silver tongs, the river's bank meandered closer. One day it would come close enough for the Nameless One to enter. One day he would use its waters to douse the flames that burned in place of his past.\n\nSettling himself in the position that brought most comfort, with his legs tucked beneath him and the chains pulled high across his chest, he began straining for the name he'd lost. Time came and went. Darkness endured. Somehow, despite all his efforts and his deepest wishes, his mind slipped from his task, and loneliness came to feed upon him once more. Eventually he slept. His dreams when they came were all of warm arms, touching him, holding him, carrying him up toward the light.\nSIXTEEN\n\nA Visitor\n\nHEAVY SNOWS HAD FALLEN on the clanhold during the ten days he was away. The filly didn't like the soft, often chesthigh drifts and left to her own devices chose paths that were indirect, to say the least. Raif let her have her say. The roundhouse was in sight now, and he could find nothing inside himself that welcomed the thought of coming home.\n\nOverhead the sky was striped gray and white by high winds. A storm far to the north, born in the frozen waste of the Great Want, was working itself out beyond the horizon. At ground level the wind it generated was biting. The filly got the worst of it, and her nose and eyes were crusted and weeping, and ice crystals formed continually around her mouth. Every hour or so Raif would stop and clean her face and bridle and check the flesh around her mouth for chilblains. He could muster no such enthusiasm for himself. His fox hood was stiff with ice; five days' worth of breath had accumulated in the guard hairs, turning each strand of fur into a brittle quill of ice. The parts of Raif's cheeks that touched the hood were numb.\n\nHis eyes stung, part snow abrasion and part snow blindness. Everything he'd looked at for the past two days had been blurred. The others probably had the sense to sit out the worst days of the storm, raise camp hard against a leeward slope, and cover their tents in snow. Raif forced his wind-cracked lips to stretch to a hard line. He wouldn't think about the others. They would come back, perhaps two or three days later than he, but they would return, and when they did his life in the clan would be over. Mace Blackhail would see to that.\n\nRaif Sevrance ran from battle, he would say. The yearman broke his oath.\n\nRaif closed his fist around his lore and squeezed. He had done Mace Blackhail's work for him. And, if time could be turned and he could go back to the Bluddroad and the ambush, he couldn't say if he would do it again. The horror of killing women and children had seemed so clear then. Riding alone for the past five days had dulled it.\n\nPulling the filly from her path to one of his own choosing, Raif steeled himself against doubts. The past was the past, and wishing it different never brought anyone relief.\n\nAs he cut across the graze, a line of blue smoke rising from the near side of the roundhouse caught his attention. He rubbed his sore eyes, making them worse. When the stinging subsided, he concentrated upon the smoke, tracking its source to the blue stone roof of the guidehouse. Uneasy, he kicked a better pace from the filly. The guidehouse had no hearth or chimney, only a smoke hole for letting out lamp fumes, yet from the volume of smoke escaping from the roof, it looked as if someone had built and lit a fire.\n\nEverything else about the roundhouse seemed normal. Longhead and his crew had cleared the snow from the court, and a handful of young boys were out taking advantage of the cart-size snow piles that had been shoveled aside. The boys stopped playing and turned to watch as Raif approached. Berry Lye, a great turnip-headed youth with red ears who was younger brother to Banron, brushed the snow from his buckskins and ran forward to greet Raif. He wanted to know what had happened at the ambush. How many Bluddsmen had Banron unseated with his hammer? How had his new armor stood up to the fight? Raif silenced him with a single look. He was in no mood to talk to children. Berry's face reddened to match his ears, and for a moment he looked just like his brother. Raif turned away, suddenly ashamed. He didn't even know if Banron was alive or dead.\n\nBerry ran for the roundhouse, eager to be first with the news that at least one of the ambush party had made it back alive.\n\nRaif slid from his horse and led it to the stables. He felt sick to his stomach. What was he going to say? How could he tell the clansmen and women with due respect what he had done?\n\nPretty, copper-haired Hailly Tanner emerged from the stables to take his horse. She actually blushed as their hands touched over the reins. Raif, like many young men in the clan, had wasted hours dreaming about Hailly's pale, lightly freckled skin and perfect strawberry mouth. Until today she had never deigned to notice him, let alone gone out of her way to tend his horse. Now she stood before him, asking quite coyly if the filly needed hay or oats. Raif showed a grim smile. He was a yearman now; that was the difference. Before he had been nothing, a lad with a borrowed bow and no oath, unworthy in every way of her attentions. He gave her his instructions and left.\n\nIgnoring the small crowd of women and children who had begun to gather at the main entrance, Raif headed for the side door instead. Before he did or said anything, he needed to visit the guidehouse. Alone.\n\nAnwyn Bird stood in the entryway, arms folded, watching him. Raif thought he might be in for a grilling, but something must have been showing on his face, for the grayhaired matron let him pass unchallenged. As he headed along the stone passage to the guidehouse, he heard her calling for a keg of warm beer and a platter of fried bread. Despite everything, Raif felt his mouth watering. He had trail meat in his pack, but if he had eaten any on the way home, he had no memory of it.\n\nThe door to the guidehouse was open. Tattered scraps of smoke and burned matter sailed from the doorway as he passed inside. He thought for a moment, then shut the door behind him, taking time to ensure it was firmly closed.\n\nThe interior was as dark and suffocating as a smokehouse. Raif's eyes stung fiercely. He couldn't see anything at first except the massive blocky outline of the guidestone. Gradually he became accustomed to the darkness and began to pick out details in the room. He was standing at the foot of the guidestone. The granite was slick with graphite oil. Pockmarks in the age-old stone were crusted with hard, milky mineral deposits that glinted like exposed sections of bone. The stone itself seemed darker than he remembered. Perhaps it was the smoke.\n\nA small fire was burning in the west corner, its densely packed timbers wetted with hog's blood to stop the wood from burning with a hot, fast flame. Directly above, the smoke hole had been newly enlarged, and fresh tar had been painted around its edges. No tallow or oil lamps were lit. The guidehouse floor was littered with debris, and bits of rock crunched beneath Raif's boots as he stepped toward the stone. Despite the fire, it was deathly cold, and a harsh acrid stench rose above the gamy aroma of cooked blood.\n\nUneasy, Raif stripped off his soft inner gloves and dropped to his knees by the guidestone. He wasn't good at prayers. Tem had taught both his sons that it wasn't right to ask the Stone Gods for anything for oneself. They were hard gods, not easily moved by suffering. A man's life and his problems were nothing to them. They watched over the clanholds and the clans, demanding their proper place in each roundhouse and around each clansman's and clanswoman's waist. Yet they gave little back... and they answered no small prayers.\n\nRaif's fingers hooked around the time that hung from his belt. Weighing the antler tip in his fist, he suddenly realized there was no need to pray: The Stone Gods had been at his side through the ambush and long journey home. They were here in the powdered guidestone at his waist. They knew all he had come to say.\n\nNot knowing if that thought gave him comfort or made him afraid, Raif reached forward and laid his palms on the guidestone.\n\nThe stone was as hard and cold as a frozen carcass. Raif had to fight the desire to withdraw his touch, knowing that to do so would be a kind of defeat. Forcing his jaw together, he pressed his flesh harder against the stone. Numbness took his fingertips, then knuckles, as blood vessels carried the stone coldness toward his heart. A dull pain sounded in his upper left arm. The light entering his pupils wavered, and his vision flickered and dimmed.\n\nThe numbness crept across his palms, tingling like alcohol evaporating from his skin as it spread. After a few minutes he could feel nothing of the guidestone's surface. The pain in his arm throbbed like a pump drawing up water. For the briefest of instances, Raif was taken with the idea that he was siphoning something from the guidestone, pulling it inward toward himself. He felt a moment of utter stillness, heavy as the deepest sleep, where he understood that if he could just reach beyond the stone's surface, everything would become known to him.\n\n\"What makes you think you can heal the stone?\"\n\nThe voice snapped the thread. The pain and the pulling stopped. The stillness collapsed inward, creating a rush of light and darkness that formed images as it slid back into the stone. Raif saw a forest of high trees, their foliage rippling from blue to silver like the sea; a lake of frozen blood, its surface hard as hammered metal, its depths dark with distorted shapes trapped within the ice. Other things came and went, moving too quickly for him to capture or understand: a city with no name or people, a pair of gray eyes, frightened, and a raven flying north in winter when all other birds flew south.\n\nBefore he could commit it all to memory, someone tugged at his wrists, pulling his hands from the stone. Raif's hands peeled away slowly, making sucking noises as his skin fought to keep hold. He felt no pain, only a vague sensation of loss, Turning, he found himself looking into the black eyes of Inigar Stoop.\n\n\"You should not have touched the stone, Raif Sevrance,\" he said quietly. \"Did you not see that it is broken?\"\n\nRaif's heart was still racing from all the guidestone had showed him, and it took him a few seconds to decipher what Inigar had said. He shook his head. \"Broken? I... I don't understand what you mean.\"\n\nThe guide held out a hand dark and twisted with age. \"Then I shall show you.\"\n\nWhen Raif gave Inigar his hand he did not expect to need the guide's help standing, but his legs buckled as they took his weight and he stumbled against the stone. Surprisingly, Inigar pulled him up, steadied and held him until he had regained enough of his strength to stand alone. Looking at the small, sunken-chested guide with his white old man's hair and his dark, membrane-thin skin, Raif wondered how he could manage such a feat.\n\nInigar smiled, not kindly. \"Follow me.\" Disappearing into the smoky darkness, he gave Raif little choice but to do as he said.\n\nComing to a halt at the opposite side of the guidestone, Inigar wagged his head and said, \"This is why I burn the smoke fire. This\"\n\nRaif followed Inigar's gaze. A deep fissure ran from the top edge of the stone halfway to the floor, exposing the wet and glistening interior of the rock and gathering shadows like a fault line in the earth. Graphite oil oozed from the cleft like blood.\n\n\"It happened five days ago.\" Inigar looked at Raif sharply. \"At dawn.\"\n\nKnowing there was a question in the guide's words, yet unwilling to answer it, Raif said, \"The ambush went well. The others will be back within a day or two.\"\n\nInigar ignored his words completely. Running a hand along the crack, he said, \"The Stone Gods watch over all clans. Despite the claims of each and every clan chief since the Great Settling, they have no favorites. Blackhail, Dhoone, Scarpe, Ganmiddich: They are all one and the same to those who live within the stone. If Scarpe wins a victory over Gnash, they are not displeased. If Ganmiddich takes the Croser roundhouse and makes it their own, they find no reason to be enraged. The Stone Gods created the clans, they put the craving for land and battle within us, so they do not grieve when clans make war and lives are shed. It is their nature as well as our own.\"\n\n\"However, when something happens that goes against all they have taught and bred within us, threatening the very existence of the clanholds themselves, then the gods get angry.\" Inigar punched the cracked guidestone with the heel of his fist \"And this is how they show it!\"\n\nRaif stepped back.\n\n\"Yes, Raif Sevrance. Perhaps you had better step back, for all our sakes.\"\n\nFeeling his face grow hot, Raif began to shake his head. He couldn't bear to look at the crack in the stone. \"I... I...\"\n\n\"Silence! I don't want to be told what happened from your lips. Some news can come too soon, when a man is not ready or able to chew it.\" Inigar Stoop looked straight into Raif's eyes. \"Like oaths.\"\n\nRaif winced. The pain returned to his arm, soft and sickening like a pulled muscle.\n\n\"We three knew, didn't we? Eleven days ago on the court. Me, you, and the raven.\" The guide grabbed Raif's elkskin, tore the ties apart to reveal the raven lore beneath. He plucked the piece of horn from Raif's neck, snapping the twine. Closing his fist around the lore, he said, \"I was not the one who gave you this\u2014that shame is not mine\u2014and perhaps it is as much the old guide's fault as it is yours. Either way, you are not good for this clan, Raif Sevrance. You are raven born, chosen to watch the dead. And I fear that if you stay amongst us, you will watch us all die before your eyes have had their fill.\n\n\"Already you have watched the deaths of your father, ten of our best warriors, and our chief. Yet that still wasn't enough, was it? You had to watch the death of Shor Gormalin, too. Shor. The finest man in this clan. An eagle, he was. Tell me, what right has a raven to watch over an eagle's death?\"\n\nRaif looked down. He had no answer.\n\nStill Inigar Stoop wasn't finished. \"And what of your brother, Raif Sevrance? Who seconded your oath and took possession of your swearstone. What new shame have you brought him? If I had such a brother, who loved me with all the fierceness of his bear lore, who spoke up for me when no one else would, and linked his fate to mine without a moment's hesitation, I would count myself blessed. I would revere and obey him and spend all my days repaying his trust. I would not shame him with my words or my deeds.\"\n\nRaif covered his face with his hands. He had spent the last five days pushing all thoughts of Drey from his mind. Now the guide was pushing them back. And Raif knew he spoke the truth.\n\nInigar opened his fist and let the raven lore drop to the floor. \"You came here to seek the Stone Gods' guidance. So look hard upon the guidestone and see if it does not offer the answer you need.\" He glanced once at the fissure in the stone, just long enough to ensure that Raif understood his meaning, then turned and walked into the smoke. \"When you are done, go and join those gathered to greet you on the court. A visitor awaits you there.\"\n\nRaif closed his eyes. He stood and did not move, fearing to touch the stone again. It was a long time before he scooped up his lore and left.\n\n\"LEAVE HIM ALONE! ALL of you!\" Anwyn Bird broke through the crowd of people on the court, laden tray held out before her like a battering ram. \"Can't you see the yearman needs food and drink before you go bothering him with questions?\" The clan matron favored Raif with a smile so gentle and proud, it made him ashamed. \"Here, lad. It's the best dark beer I have. Drink it.\"\n\nRaif took the horn from her, grateful to have something to focus his attention upon. The sunlight reflecting off the snow was dazzling after the darkness of the guidehouse, and the river of faces before him, all chattering and asking questions at once, made him want to run away. He stood his ground. These people were his clan, and they had a right to know of their kin. He held the horn to his lips, inhaled the rich, woodsy aroma of beer aged in oak barrels and then warmed slowly over the hearth for three days. Anwyn was right: It was the best she had. And that was why he chose not to drink it.\n\nResting the horn against his chest, he tried to pick out the faces of Raina and Effie in the crowd. He couldn't spot them. A small group of people stood in darkness behind the greatdoor; perhaps they were among them.\n\n\"We must know what happened, lad.\" It was Orwin Shank, his big red face grave and worried. \"Take your time, tell us as you see fit.\"\n\nRaif nodded slowly. Why was everyone treating him so kindly? It only made things worse. Forcing himself to meet Orwin Shank's eyes, he said, \"Bitty is alive and well. He fought bravely, and his blade took at least two Bluddsmen that I counted.\"\n\nOrwin Shank reached out and clamped a hand over Raif's shoulder. Tears sparkled in his light blue eyes. \"You always bring news to ease a father's heart, Raif Sevrance. You're a good lad, and I thank you for it.\"\n\nOrwin Shank's words were in such contrast with those he had heard earlier from Inigar Stoop that Raif felt his eyes stinging. He didn't deserve them. Glancing around, he addressed the crowd, fearing that if he didn't get it over and done with soon, he would lose his nerve. \"The ambush was a success. All went as planned. Corbie Meese led a crew from the north of the road, Ballic the Red from the south. My brother was chosen to lead the rear. The battle was fierce, and the Bluddsmen fought hard, but we wore them down and forced them into the snow, and then took victory for ourselves.\" Raif's gaze sought out Sarolyn Meese, Corbie's plump, sweet-natured wife.\n\n\"Corbie fought like a Stone God. He was beautiful to watch.\"\n\n\"Is he hurt?\" Sarolyn touched Raif's arm as she waited for his reply.\n\n\"No. A few nicks, perhaps. Nothing more.\"\n\n\"And what of Ballic?\"\n\nRaif couldn't tell whom the question came from, but he answered it as well as he could. Other questions followed, everyone wanting to know of their loved ones and kin. Raif found himself relaxing as he spoke. It was surprisingly easy to avoid speaking of what came later in the clearing. All that mattered to the clansfolk was if their sons, husbands, and brothers were alive and well and had fought bravely. Raif was relieved to find himself telling truths that hurt neither himself nor any member of the ambush party.\n\nWhen Jenna Walker stepped forward and asked about her son, Raif's relief left him as quickly as if it had never been there at all.\n\n\"Toady was badly injured. He may be dead.\"\n\nJenna Walker shook off the people who moved swiftly to support and comfort her. Green eyes, sharp with anger, pinned Raif to the spot. \"Why do you not know for sure? Why are you here before the rest? What happened after the raid?\"\n\nRaif took a breath. He had feared this moment for five days.\n\n\"What happened to Banron?\" It was big, turnip-headed Berry Lye, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. \"How many Bluddsmen's skulls did he crack open with his hammer?\"\n\n\"Tell us why you're here, Raif Sevrance.\" Jenna Walker's body shook as she spoke. \"Tell us.\"\n\nRaif looked from Berry to Jenna Walker. He opened his mouth to speak.\n\n\"Enough!\" Raina Blackhail stepped from the shadows behind the greatdoor. Dressed in soft beaten leathers and fine black wool, she looked every bit a clan chief's wife. Sable fur at her throat and cuffs rippled with every breath she took, and a silver knife slung at her hip caught the light. The crowd parted for her as she made her way forward. \"The yearman has had a hard journey through new snow. Let him name those he believes wounded or dead, then allow him time to rest and eat.\"\n\nDespite all her finery, Raina's eyes were dull, and her face had lost all its fat. Raif was shocked to see her widow's weals still bleeding. \"Tell Berry of his elder brother.\"\n\nIt was a command, and he obeyed it, seeing in his mind Banron Lye's body lying in a ditch being worried by dogs as he spoke. He gave Berry and his kin little hope, telling them that Banron had not moved even after the dogs had been shot. The belief that his clansman was dead grew in Raif's mind as he spoke. He remembered standing across the Bluddroad from Banron. Watching... .\n\nYou are raven born, chosen to watch the dead.\n\n\"Any others?\" Raina's voice cut through his thoughts.\n\nHe shook his head. \"I saw no others fall.\"\n\nThe relief of the crowd showed itself in relaxed fists and downward glances. Some of the older clansmen touched their measures of powdered guidestone, giving thanks. Raif saw Jenna Walker's questions held, unspoken, on many faces. Raina ensured that no one spoke them out aloud, guiding everyone back to the roundhouse by the simple act of heading there herself. Anwyn helped, promising hot ale and fried bread to all who came inside out of the cold. Raif stood his ground, watching the clansfolk disappear one by one into the roundhouse. More than anything else he wanted to go inside and find Effie, seize her in his arms, and press her child's weight against his. Yet he no longer knew if that was the right thing to do. Raina had kept her away from the meeting on purpose, wanting to shield her from harm.\n\nThat was what he had to do now: shield Effie, Drey, and his clan from harm. Inigar Stoop had made him see that clearly.\n\n\"Raif.\"\n\nRaif looked up as his name was spoken by a voice he had not heard in five years. A broad bear of a man, with stubbly reddish blond hair and light coppery eyes, stepped from the roundhouse onto the court. Squinting into the snow clouds, he said, \"I was hoping for a more favorable light. With a good set of shadows upon me I swear I look a full stone lighter.\"\n\n\"Uncle.\"\n\nIt took Angus Lok only three strides to reach Raif's side. Catching him in a massive bear hug, Angus crushed him so tightly, Raif felt his rib cage bend. Just as quickly, Angus let him go and stood exactly an arm's length from him and examined him as thoroughly as if Raif were a horse he meant to buy.\n\nDressed in undyed suede pants and saddle coat, with high black boots and enough leather belts crossing his chest to harness a team of horses, Angus Lok looked every bit the seasoned ranger that he was. His cheeks were red with snowburn, his lips were smothered with beeswax, and his earlobes were bound with soft leather strips to prevent chilblains and the 'bite.\n\n\"Stone Gods, lad! But ye've grown!\" He knuckled the twelve-day beard on Raif's chin. \"What d'you call this? When I was your age I barely had that much hair on my head, let alone my jaw!\"\n\nThere was no answer to that. Raif smiled. Angus was here, and he didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, but he knew that Angus could be trusted and was owed due respect. Tem had said so many times, even after the person who had brought the two men together had died: Meg Sevrance, wife of Tem, mother of Drey, Raif, and Effie, and sister to Angus Lok.\n\nAbruptly Angus' face changed. Hazel eyes watched Raif closely. \"I arrived early this morning. Raina told me about Tem... . He was a good man, your father. A fine husband to Meg. Adored her, he did.\" Angus smiled softly, almost to himself. \"hough I must admit I hated him at first sight. There was nothing that man couldn't do better than me: hunt, shoot, drink, dance\u2014\"\n\n\"Dance? My father danced?\"\n\n\"Like a devil in the water! Tem only had to hear a tune once to start snapping his heels and making steps. Quite a sight, he was, with his bear-claw cap and bearskin weskit. I do believe it was the reason my sister first fell in love with him, as he was hardly the handsomest of men. 'Least I didn't think so at the time.\"\n\nStupidly, Raif felt close to tears. He had never known Tem could dance.\n\nAngus touched Raif's shoulder. \"Walk a while wi' me, lad. I've been in the saddle for two long weeks, and I've a hankering to stretch these old legs.\"\n\nRaif glanced back at the roundhouse. \"I need to see Effie.\"\n\n\"I've just been with her. She's in good hands with Raina. She can wait a little while longer for her brother.\"\n\nRaif wasn't convinced, yet it was obvious that Angus wanted to talk to him, so he let himself be led away.\n\nSunlight had turned the graze into a perfect slope, white and smooth as a hen's egg. Hemlock and blackstone saplings were no longer recognizable as trees, just strange, man-size mounds of snow that most clansmen called pine ghosts. The snow underfoot was loose and grainy, the motion of the wind preventing it from freezing hard. A few hare tracks broke the surface, soft and discreet as snagged wool.\n\nRaif found little comfort in walking through familiar surroundings. Inigar Stoop's words prayed on his mind. I fear that if you stay amongst us, you will watch us all die before your eyes have had their fill. Raif shivered. Everything looked different now the guide had spoken. Trying to save the Bludd women and children from burning in the war wagon had been a mistake. No lives were saved. And in the end he had only created something worse.\n\n\"Here. Drink this.\"\n\nAngus Lok's voice seemed to come from a very long way away. It took Raif a moment to pull his thoughts from the field north of the Bluddroad. Angus pressed a flask into his hand. Raif weighed it for a moment and then drank. The clear liquid was so cold it stung his gums, completely tasteless, and strong enough to render his breath invisible in the freezing air. Angus slowed his pace. After a few minutes he stopped by a pine ghost and rested his back upon it Clods of snow dropped from the branches onto his boots. He made a small motion toward the rabbit fur-covered flask, encouraging Raif to drink more. Raif took only enough to heat his mouth.\n\n\"You had a hard time on the Bluddroad.\" It was not a question. Angus unbound his wrist ties and stripped off his fine sealskin gloves. His undyed clothes, the plain journeyman's blade strapped to his thigh, and his short-cropped hair marked him as an outsider. He was not clan. Tem had said that Angus and his sister grew up in the cityhold of Ille Glaive, close to the Ganmiddich border. Tern had met Meg during the year he was fostered at Ganmiddich, when that rich border clan held a summer dance for its yearmen and clan maids. Angus had been invited\u2014Raif could not recall why\u2014but he did remember that Crab Ganmiddich, the Ganmiddich chief, had forbidden him to come unless he brought a woman of his own to dance with. Angus had brought Meg. Tem saw her, and according to Gat Murdock, who was also present, he never gave her chance to dance with another man all night. They were married two months later, on the very day that Tem was released from his yearman's oath.\n\nMeg Lok never returned home. On the day she married Tem Sevrance she became clan.\n\n\"Raina told me that you can shoot targets in the dark.\" Angus busied himself as he spoke, turning his gloves inside out and scraping the lining clean with a handknife. \"She also said that when you and Drey returned from the badlands, you mentioned something about sensing the raid as it happened.\"\n\nRaif felt his face grow hot. What right did Raina have to say such things to an outsider?\n\n\"Others tell me you're having problems with Mace Blackhail, arguing with him in front of clansmen, disobeying his orders\u2014\"\n\n\"Say what you mean, Angus. I know well enough how things stand in this clan.\"\n\nAngus was unaffected by Raif's outburst. Finished with his gloves, he reversed them and pulled them back on. Only when he had cleaned and resheathed his knife did he see fit to reply. \"I have business that takes me south to Spire Vanis. I think you should come along.\"\n\nRaif met Angus Lok's eyes. Irises shot with flecks of bronze returned a steady gaze. How much does he know? Has he been talking to Inigar Stoop? \"Why make such an offer now?\"\n\nAngus Lok gave Raif a look that made him wish he hadn't spoken. Angus wasn't clan, but he was kin. Respect was his due.\n\n\"When a man arrives back ahead of his party, it's usually a sign that there's trouble between him and the other members of that party. And when a clansman walks away from battle, he makes himself a traitor to his clan.\" Angus' face hardened along with his voice. \"I'm not a fool, Raif. I heard what you said on the court. You knew enough about the fighting, but you said as good as nothing about the wounded. You don't even know for sure who's alive and who's dead. It's obvious you didn't see out the fight. Something happened, didn't it? Something happened to make you ride away.\"\n\nAngus held up a hand to stop Raif from speaking. \"I don't want to know what it was. Clan business is not my business. My sister's kin is, and from what I've heard this morning, Mace Blackhail has a mind to be rid of one of them. Now, by walking out on an ambush, that kinsman has as good as sharpened the staves for his own hanging.\"\n\nRaif looked down. One afternoon, two people. Two people telling him it was best if he left the clan. His hand rose to weigh his lore.\n\nClan was everything.\n\nAll he loved and knew was here. Only eleven days ago he had sworn an oath binding himself to Blackhail for a year and a day. If Inigar Stoop had refused to hear his oath, refused to warm the stone for his yearing, then everything would be different. He would have been just another lad in the clan, not sworn to anyone or anything. If he had left the battle as Raif Sevrance, he would have been forgiven. Raif could almost hear Orwin Shank or Ballic the Red speaking up for him: The lad is young, unsworn, and untested Who can blame him for acting like a pelt-shorn fool? Instead he had left as a yearman. And no one would wear their jaw finding excuses for a yearman who had left the field before battle's end. Disobeying an order, quarreling with the clan chief, even wasting arrows on a war wagon that was already alight, were offenses that could be dismissed as heat-of-the-moment anger or overzealousness. Clansmen could and would forgive such misdeeds. But for someone to leave the field while the battle was still raging, ride away without word or warning...\n\nRaif closed his fist around his lore. Angus was right: Mace Blackhail would see him staved and skin-hung. The truth of what happened, the hunt and slaughter of the Bludd women and children, would be forgotten. It had to be. Raif knew he would never mention it in his own defense. To do so would dishonor Drey, Corbie Meese, Ballic the Red, and all the rest.\n\nHe would not bring such shame upon his clan.\n\nBetter to let Mace Blackhail smooth over the incident; let him spin some wolf tale where the Bludd women were armed and trying to escape, let everyone who took part in the slaughter return home believing it, and let the truth lie dead on the Bluddroad.\n\nRaif felt a finger of ice tap his cheek. Watcher of the Dead. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to be raven born. The raven circled overhead, watched and waited, and then picked at the lifeless remains. Inigar Stoop had the truth of it in the guidehouse: He was not good for the clan.\n\nThe fifth Blackhail guidestone, which had been quarried from the stonefields south of Trance Vor and had stood within the roundhouse for three hundred years, had split because of his actions. The very stone itself had told him to go. Raif could not recall all the images the guidestone had shown him, but one thing was certain: None of the places was home. The Blackhail clanhold harbored no bloodred lakes or forests of silver blue trees. The guidestone had told him to go and shown him the way.\n\nRaif shivered, suddenly colder than the day itself. He looked up and met eyes with Angus Lok. Angus' large hearty face and bright coppery eyes showed no signs of the temper he had displayed minutes earlier. He looked worried now and kept glancing east, perhaps searching for signs of the ambush party or to track the progress of the storm.\n\nIt had been five years since he had come here last Effie had been little more than a baby at the time. Raif tried to recall all he knew about his uncle. He had a wife and children, yet Raif found he had no memory of where they lived or what they were called. He didn't even know how Angus made his living. Raif knew Meg had loved him dearly, and when she had been alive Angus had visited the roundhouse twice a year. He always brought gifts, good ones, such as practice swords made from petrified wood, chunks of green seaglass, thumb rings carved from walrus ivory, bowstrings woven from human hair, and little fur pouches made from whole collared lemmings, just the right size for holding flints.\n\nRaif smiled as he remembered how he and Drey had fought over the gifts. One of them would always end up bleeding, Tem would clout both of them, and then Angus would miraculously produce a second identical object from his pack. After that Meg would scold everyone\u2014Angus and Tem included\u2014and shoo them all away until they had found some good sense.\n\nSlowly Raif's smile faded. He glanced back at the roundhouse. Clan was everything: home, memories, kin. To leave would mean never coming back. A man could not break an oath and desert his clan and ever expect to return home. A muscle pulled high in Raif's chest. He loved his clan.\n\n\"So. What do you say, lad? Will you come with me to Spire Vanis? I'm not as young as I once was and could do with a young buck to watch my back.\"\n\nYes, Raif Sevrances. Perhaps you had better step back, for all our sakes.\n\nRaif closed his eyes and saw the guidestone's leaking wound. Opened his eyes and saw Drey as he last glimpsed him: a hammer in his hand, saliva rolling down his chin, mouth filled with words Mace Blackhail had given him. No. Raif stopped the memory before it burned itself more deeply into his soul. Instead he forced himself to remember Drey on the court the morning they had left for the ambush. Out of twenty-nine men, he had been the only one willing to come forward and second his oath. If I had such a brother... I would not shame him with my words or my deeds.\n\nRaif pulled himself up to his full height, hand coming to rest on the hilt of his halfsword. Inigar Stoop was right. Stay, and no matter what happened he would only bring shame to Drey.\n\nThe day grew darker and the badlands storm rolled south as Raif spoke his reply to Angus Lok.\nSEVENTEEN\n\nAnd Now We Must Bring Them War\n\nVAYLO BLUDD KEPT His stallion on a tight rein in the snow. The old horse's eyesight was failing, and despite its advancing years it was still as mean as a pike. Any man or horse who drew too close could still find themselves the recipient of a swift kick to the shins or balls courtesy of the stallion who answered to the name of Dog Horse. Vaylo Bludd had a soft spot in his heart for the old nag. Although it had long since willfully disregarded all its obedience training, it still remembered two basic things: Dogs and small children were not to be kicked.\n\nSmiling, Vaylo revealed his black and aching teeth. He'd had a terrible time training the stallion. It was a bad horse, everyone who saw it said so, yet here they were eleven years later, the Dog Lord and his bad horse, trotting through territory gained, as comfortable with each other as a man and mount could be.\n\n\"Light the torches, man! Light them!\"\n\nRiding at the head of the party of twelve, Vaylo heard his sixth son shout for light. Hanro had done little but shout orders all day. Vaylo wasn't quite sure whom he was trying to impress but swore to himself that next time his sixth son called for torches, scout reports, or wet halts he would make a point of riding Dog Horse close enough to land a swift kick to his vitals. Just because a man shouted orders, it didn't mean he was leader of the party. Hanro needed to learn that. All his sons did.\n\nNot liking to dwell on the weaknesses of his seven sons, Vaylo turned his attention to his surroundings. Late afternoon light was fading rapidly, turning the snow underfoot blue and translucent like ice. Ahead lay the Copper Hills, once key to the Dhoone's greatness and military might. Copper mined there had made Clan Dhoone rich, allowing them to build the largest roundhouse in the clanholds, dam rivers, divert streams, and cart a mountain's worth of topsoil to the northern fellfields, converting barren land left by the retreating Hell's Tongue glacier into prime livestock graze.\n\nThis was the first time Vaylo Bludd had been out riding in the Dhoonehold since he had taken it, yet he had little mind for the fine grasses, the well-stocked trout lakes now sealed for the winter beneath a crust of freshwater ice, or the herds of elk traveling southeast through the blackstone forests, fat and glossy from two seasons of good grazing on the badlands to the north. All he had eyes for was the Bluddroad.\n\nHis grandchildren were four days late. The party had been set to leave the Bluddhouse thirteen days back. They should have arrived at Dhoone by now. Drybone thought it likely that the party had met with bad weather in the hills and had set the great war cart down on its trusses and made camp until the worst of the storm had passed. It sounded likely, and Drybone was a cautious man\u2014for a Trenchlander\u2014yet Vaylo couldn't shake off a feeling of unease. His dogs were fussy and quick to bite, and the scent of Sarga Veys hung around the Dhooneseat like peat smoke.\n\nIn a way it had been a relief to leave the roundhouse. Clan Dhoone was not home. Perhaps in time that would change, when his sons' wives and their children arrived and claimed the hold as their own, but for now it was a place of strange echoes and foreign shadows and large empty rooms that no amount of birch fires could warm or light. The place made his teeth ache. To add to his troubles, four of his seven sons were living there with him, fighting like foxes down a hole, scheming, bickering over land and borders, and getting drunk as fools each night. And each and every one of them thought he could take the Dog Lord's place!\n\nVaylo Bludd spat out a wad of black curd. The dogs trotting at the stallion's hocks growled and snapped, shaking their heads and worrying against their leather collars and harness. They hated being spat at.\n\n\"Use your noses, then,\" he barked at them. \"You weren't brought here to plow snow. Search. Find.\" Just to spite them, he made the stallion rear and kick out its hooves. Damn dogs! They'd been traveling since before dawn, and the only scents they'd caught were a lone broadback ewe, which they'd sent cowering up a slate crag, and a raven-killed eider whose flesh was one-day froze. Still, even though Vaylo was inclined to be churlish with his dogs, he was secretly quite relieved. No scents meant no people, and no people meant no foreigners on the road.\n\nIndeed, the snow underfoot was as white and level as the head on a good stout. They had seen no sign of riders all day, and now that the light was failing they wouldn't be able to spot either tracks or camp smoke. Which was why the dogs needed to earn their keep.\n\nThe dogs, instantly recognizing the change in their master's temperament, ran ahead of the party, bounding or pushing through the snow, depending on the length of their legs. Vaylo sat back in the saddle, his ancient leathers creaking along with his bones. Stone Gods! But it was cold! Made him want to piss by the minute. He remembered once when he was young, riding from the Trenchland border to the Bluddhouse in a single day, not stopping once to empty his bladder or ease the chaff around his thighs. Damn fool thing to do! Probably damaged something internal along the way.\n\n\"Vaylo. We can't ride for much longer. Even with the torches lit.\" Cluff Drybannock, better known as Drybone, fell in at Vaylo's side. Even as he adjusted his horse's pace to match his chief's, Vaylo could hear the slap and patter of a second horse hurrying to catch up. Vaylo didn't have to turn his head to know who the second rider would be. Hanro wouldn't want to miss out on anything Drybone was likely to say.\n\n\"We'll ride a while longer,\" Vaylo said, deliberately speaking loudly to relieve the burning in his sixth son's ears. \"Give the dogs chance to spot a league or two.\" As he spoke, he glanced over at the man he trusted most in the clan. Drybone was a great wall of a man, with barricades for shoulders and skin the color of red clay. He was not clan, not quite. His mother had been a Trenchlander whore, and his father... well, whore's bastards seldom knew just who their fathers were. When Drybone turned seven, his mother had sent him from the Trenchlands to the Bluddhold and told him never to come back. He was not one of their kind, and he was not wanted anymore.\n\nVaylo sucked on his old teeth. He hated Trenchlanders. What sort of woman would do that to her child? He still remembered Cluff being brought to the Bluddhouse by massive, bulb-nosed Yagro Wike, who had caught the lad tickling for trout in the Flow. Thin as a fence post, he was, and nearly wild with hunger and sunstroke. When asked what he was doing on Bludd territory, he had replied just the way his mother had taught him: \"I'm a Trenchborn bastard. My father was a Bluddsman, and I'm searching until I find him and make him pay his due in my rearing.\"\n\nThe lad had such a fierce look in his bright blue eyes and such a hard sense of purpose within his small clenched fists that Vaylo had taken to him on the spot. \"A bastard, eh?\" he'd said, ruffling the lad's night black hair. \"Well, you should fit in just fine here. If no man speaks up to claim you, then I'll take you as my own.\"\n\nThat was twenty-five years ago. Drybone was a fullsworn clansman now and the best swordsman in the clan, yet the bastard was still in him. It never went away. Vaylo knew that. They understood each other, the whore's bastard and the clan chief's bastard. They knew what it was to give up their places at table, to fight a real or imagined insult until their mouths filled with blood, and to watch the laughter and scolding of legitimate children with envy so potent that it took something from you as surely as a long day's hunt in the woods. Vaylo had seen to it that Drybone had fared better than he, but you could not shield a child against the cruelty of other children. And to try to was a mistake of a different, greater kind.\n\nDrybone had grown up well enough. He was a good solid fighter, a hard worker, and as vigilant of people's moods and motives as any bastard ever was. Vaylo knew his sons resented him, yet he didn't care one jot. Let them fret over who would take over his chiefdom when he was dead and gone. Worry might make men of them yet.\n\n\"Balhagro would have pulled well off from the road to make camp,\" Drybone said, squinting into the darkness beyond the pale sheets of torchlight. \"And would have thought to cover the wagon's tracks.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord nodded. Drybone had a better opinion of Balhagro's initiative than he had, but that didn't mean he wasn't right. Age had brought Vaylo the slow realization that he would never know everything about men and that even those he knew best were capable of surprising him. Balhagro was a steady man; that was why Vaylo had chosen him to lead the moving party. That and the fact that Balhagro's eldest daughter had just produced his first grandchild, so the man knew just how fiercely grandchildren must be guarded.\n\n\"Aye,\" Vaylo said, suddenly hopeful that Drybone was right and Balhagro was the sort of man to take extreme caution. \"We should have brought the hawks. They'd be better than the dogs in the snow.\"\n\n\"Your best pair were out last time I looked.\" Drybone glanced at Vaylo, a question in his sharp blue eyes.\n\nVaylo Bludd seldom lied. He either spoke the truth or said nothing. Looking at Cluff Drybannock, he saw a man who took care that his appearance was neither lesser nor greater than those around him. His braids were closely tied, but not excessively so; his furs and leathers were of good quality, but he wore no sable, lynx, or stillborn calfskin. The greatsword at his waist was shorter than most swords given that name, but it was polished to a high sheen and couched in the best lamb's wool. Vaylo didn't have to look around to know how his sixth son was dressed in comparison. Hanro was the dandy of the bunch. Spent more time oiling his braids than most women did plucking their leg hair. His crown was always shaved so smoothly that sometimes Vaylo wondered if he wasn't just plain bald.\n\nKicking his stallion forward, Vaylo made a minute gesture to Drybone to keep up, and the two rode ahead along the darkened road, leaving the rest of the party to the light of the torches. Hanro followed his father for a while, trotting awkwardly in the middle of the two groups. Then, obviously deciding he looked ridiculous attempting to listen in on his father's conversation, he slipped back into the main party. When Vaylo heard his sixth son's voice cracking orders in the peeved tone of a slighted dance partner, he knew he was free to speak.\n\nLeaning in toward Drybone, he said, \"The pair should have homed by now, Dry. I sent them to Duff's Stovehouse to see if the stovemaster had given ale or warmth to Sarga Veys.\"\n\nDrybone took this information and thought on it, the muscles on his lean beardless face giving nothing away. \"Storms?\"\n\nVaylo shook his head. \"Storms have been to the north. Duff's is to the south.\"\n\n\"You think the birds were shot?\"\n\n\"No. I think they were stopped.\"\n\n\"By Veys?\"\n\n\"He's a magic user, Dry. They can spell birds out of the sky.\"\n\n\"The word magic was enough to make Drybone sign to the Stone Gods, touching both his eyelids and then the copper vial at his waist containing his measure of powdered guidestone. \"If he is a threat to the clan, say it, and I will take the south road and tend his throat myself.\"\n\nHearing Drybone speak, Vaylo felt the muscles in his old heart tighten. Drybone was not a man to make such statements lightly, and Vaylo knew he meant what he said. \"I don't know if he's a threat or not, Dry. I don't even know what he and his master want. I just know I don't trust either of them. And when my two best hawks fail to home from a journey I've sent them on a dozen times before, then it sets my mind to worrying.\"\n\nIt would have been easy then for Drybone to point out that Vaylo should never have accepted Sarga Veys' offer of help in the first place, yet if the thought was on his mind, he didn't speak it. Vaylo was grateful for that. He needed no reminder of his mistakes. Living with them was penalty enough.\n\n\"You think Sarga Veys met with someone at Duff's?\"\n\n\"I think it's possible. The morning he visited the Dhoonehouse he was poking around, asking questions of the stablehands and pot boys. He's a sly one, that Veys. I don't trust any man whose jaw is as smooth as his arse.\"\n\n\"Did he ask for anything in return for his master's help with the Dhoone raid?\"\n\nVaylo looked at Drybone. It was a bold question he asked. Many Bluddsmen knew that something had happened the night of the Dhoone raid to give them an unnatural advantage; fewer knew that their clan chief had arranged it; and fewer still knew whom he had arranged it with. None knew the terms of the deal. Now Drybone was asking for that confidence.\n\nPerhaps it was the darkness and quiet along the Bluddroad, or the thought that his grandchildren could be out somewhere in these hills, freezing and hungry, their wagon mired in thick snow, their fuel running low, but for some reason Vaylo wanted to speak. He had been the Dog Lord for over thirty years, and at no time during his tenure could he remember feeling so uncertain about the future. All his life he had taken what he wanted. Now he feared the Stone Gods wanted it back.\n\nKeeping his voice low and his left hand resting on his guidestone pouch, he said, \"Veys and his master are up to some kind of doggery, Dry. When they first came to me six months back, they said they wanted nothing in return for their help. Said the clanholds needed to be united under one firm leader, and that I, as chief of the mightiest of the clans, was just the one to do it. Veys swore his master would never ask for anything in return. And to this day he hasn't. Yet I know in my gut it isn't right. I have a suspicion I'm being used, but can't for the life of me work out how.\"\n\nDrybone's expression never faltered as his chief spoke. If he was shocked, angered, or disappointed, he did not show it. After taking a moment to correct his gelding's path, he said, \"Then we must be watchful, you and I. All our actions from now on must be well thought, and our priority must be to secure the Dhoonehold and prepare for an unknown threat from outside.\"\n\nReaching over, Vaylo clasped Drybone's arm. They were bastards together, and they knew what it was to defend their possessions against those seeking to take them away. Just knowing he had Drybone's support was enough to set his mind at ease.\n\nAs Vaylo's eyes met Drybone's and recognized and acknowledged the loyalty there, a wolf howl broke through the glassy stillness of the night. Keen and hard, it drove through. Vaylo's mind like a stave through his heart. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and deep within his stomach the remains of his last meal turned to lead. The wolf dog. Even as he took his next breath, he heard the other dogs yipping and barking as they rushed toward the call.\n\nSwinging his great weight around in the saddle, Vaylo followed the wolf dog's cry with his eyes. It came from the north, on the wooded slope that lay above the road. Without pausing to give orders or finish his business with Drybone, Vaylo kicked his old stallion into a canter.\n\nHe followed the road for as long as he could, his eyes aching with the strain of holding a path in the darkness. The snow reached the stallion's fetlocks, and great clouds of blue crystals shot into Vaylo's face as he rode. Dimly he was aware of the rest of the party following, but he had no mind for them. The boiled-leather body armor that stretched across his chest felt as tight and constricting as a corset, and Vaylo swore curses to the man who had buckled it. The wolf dog's howls made him mad with fear. Three years he had owned that beast, yet he had never once heard such a sound from its throat.\n\nAs he took the slope, a pair of dogs sprang forward, frothing and howling and throwing their heads from side to side, eager to lead the way. Vaylo spoke words to the stallion, and the old beast allowed the dogs to guide him.\n\nLimber pines, their spines bent by the weight of newly fallen snow, shivered like caged animals as he passed. Saplings spilled their loads as the stallion brushed against them, snow hitting the earth like fallen fruit. The exposed pine needles glistened with protective resin, scenting the air with the smell of winter and ice. The cold made Vaylo's eyes water, and he wiped tears away with fingers encased in dog's-hide gloves. The fur around his collar was stiff with breath ice, and his woolen cloak pulled at his throat, its fibers heavy with massed snow.\n\nThe dogs led the stallion along a cut bank where runoff flowed in spring and through dense clusters of black fir and stone pines. Vaylo thought he detected an unevenness in the snow underfoot, but he couldn't be sure if it was due to tracks lying beneath the surface or uneven ground. His heart felt too big in his chest, as if some unknown disease had enlarged and distended it, causing chamber walls to thicken and muscle to bloat. He could hardly breathe.\n\nAbruptly the dogs separated, allowing the stallion to step ahead of them into a gently sloped clearing high above the road. The wolf dog, with its thick-muscled neck and metalcolored snout, stood in the center and howled one last time as its master approached. Vaylo slid from his horse, letting the reins fall slack over the stallion's neck. Behind him the other dogs waited, their yelps growing increasingly softer until there was no sound at all. The wolf dog's eyes were two coals burning in the darkness. Vaylo stepped toward them, knowing as he did so that he would find nothing good. He was the Dog Lord, and it had been many years since he had last fooled himself with false hope.\n\nWe are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders. Death is our companion. A hard life long lived is our reward.\n\nThe Bludd boast echoed in the back of Vaylo's throat. Words that had been said so many times over so many centuries that their truth had been deadened by layers of callused skin. Vaylo did not want to think on their meaning. Not tonight.\n\nBones cracking, furs shedding ice, he stepped toward the wolf dog. The dog shrank as he approached, crouching on all fours and lowering its belly to the ground. A soft whine vibrated deep within its throat, and it began to lick and snuffle at something that stuck out from the snow.\n\nVaylo fell to his knees. Lashing out violently, he sent the wolf dog away. Speaking words harsher than he had ever spoken before, he made sure it would not return for the rest of the night. Oblivious of the creature's slow, reluctant withdrawal and the thin, almost human cries it made as it left, Vaylo stripped off his gloves and thrust his bare hands into the snow.\n\nHe dug until his fingers turned blue and his skin cracked and blood rolled over flesh he could no longer feel. He dug until his leather cuffs froze solid and his knuckles were bared to the bone and snow driven deep beneath his fingernails was ground into lenses of ice. He dug until his hands and wrists swelled with frostbite, blood ceased flowing to his fingers, and flesh died. Others came and offered help, but he would let no one near him. Light was brought, words were spoken, but all he had mind for was digging his granddaughter's body from the snow.\n\nNine, she was. The fiercest little thing that had ever worn a braid on the Bluddhold. She beat all the boys her age at swordplay, and she fought hard and dirty, and Vaylo still had the sore spots to prove it. Just before he'd left, she'd jumped him in the storeroom and stuck him in the knee with her older brother's training sword. Vaylo smiled as he remembered her wild, triumphant giggling. That girl, he thought. That girl is a Bluddsman through and through.\n\nHer eyes were closed, but her mouth was open and full of snow. The hammer blow that killed her had not drawn blood. As Vaylo dug and scraped and freed her body from the snow, he spoke words, scolding her for playing in the snow. What had Granda always told her? Never play in the snow in unknown woods.\n\nWhen finally she was free, he tugged the cloak from his back, wrapped her tightly, and carried her to where Dog Horse could watch over her. He never kicked children; she would be safe with him.\n\nThat done, he went back to the snow and dug again.\n\nIt took him all night to free his grandchildren. Others worked on the women, and more still worked on the road, digging out the men who had fought to save the party. Vaylo paid them little heed. His grandchildren were cold, and they needed their Granda to warm them, and he couldn't stop until he had lifted each tiny body from the snow.\n\nDawn came, bringing light that was not welcome and a new day that was wanted even less. Clouds smothered the sky. The snow turned pearly and gray, the color of uncooked seal flesh. The pines around the clearing were perfectly still.\n\n\"The Sull did not do this.\"\n\nVaylo looked up from where he was crouched by the body of his newest grandchild, a baby boy no more than ten months old. Drybone stood above him, his face dark with grief.\n\n\"The Sull would never kill children.\"\n\nVaylo nodded. He knew why it was important for Drybone to speak: He was half Trenchlander, and the Trenchlanders were part Sull. Turning back to the frozen body of his grandson, Vaylo began to brush the ice from the child's fine black hair. \"Clan Blackhail did this,\" he murmured. \"And now we must bring them war.\"\n\nSomewhere many leagues to the west, the wolf dog began to howl.\nEIGHTEEN\n\nLeaving Home\n\nEFFIE AND RAINA CAME to see them off. As Raif held his sister, pushed his cheeks against her soft, beautiful hair, he was aware of something moving in the darkened hallway beyond the roundhouse door. Wooden boards creaked, and a slight form slipped into the cave of shadows that existed beneath the stairs.\n\n\"That's just Nellie Moss,\" Effie said without looking around. \"She's always following Raina about. One day she'll end up dead in the snow.\"\n\nRaif pulled back from Effie so he could look at her face. Huge blue eyes, the color of the sky at midnight, regarded him with a level gaze. \"What do you mean, Effie? Why will Nellie Moss end up dead?\"\n\nEffie shrugged. The russet-colored dress she wore was woven from heavy goat's wool and made her look like a doll dressed in grown-up clothes. \"I don't know. She'll just be dead, that's all.\"\n\nOh, gods. Raif rocked his sister against his chest. She was such a small thing\u2014too small for her age. When had she learned to speak of death so calmly?\n\nGently he set her down on her feet. A few strands of hair had fallen over her eyes, and he took a moment to push them back. He had to believe she would be better off without him. He had to.\n\n\"Effie will be safe with me and Anwyn,\" Raina said, taking hold of Effie's arm and leading her away. \"And Drey will be back today or tomorrow, and you know how much he loves her.\"\n\nRaif did not speak.\n\nAngus touched his arm. \"Come on. Dawn's cracking. We'd best be on our way.\" With that, he led Moose and his own horse, a muscular bay with clever eyes, across the court. A light snow was falling, and Angus' hood was up. The fur around the hood was dark and glossy, and Raif could not tell what animal it came from.\n\nRaif turned to face Effie and Raina Blackhail one last time. Raina had worked through the night to get supplies together for the journey south. She hadn't once asked why he was leaving, but she knew about the guidestone and had guessed that something other than a battle well fought had taken place on the Bluddroad. Like Inigar Stoop, she had refused to hear the details. Raif didn't know why she was going out of her way to help him. It might be that Inigar had told her he was bad for the clan. Yet somehow Raif doubted that. Raina Blackhail wasn't the kind of woman to act on someone else's words.\n\nYet she had married Mace Blackhail that same day he had been made chief, with Dagro less than forty days dead. According to Anwyn, the ceremony had been short and joyless, and not one sworn clansman had come forth to dance above the swords. Raina herself had retired to the guidehouse straight after, and no one, not even Inigar, had been able to persuade her to come out and eat at her own bride's feast. Anwyn said that Mace had been in a fury and would have broken down the door if the thought of missing the ambush hadn't pulled him away.\n\nRaif reached for the usual anger, but it wasn't there. Mace Blackhail had won. He had everything: the clan, the clan chief's wife, a successful ambush to boast of when he returned. All those who had questioned his leadership were either dead, muzzled, or gone.\n\n\"I will speak to Drey on your behalf,\" Raina said, breaking into his thoughts. \"My husband's voice won't be the only one he heeds.\" She met Raif's gaze, and in that instant he knew the real reason she had married Mace Blackhail.\n\nStrangely, it made it easier for him to go. If she could marry a man she hated just to guard over the clan, then surely he could do this for Drey? Quietly he spoke his last words to Effie and then walked the short distance to where Angus Lok was waiting with his horse.\n\nWhen he was mounted and ready in the saddle, the reins couched in the split in his thick dog's-hide gloves, he spun his horse to face south. He did not look at Effie or the roundhouse again.\n\nYou are not good for this clan, Raif Sevrance.\n\nWithout another word, Raif kicked Moose hard and rode away.\n\nAngus Lok caught up with him an hour later as Moose worked his way through the old snow on the outskirts of the graze. Raif guessed Angus had held back to talk privately with Raina, but he wasted no thoughts on what matters had passed between the two. He concentrated only on the way ahead.\n\nDawn was a slow process. Light came, but it had no direction or visible source. The ground snow stripped shadows of their depth, and the distance to the sandstone ridge and taiga beyond was hard to judge. Raif had hunted in the great pine forest more times that he could count. When he was a child he had imagined it went on forever; in all the rangings he had been on, he had never once made it to the other side.\n\nAngus rode in silence. After an hour or so he spoke a word to the bay and took the lead. Guiding them down to the base of the ridge, he followed a hunting track Raif had little knowledge of or feel for. Clansmen seldom took the ridge to the east, preferring to walk their horses up the more gentle inclines to the west. The snow was thinner here, and Moose stepped on hard ground for the first time all day. Young hemlocks and stone pines glistened with rime ice like bodies emerging from water. Even with their outer bark and needles hard froze, their sharp, resinous smell still spored the air.\n\nRaif kept an iron grip on his thoughts, blocking out everything but the little needed to get by.\n\nHours passed. The temperature rose along with the light. Ptarmigan shrieked from the cover of snow-laden ground birch, and far in the distance a black-tailed deer brayed like a mule.\n\n\"That's a good horse you have there.\"\n\nRaif's mind was so tightly locked on the many small adjustments necessary for riding up a rocky slope, it took him a long moment to realize that Angus had spoken. Glancing up, he saw Angus had pulled back so the bay was almost alongside Moose. Obviously Angus was well used to travel: Every part of his body was oiled, bound, waxed, hooded, and insulated against the cold. His face alone boasted separate areas of beeswax, elk fat, and neat's-foot oil.\n\nSeeing where Raif's gaze lingered, Angus grinned. \"My wife would have me heated in a dry pan and then trodden to death by donkeys if I let anything happen to this handsome face.\"\n\nRaif made a smile. He didn't want to talk.\n\n\"'Course, when she sees you, I'm counting on her turning a blind eye to the odd broken vein. She should let me live... as long as I don't lose half a nose to the 'bite.\"\n\nEven as he realized it was Angus' intention to get him talking by any means he could, Raif couldn't help but be interested in what he said. He knew almost nothing about his uncle's family. Angus kept all the details close. \"We're going to your home?\"\n\nIf Angus Lok was pleased that Raif had spoken, he did not show it, merely concentrated on keeping the bay's coffin bones clear of the rocks. \"Perhaps, when my business in the south is done. It's been a long time since my wife last saw you and Drey, and she's never once set eyes on Effie. She'd skewer my ears if she knew I had you with me and didn't bring you home. Right fierce, she is. Especially in the cold months.\"\n\nDrey. How long would it take him to crush his brother's swearstone to dust? Raif heard his voice say, \"I don't remember your wife ever coming to visit the roundhouse.\"\n\n\"Aye, lad, well you wouldn't. Wee bairn, you were. Drey was still in his pelts. Had the meatiest little calves I've ever seen on a boy his age. Knew how to kick with them, too\u2014just like his da.\" Angus Lok looked up. Bits of reddish blond stubble had already grown through the lard smeared on his chin, giving his face the fierce look of a stinging fish. His eyes were a different matter, shifting color from copper to dark amber as quickly as if pigment had been poured into his irises. \"It's for the best, you know. Effie and Drey will get by without you. Good people are watching out for them, don't forget that. Mace Blackhail is just one man. He might lead the clan, but he isn't the clan. Men and women like Corbie Meese, Anwyn Bird, and Orwin Shank are the clan. They will follow Mace only so far.\"\n\nRaif wanted to believe what Angus said, but Angus hadn't been party to the ambush on the Bluddroad. He didn't know what good people were capable of when a man like Mace Blackhail stood behind them. In the short time Angus had spent with the clan, he had uncovered a great deal of its business from the private conversations he'd had with Raina, Orwin Shank, and others, but he didn't know Mace Blackhail. Raif set his lips in a hard line, tasting the frost that had formed there. No one but he knew the Wolf.\n\nAngus said no more on the subject. Instead he concentrated on guiding the horses up the slope. The sandstone cliffs were slick with ice. Underground streams forced water through the soft, porous rock, creating a breaking ground of loose gravel and split stones. Ferns and bladdergrass lashed at the horses' cannons as they climbed, and great beds of frozen moss made it difficult for even the bay to keep his footing. Angus dismounted and led the bay, and after a few minutes Raif did likewise.\n\nIn the three hours they had been traveling, Raif had seen no sign of Angus' incoming path. Snow had been light for the past day, and up within the protected folds of the ridge wall there was little coverage, so Raif had expected to see some indication\u2014flattened grass, broken ice, horse tracks\u2014that his uncle had traveled this way less than two days earlier. He looked and looked, but there was nothing. As they crested the rise and Raif saw nothing but level snow stretching out toward the great black body of the taiga, he drew level with Angus and said, \"Why aren't we taking the same route out of the clanhold as you took coming in?\"\n\nAngus Lok's eyes shifted color for the second time that day, and Raif saw tiny flecks of green in the irises he had not noticed before. Pulling back his hood, he said, \"You've got a good eye on you, lad.\"\n\nRaif took out a shammy and began cleaning ice and mucus from Moose's nostrils as he waited for his uncle to say more. Angus turned out his hood to air it, then took his rabbit flask from his pack. He drank a good portion. When he was done he did not offer the flask to Raif.\n\n\"Ranging is my business. I've traveled the Territories for twenty years, and it's my wont never to take the same route twice in a season.\" Angus smiled, showing good straight teeth. \"'Course, me being me, I took the easy way in, so now we're stuck taking the bastard's way out. I'm always doing that, lad. You'll get used to it given time.\"\n\nRaif felt the force of his uncle's charm and goodwill working to settle his mind. Before he'd had chance to frame a reply, Angus spoke to change the subject.\n\n\"What say I take out some of those calf livers Anwyn bled until they were dry as bone and then boiled until they were boot leather, and eat them in the saddle? I'd like to get to the pines before next snow.\" He squinted into the dead whiteness of the sky. \"Looks as if we're in for some bad weather before dark. What do you think?\"\n\nRaif shrugged, letting the matter drop. His uncle's evasions were more telling than any straight answer. Just a couple of sentences and Angus Lok had put the old subject to a quiet death while blithely introducing at least another two to block the way back. It was a clever feat, and one Raif made a mental note not to forget.\n\nAs he put his boot in the stirrup to mount Moose, the gelding turned and Raif was forced to swing round to keep his footing. Abruptly he found himself staring back over the ridge toward the roundhouse. He wasn't prepared for it. All day and he had never once looked back. Muscles in his chest tightened.\n\nThe round, snow-covered roof of the roundhouse was clearly identifiable, floating within the moat of cleared ground that was the court. Smokestacks showed up as black rings against the white roof, and the steam and soot they belched looked like fumes venting from an underground fault. Dark dots moving through the graze told of a hunt party out to shoot wild boar, ptarmigan, and deer. Raif strained to hear the yelps of the setters. When his ears finally picked up the high, familiar braying, he suddenly wished he hadn't heard it and turned.\n\nHe made a lot of noise settling himself in the saddle and kicking Moose forward. When that wasn't enough, he spoke, saying the first thing that came into his mind. \"How is your daughter? Is she wed yet?\"\n\nAngus had also mounted and was now sitting in the saddle, chewing on a liver. He seemed glad of an excuse to spit it out. \"Cassy's not wed. No.\" He was silent a moment, his face thoughtful. After breaking the bay gently into the kneehigh snow, he said, \"'Course, you wouldn't know about the other two, would you? There's Beth now\u2014my second girl\u2014and my little one, Maribel. Though call her that and she won't know who you're talking to. Doesn't even know her own name. Little Moo she is, and Little Moo she'll stay.\" Angus smiled softly to himself. \"Can't think what the young men will make of it when time comes for courting.\"\n\nFearing silence just then, Raif said, \"Tem said you live near Ille Glaive.\"\n\n\"Aye, that we do. Couple of days away, nothing more.\" Angus swung around in the saddle and unhooked his bowcase from the bay's hipstrap. \"Here,\" he said, holding it out for Raif to take. \"You carry it for a while. I see you haven't one of your own, and it would be a shame to waste the only bow in the party on the man who's least able to use it.\"\n\nRaif took the bow automatically, even though he knew his uncle was being modest. Tem was fond of telling the story of how Angus had once shot a wild boar through goosegrass at two hundred paces. \"Twilight, it was,\" Tem had said. \"And even the shadows had shadows.\"\n\nOnly when Raif had stripped off his outer gloves and was busy with dog hooks, fastening the bowcase to Moose's leatherwear, did he realize that Angus had changed the subject yet again.\n\n\"Orwin Shank said that on the morning the party formed for the ambush, you returned to the roundhouse with a dozen heart-killed beasts. Quite a haul for a night's work. Tem must have been a good teacher.\"\n\n\"He was.\"\n\nIgnoring the hostile tone of Raif's voice, Angus carried on. \"I knew a man once who could heart-kill any beast he set his sights on. He could even do it in the dark. We shared a season's hunting together, many years back now. Whenever we made camp, I'd sit around the cookfire facing in, and he'd sit facing out, bow on his lap, bowring on his finger, watching the darkness for game. Sooner or later some poor possum or shoat would always draw close to investigate the fire and the smell. That was when Mors would take them, clean as if it were day.\"\n\nAngus put his hand on his chest. \"Never saw as much as a cleft foot or a red eye myself, and I'd sit by that fire thinking the man I'd chosen to camp with was as mad as a dog with a stick in its eye. Yet off he'd go, trekking into the darkness, and sure enough five minutes later we'd have fresh kill to roast. Took me quite a while to get accustomed to it, I can tell. And just between you and me heart-killed possum tastes like shit.\"\n\nRaif smiled.\n\nAngus grinned, his eyes turning coppery again. \"I used to say to him, Mors, can't you hit them in the head or something? and he'd say, No. Only the heart.\"\n\nThe quick, appraising look Angus gave him as he spoke sobered Raif completely. \"Who was this Mors?\"\n\n\"Oh Mors is still alive. Though he's a bit different now than he was twenty years ago. Who knows, one day you may meet him.\" Angus was silent as he guided the bay through a drift of snow that reached to the gelding's chest. When they were free of the incline, he said, \"I asked Mors once if he could kill men the same way as he killed beasts.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"Said it wasn't the same. He'd tried, but couldn't do it.\"\n\nInside his fox hood, Raif's neck and cheeks flushed hot. He saw the Bludd spearman tearing flesh from Rory Cleet's thigh, remembered finding the man's heart in his sights... then shooting him dead. Heart-killed. Suddenly feeling as if he couldn't breathe, Raif pushed back the fox hood. All the sickness and weakness that had seized him after the killing came back with such clarity it was like feeling it over again, here, on the taiga's edge.\n\n\"Here. Drink this.\"\n\nRaif looked up. Angus Lok was holding out his flask. Raif shook his head. How long had it been since he'd torn back his hood? Surely only a moment? Yet Angus had had enough time to find and uncork his flask.\n\nShrugging off Raif's refusal, Angus took a swig from the flask himself. Smiling fondly at the flask as he corked it, he said, \"We'll rest a bit once we're under cover of the trees. Feed the horses. The snow in the forest should be light enough for us to make a fair pace before dark.\"\n\nThis time Raif was grateful for the change in subject. His heart was racing, and the taste of metal leaked through his mouth like blood from a sliced gum. Although he didn't much feel like it, he forced himself to speak. \"Will we travel south through the taiga until we reach Black Spill?\"\n\nAngus shook his head. \"No. We'll head south a bit, then east. There's a few places I mean to visit along the way.\"\n\n\"Stovehouses?\"\n\n\"Aye. I have a habit of running out of good liquor in the most inconvenient of places, so I never miss the chance to top my load. Besides, the stovemaster's wife at Duff's has a way with needle and thread. And Darra would have my eyeballs for chewing curd if I passed that close and didn't bring her back a length of cloth.\"\n\nRaif nodded, but not lightly. Stovehouses were the backbone of the clanholds. Any mud-and-hide mound, felt-covered dugout, log cabin, or ancient barn could be named one. All a stovehouse needed was a stove. Some of the larger ones like Duff's were more like inns, with a stovemaster to keep the stove lit day and night, cots to sleep on, hot food, warm ale, and stalls to box the horses. Others were little more than deserted shacks, their walls plugged with wax against the wind, their stoves cold, a cord of logs stacked in the corner, and dried food packed high in the rafters, out of reach of bears. All clansmen traveling from one clanhold to another used them. They were a basic necessity in a land where storms could roll from the Great Want in less time than it took to skin an elk.\n\nStovehouses were no-man's-land. Any man or woman from any clan had right of refuge in every stovehouse in the clanholds. Wars, border disputes, clan feuds, and hunting rivalries were all set aside once a clansman stepped within shadow of a stove.\n\nStove laws were sacred in the clanholds, and although many legendary fights and battles had taken place in the woods and balds directly surrounding the great stovehouses, no one ever bared weapons inside. To do so would bring shame and condemnation upon oneself and one's clan.\n\nAs he rode through the thick, powdery snow, Raif worked out who he would be likely to meet at Duff's. His mood darkened. Any number of clansmen could be there, hunting by day in the winter game runs east of the taiga, warming themselves around the great copper stove shaped like a brewer's vat at night.\n\nAnd then there would be Bluddsmen.\n\nRaif felt for his raven lore for the first time that day, turning it in his hand like a game piece. He didn't want to think about what would happen between Bluddsmen and Hailsmen once news of the Bluddroad slaying leaked out. Stove laws would be tested to breaking then.\n\n\"Have you got that bow of mine braced and ready?\" Angus called from ahead. \"I'll be expecting a pair of ice hares in payment for the lending. Fat ones, mind. Not some skinny albino rats.\"\n\nRaif looked over Angus' shoulder to the black wedge of forest they were about to enter. By turns scattered, dense, fire leveled, and wind stunted, the taiga stretched for hundreds of leagues south and west of the clanhold. A stand of old, perfectly straight black spruce formed the forest's north wall, and Raif was aware of light and wind levels dropping as he approached. It was like entering a building. The snow underfoot became firmer and more shallow with each step. Noises fell away. Overhead, the limbs of the spruces created a ceiling of nursed snow.\n\nRaif swallowed as he took the bow from its case. He couldn't get the taste of metal out of his mouth.\n\nAngus slowed the pace. After a few minutes he looked over his shoulder. \"What say we stop and nosebag the horses?\"\n\nRaif shook his head. He didn't want to stop. Already he was searching for game. It was a reflex action of all clansmen upon entering the taiga, but none more so than those who chose the bow as their first weapon. Even as he hated himself for it, part of him welcomed the relief. Hunting meant not having to think.\n\nTime passed. Angus was silent, his hood pulled close to his face. The taiga deepened, revealing narrow corridors leading to frozen ponds, standing stones ringed with crowberries, and clearings bedded with icegrass and touch-menots. The smell of pitch settled in Raif's clothing like dust as he watched the ground for game.\n\nA ptarmigan, fat as a loaf of bread, flew up through the spruces, dislodging snow as its wings clipped pine needles. Raif drew his bow, sighted the bird, then called it to him. Blood warmth flooded his mouth. The rapid beat of the ptarmigan's heart pulsed like a vein in his cheek. The bird was young, strong, its belly full of crowberries and soft willow leaves. Raif breathed once on the bowstring to warm it and then let the arrow fly.\n\nA soft thuc sounded, then the arrow hit the ptarmigan with such force, it knocked the bird from the sky. Raif didn't have to see the body to know that the arrowhead had found its heart.\n\n\"A pretty shot,\" Angus said.\n\nRaif glanced down. His uncle was watching him intently, his eyes the color of old wood.\n\nAfter a moment Angus turned his horse. \"Wait here. I'll fetch the bird.\"\n\nSpitting to clean his mouth, Raif watched his uncle slip through the trees. Absently he ran a hand over the bow. Made of a combination of wood and horn, and tilled so smoothly that it was like touching glass, the bow was unlike any other he had held before. Silver and midnight blue markings had been stamped deep into the riser, but Raif couldn't work out how.\n\nBy the time Angus returned with the ptarmigan, Raif had shot two hares. The first he saw clearly as it ran from the path of Angus' bay. The second was crouched in a head of sagebrush, and Raif told himself he had seen it before he released the string.\n\n\"We'll eat well tonight,\" Angus said, pulling the shafts from the hares and bagging them along with the bird. \"I can see it's going to be useful having you along, Raif Sevrance.\"\n\nRaif waited for his uncle to bring up the fact that all three creatures had been heart-killed, yet his uncle said nothing, merely busied himself with cleaning the arrow shafts before the blood froze.\n\nThey fastened feedbags on the horses and rode until dark.\n\nAngus led them to a deserted stovehouse that Raif thought only clansmen knew of. Dug out of sandstone and clay, the stovehouse was little more than a hole in the ground. Hidden in the center of an island of stone pines, the entrance was covered by a slab of slate as big as a wagon wheel. Raif worked to clear the moss and rootwood from around the edges as Angus took his pickax to a nearby spawning pond and broke out some freshwater ice.\n\nRaif worked himself hard, pushing aside the entrance slab by himself rather than waiting for Angus to lend a hand. When that was done, his muscles were aching and his inner woolens were soaked with sweat. It wasn't enough. Taking the hand ax from his pack, he went to cut wood.\n\nAngus found him an hour later, his gloves and oilskin glued with sap, pine needles stuck to his sleeves, veins in his chopping hand open and bleeding, and the yellow bruises of imminent frostbite coloring his skin. A pile of logs, cut almost to splinters, was heaped at his back.\n\n\"You've done enough now, lad,\" Angus said, taking the ax from him and guiding him away. \"Come wi' your old uncle. The stove's glowing like a warm heart, and there's good food upon it, and you may not have your clan this night, but you and I are kin.\"\n\nRaif let himself be led to the stovehouse.\n\nAngus had done a good job of turning the clay-walled hollow into a place filled with warmth and light. A damp cloth was steaming against the belly of the brass stove, and Angus took it and wrapped Raif's hands closely to stop chilblains from forming. Next he bit the cork from the rabbit flask that had been cooling in a pot of snow. \"Drink,\" he said, and Raif did. The alcohol was so cold it burned.\n\nThe stovehouse was tiny and low ceilinged. Pine roots had broken through the walls in some places, jutting out like bones from a rain-worn grave. Raif sat on the ground in front of the stove and ate and drank what Angus gave him. The skin on the roast hares was black, and it crackled as it broke, releasing hot juices and scalding steam. The ptarmigan meat was rich and fatty. Angus had stuffed it with wild sage and roasted it in its feathers.\n\nThere was a lot of smoke. The smoke hole was open, but the stove was old and warped, and fumes and soot leaked from the stack.\n\nRaif felt numb. He couldn't remember the last time he'd rested or slept.\n\n\"That bird was a beauty,\" Angus said, sucking on a wing bone. \"Daresay it would have been better for a plucking, but for the life of me I hate pulling feathers.\" He watched Raif through the smoke, his large keen face now cleared of its protective oils. Setting aside his dish of bones, he said, \"When you shot the bird, did you taste or smell anything?\"\n\nRaif shook his head.\n\n\"Nothing coppery, like blood or metal?\"\n\n\"No,\" Raif lied. \"Why do you ask?\"\n\nAngus shrugged. \"Because that's what happens when a man draws upon the old skills.\"\n\n\"Old skills?\"\n\n\"Sorcery, some would call it. I've never cared for the word myself. Frightens people.\" A quick glance at Raif. \"Better to use the Sull name: rhaer'san, the old skill.\"\n\nHair on Raif's arms lifted at the mention of the Sull. The Sull were seldom named out loud. The Trenchlanders, who lived on Sull lands and were part Sull and who traded fur and lumber with the clanholds, were different. Clansmen often took their names in vain. But the Sull... no clansman ever dealt with the Sull. The great warriors of the Racklands, with their silver letting knives, pale steel, recurve bows, and proudlocks, wasted neither breath nor time on clan. Raif tried to keep his voice light. \"What are the signs that a man is using the old skills?\"\n\n\"Well, as I said, the one who draws it often tastes and smells metal. He'll weaken, too. His vision can blur, his stomach cramp, and often he'll get pains in his head. It all depends upon the level of power drawn. I saw a man fall from his horse once, just plain keeled over into the mud. It was a full week before he could stand on his own two feet. Drew too much, you see, tried to do something he had neither the power nor the skill for. Nearly killed him.\"\n\nRaif felt his cheeks burn. He had come close to falling from his horse after he had heart-killed the Bludd spearman.\n\n\"There was a time when those who could draw upon the old skills were valued, when mortar binding the Mountain Cities was white as snow, and the clanholds had kings instead of chiefs. Indeed, you'll find some who'll tell you that the masons who built Spire Vanis owed as much to the old skills as they did to their chisels and lathes. A few will even swear that Founding Quarterlords had more than a few drops of old blood running in their veins.\"\n\n\"Old blood?\"\n\nAngus' eyes shifted color. \"It's just a term. Old blood. Old skills. The two are one and the same.\"\n\nIt was an evasion, and Raif guessed Angus would work quickly to cover it. He was right.\n\n\"'Course in those days, it wasn't unheard of for clansmen to draw upon the old skills. Small things: healing and foretelling and the like. It wasn't until Hoggie Dhoone's time that the clanholds turned their backs on sorcery.\"\n\n\"No clansman worth his lore would take part in anything unnatural.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" Angus scratched his chin. \"And how do you suppose a clansman gets his lore? Chance? Fate? Or does the guide pluck straws from a hat?\"\n\n\"He dreams.\"\n\n\"Aah. That's it. He dreams. Nothing unnatural there, that's for sure.\" Angus tilted his head one way and the other, making a great show of thinking. \"And then there's the guidestone itself... . I suppose each clansman carries its powder with him at all times so he's never caught short of a spot of mortar. Must come in mighty useful those times when you're out ranging and you see a poorly built wall. A few cups of water, some fire ash, and a handful of powdered guidestone, and you'll have it repointed in no time.\"\n\nRaif glowered at his uncle. \"We carry our guidestone with us because it's Heart of Clan. It's what we've always done.\"\n\nSurprisingly, Angus nodded. \"Aye, lad, you're right. It was wrong of me to bait you. Can't help myself sometimes\u2014I'm wicked like that. If Darra were here, she'd have me out packing snow by now.\" Standing, he fed the ptarmigan bones to the stove.\n\nRaif watched the flames shiver through the smoke hole. His cheek and fingers were throbbing where they had taken the frost, and a deep weariness stole over his body like rising water. He was annoyed at Angus but too tired to make anything of it. \"Does anyone use the old skills today?\"\n\nAngus did not stop tending the stove, but something in his body changed as Raif spoke. Shrugging to the flames, he said, \"Some. A few.\"\n\n\"In the cityholds?\"\n\n\"Aye, perhaps. But it's frowned on there, just as it is in the clans. The cities have their One God, and he's a jealous one at that. Any powers not of his making have long been forced into the shadows, their time nearly past. Hoggie Dhoone recognized that a thousand years ago, when he drove all who used the old skills from the clanholds. The One God has long arms. He lives within the Mountain Cities, but make no mistake: His reach extends to the clans.\"\n\n\"But we worship the Stone Gods.\"\n\n\"Aye, and you've got the last of the great Clan Kings to thank for that.\"\n\nRaif ran a hand through his hair. He didn't understand what Angus was getting at. \"Why do you keep mentioning Hoggie Dhoone? He hated the cities and their one jealous God. His armies slew ten thousand city men at the Battle of Stone Cairns. He made the Bitter Hills his wall, swearing that no man who was not a clansman would ever raise a roof beyond them. He saved the clanholds. And he had no dealings with the One God.\"\n\nAngus began packing the stove for the night, adding only the largest chunks of firewood to the stack. \"Aye, you're right about Hoggie Dhoone: He did save the clanholds. He saw the cities for what they were. He knew that given half a chance they'd march their armies over the Bitter Hills and shatter clan guidestones to dust. He knew what they thought of the clanholds and its nine gods. Hoggie Dhoone was no fool. He fought the cities with one hand, and met them halfway with the other.\"\n\n\"Hoggie Dhoone never met anyone halfway.\"\n\n\"Did he not?\" Angus shrugged. \"So it's just coincidence that he began outlawing the old skills at the same time the Mountain Cities did? Not the act of a clever man who saw the way the world was turning and chose to turn with, not against it.\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"It's simple. Hoggie Dhoone was not prepared to give up the Stone Gods. He knew the Mountain Cities thought them cruel and barbaric, and he also knew that the sort of fanatic wars that raged in the Soft Lands to. the south could easily break out in the North. So rather than set himself and his gods apart and risk the self-righteous might of the cities falling upon him, he chose to run with the pack. Everyone who used the old skills was exiled or hounded. It was nothing to him. The Stone Gods have always been hard gods. They're not known for weeping over the dead.\n\n\"In one canny move, Hoggie Dhoone turned the Mountain Cities into his allies. Oh, there were battles aplenty\u2014you know that better than me\u2014but they were always over land, not religion. Shared beliefs may be a powerful thing. But nothing quite binds like shared hatred.\"\n\nRaif stared at Angus; he didn't know what to think. Hoggie Dhoone was the last of the great Clan Kings, and no one in the clan had ever told his story quite like that. It lessened him. \"If the Mountain Cities were as fanatical as you say, then why didn't they go after the Sull? Their gods are older than the clans'.\"\n\nAngus closed the stove door, creating darkness. \"Because it suited them to strip land, not gods, from the Sull.\"\n\nRaif closed his eyes. He thought Angus might say more, but he didn't and began settling himself down by the opposite wall. Raif almost spoke to break the silence. Suddenly he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. Time passed. Angus' breathing grew shallow and regular, and Raif imagined his uncle asleep. How long before I sleep? he wondered. How long before the nightmares come?\nNINETEEN\n\nSwinging from a Gibbet\n\nASH HELD HER BREATH, scrunched her face as tight as it would go, and began to hack away at her hair. She couldn't look. Couldn't bear to see it fall to the snow. Stupid, she told herself. Vain, weak-minded, and stupid. It was only hair. It would grow back. Still, she couldn't quite bring herself to cut it as short as she had intended. She tried, but her hands kept defying her, and the knife kept sliding downward, and she didn't have the heart to fight it.\n\nShe had originally planned to cut it as short as a boy's, but that decision was taken in the broad light of day, when decisions were easier to make and keep. Now, at midnight, sitting on an iron bench cleared of snow in the Street of the Five Traitors in Almstown, hemmed in by shadows, overhanging eaves, and mounds of black, shoveled slush, she didn't much feel like doing anything. And she was very much attached to her hair\u2014even if it wasn't curly and bright like Katia's.\n\nVain, weak-minded, stupid, Ash scolded herself again as she sawed the blade through the last strands. There. Done it now. Running a hand through her ragged, shoulder-length hair, she tested its new feel and weight. Her head felt uncommonly light, as if she'd drunk too much red wine at supper. Pale silver strands, long as snakes, curled in the snow at her feet. Kicking them with the toe of her boot, she told herself they were nothing really, just a heap of old straw.\n\nHearing footsteps and thin jabs of laughter, Ash bent forward and scooped up the hair, then folded it into the cloth bag tied at her waist. She could get good money for it on Shorn Lamb Street, but she was no longer sure if selling it was a good idea. She had heard the talk in the city. Everyone who was anyone was looking for a tall, slim girl with long pale hair and no breasts. Ash glanced down at her chest. Slowly, little by little, that particular aspect of her description was being rendered obsolete. It was quite amazing how fast a body could grow when it had a mind to. Even when the body in question was being fed nothing but goose grease and oats.\n\nAsh concentrated on staying as still and silent as she could until the laughter and footsteps had passed. Her rough wool cloak itched, and things living within it crawled as slowly as things living in cloaks did crawl on cold nights in early winter. At least they weren't biters. Ash supposed she should be grateful for that.\n\nShe had sold her old clothes the very same night she had broken free of the fortress, before word of her escape had had chance to leak through the city and everyone knew to be on the watch for a girl matching the description of Penthero Iss' ward. Her dress had been plain but of excellent quality, and her calf-leather boots were the best to be bought in the city. The old bidwife who had purchased them had been happy to give Ash a whole outfit in exchange, complete with a lined and hooded cloak, thick wool leggings and mitts, a dress dyed a forgettable shade of brown, and a stout pair of \"whore's boots.\" According to the bidwife, the boots were named for whores because they boasted soles so thick that a girl could walk the streets all day and not feel the pinch.\n\nAsh wondered about that. Sometimes she caught men looking at her feet. The toes were capped with a particularly bright strain of copper that could be seen across a fair-size street. Just this afternoon she had worked charcoal and horse dung over the metal, hoping to ward off speculative glances from men and ill-humored appraisals from other girls.\n\nThe leather belt with a silver buckle that she had worn during the escape had also been sold, and the three silver pieces she had haggled from the bidwife had been enough to buy a loaf of oats and a sausage skin full of goose drippings every morning for the past five days. She had one silver left.\n\nAt night she slept alongside beggars and street whores. It was easy, really, watching people, seeing where they went and what they did. Early in the evening, even the poorest and sickest slid away to known dens to sleep. Wedge-shaped spaces under stairs, sewers blocked with ice, collapsed watch towers with makeshift roofs of elkhide, disused roast pits, abandoned outhouses and dry wells, burrows dug into the great mounds of snow that built up along the city's south wall, and cracks in the very city itself, leading downward to vaults of precision-cut stone and warrens of crawl spaces, underspaces, and sinkholes: Ash had seen people slip into them all.\n\nThe first night had been the worst, after she had left the bidwife's stall with money in her hand and nowhere to go. She didn't trust places that were dark and deserted and had chosen to stay on noisy, crowd-filled streets. Through the course of the night she had walked the length of the city, across the great stone court known as the Square of Sorrows, where Garath Lors had declared himself king before being cut down by his brother's darkcloaks; along the Spireway with its crumbling stonework and rotted spikes; and down into the dim and slushy streets of Almstown, where the soot from a thousand charcoal fires turned every wall, roof, and walkway black. Even the falling snow was black, catching minute flecks of burned matter as it sailed toward the earth.\n\nAsh thought Almstown was a kind of hell. Katia had always spoken about it with a sort of wistful affection, telling how you could buy whole sides of bacon, steaming and ready to eat, warm your hands with mugs of beer so hot that you could set them on the ground and melt snow, and walk down any street and see dark-skinned women dressed in cloth-of-gold hoods and thin-lipped assassins glittering with knives. Ash tried, but she saw only the filth and the smoke and the open sores on people's faces. She had no money to buy bacon or beer, and the only people she saw were prostitutes fighting with their pimps, pot boys shoveling slush, charcoal burners tending their smoke fires, and tired old men getting drunk.\n\nNo one trusted anyone. Ash had learned quickly to keep her hands and eyes to herself. It didn't do to look too long at anyone or stand too close to a man selling hot food or cold beer.\n\nStill, Ash thought, rising from the bench and stepping into the street, Almstown was a good place to get lost in. No one cared about finding the Surlord's ward. There was money in it\u2014Iss had offered a crow's weight in gold for information leading to her capture\u2014but the inhabitants of Almstown didn't think for one moment that any fine lady from Mask Fortress would ever find her way here.\n\nAsh had heard people talking about it. Women joked that they'd dye their hair with lye, bandage their breasts, and go and claim the reward for themselves. Men spoke in hushed voices, murmuring about the Rive Watch, forced searches, torchings, and how Marafice Eye had blinded a carcass gutter for claiming, wrongly, that he had seen Asarhia March enter the Bone Temple and ask the tall and silent priests for asylum.\n\nAsh shivered. Sometimes she wondered if Marafice Eye hadn't done such a thing just so news of it would reach her and make her afraid.\n\nDetermined not to be afraid, she headed south through the butcher's market and onto the paved streets beyond. When the pale, straight-as-arrow forms of the Horn and the Splinter drew her eyes, she did not look away. At this distance they were the only structures within Mask Fortress that were visible. Ash knew that all she had to do was head north for a few streets to lose sight of the Horn, but she had yet to find one street corner, alleyway, or ditch within the entire city of Spire Vanis from which the Splinter couldn't be seen. In a way it was a good thing. All she had to do was look up into the southern sky to see the reason why she had fled.\n\nBefore she pulled her gaze downward, she couldn't help but linger on the sloping roofs, flickering watch towers, and hammered iron domes of the southern skyline. At the farthest point south lay Vaingate.\n\nVaingate. The last built and least used of the four city gates. Ash didn't know how many hours she had spent imagining what it would feel like to walk through the limestone arch and onto the mountainside beyond. Vaingate was her one connection with her mother, the only thing they shared. Both of them had passed through that gate.\n\nAsh took a breath and held it. All her childhood dreams had begun with her standing outside Vaingate. She imagined finding the place where she'd been abandoned, running her hands through the loose scree and dry brush, and finding something that no one else had found before. Some bit of parchment, a rusted locket, a scrap of fabric, anything that she could hold and say, This once belonged to my mother. In her more elaborate dreams, she'd find something that told her who her mother really was, and she'd search the city and find her, and her mother would turn out to be warm and glowing and utterly good... yet she never had a face. Ash smiled bitterly. She saw the dreams for what they were today.\n\nThere was no hidden marker waiting for her on Mount Slain. Her mother had set her down to die; she would have left nothing that could give her away. It was a sin against the Maker to abandon a healthy child. And even if she had dropped something\u2014a hairpin or a ribbon or a bit of lace from her dress\u2014sixteen years of snow and floods would have washed it clean away.\n\nAsh continued to look south. Even if she went there and found something, there was no telling whom it had once belonged to. Besides, it wasn't safe. Vaingate was too close to Mask Fortress. No one but sheep drovers, hunt parties, holy men traveling to the Cloud Shrine, and healers in search of mountain plants passed through. She would be spotted the moment she drew near the gate.\n\nSomehow, despite everything, Ash found herself moving south. Five days had passed since she'd escaped\u2014enough time for the Rive Watch to grow bored and ease off the hunt. They had a whole city to search. How could they possibly watch over every street corner and marketplace? I'll just get close enough to look. It was midnight. She could cross the city and reach the gate before dawn. As long as she stayed clear of Mask Fortress and the watch towers, she'd be safe.\n\nGradually she increased her pace. Walking with her head down and her hand on her hood, she avoided all contact with strangers. When she drew close to the massive shantytown of animal hides, elk bones, and ice-rotted timbers that had grown up along the city's west wall, she altered her course to avoid it. The smell of deer fat, dung smoke, and thousands of unwashed bodies was enough to keep her away. Even from a safe distance, she could still see the massive circle of snowmelt caused by the heat and the filth.\n\nThe farther south she traveled, the cleaner the city became. Narrow streets gave way to wide causeways and smoothly paved squares. Brightly lit taverns and coarsehouses were replaced by limestone halls and tightly shuttered manses with bronze doors. Fewer prostitutes stood warming themselves by charcoal braziers, and fewer drunks urinated against walls. Even the snow underfoot grew lighter\u2014not white exactly, but certainly gray.\n\nIt took Ash a full five minutes to walk past the unlit facade of the Quarter Court, where the grangelords stood in judgment of all crimes except treason. It had been built by the tenth Surlord Lewick Crieff, Lord of the High Granges, whom everyone called the Halfking, and his badge of a halfmoon shining above the knife-edge peak of Mount Slain was cut into every limestone cap, ledge, and corbel. After checking to see if anyone was watching, Ash stopped and rested her back against the black, soot-encrusted stone. She was growing tired, and tiny hobnails in her whore's boots were cutting into her feet Ash cursed the bidwife who had sold them to her, thought for a moment, then cursed all whores as well. She was beginning to wonder if heading for Vaingate had been a good idea.\n\nAhead lay a vast cleared space surrounded by a circle of standing stones known as the Dreading Ring. Six gibbets stood in the center of the circle, massive T-shaped timbers forming a dark scaffold against the sky. Justice was swift in Spire Vanis, and once a man or woman had been convicted of a crime, he or she was marched straight from the Quarter Court and punished in the stone circle for all the city to see. No one was ever hanged\u2014the grangelord's executioners were chosen for their skills with knives, not rope\u2014but the bodies were hauled up later to feed the crows.\n\nAll but one gibbet was empty. The small body that was roped there hung like an empty sack. A sharp burst of wind made the rope creak and set the body swinging.\n\nAsh edged back along the wall, suddenly unsure of herself. Running away had been a mistake. She had nowhere to go, no one to help her, no plans beyond the need to survive. Soon she'd run out of money... then what? She had no skills. Her description was posted around the city. Many of the brothers-in-the-watch knew her by sight. Pushing back her hood, she took a long hard look at the gibbets. Her scalp was hot, and sharp edges of newly cut hair prickled her skin. She longed for the safe enclosed space of her chamber, for Katia's endless chatter, warm baths, sweet food, and clothes without rough edges. She wanted her old life back.\n\nAbruptly she pushed herself off from the wall. She had made her choice five days ago, and giving in because she was tired and her feet were aching and she didn't like the look of the way ahead was stupid. Stupid. She would carry on walking. She would go to Vaingate and see the place where she was abandoned and then found.\n\nKaaw! Kaaw!\n\nAsh jumped as the shadow of a raven glided over her face. Looking up, she saw the great bird swoop down from the roof of the Quarter Court and soar toward the gibbets. As it entered the circle of ancient stones, it rolled its wings, catching an updraft that lifted it almost vertically alongside the occupied gibbet. Hovering for a long moment, it jabbed its bill into the face of the corpse and pecked out some bit of sinew that snapped like a snake as it came free. With the morsel held firmly in its bill, the raven beat its wings and rose to the top of the gibbet. Settled, it threw the strip of sinew into the air, caught it, and gobbled it up.\n\nWith its throat muscles still working to push down its meal, the raven swiveled its neck and looked at Ash. Bobbing its head up and down, it clucked and cooed like a mother hen.\n\nCome. Join me. Good flesh.\n\nAsh shivered. Although she didn't much want to, she took a step forward, then another. The snow was sticky under her feet, streaked with tar and spilled blood. Moonlight poured into the stone circle, running like liquid silver along the crossbeams of the gibbets. The wind dropped as she neared the center, and for the first time all night she felt the cold. The bird, black as the bricks at the back of a hearth, fussed and cooed until it came to rest by the occupied gibbet.\n\nThe body was strung up by cordage as thick as a man's wrist. Tarred ropes wound between its legs, around its neck, and under its arms. It took Ash a moment to realize the body was naked, as the flesh was stained dark by what might have been excrement or mud. Crows had been pecking for days, and the soft flesh of the belly had been opened and the guts spilled. The eyes were dark holes, picked clean. Teeth roots showed where lip and gum tissue had been torn away. The head was shorn.\n\nAsh swallowed softly. It was a woman. It hardly looked it, as the breasts were gone and the genitals were obscured by a knot of rope and clotted blood, but what was left of the waist and hips formed a slack pouch of curves. Frightened, Ash gazed upon the face once more.\n\nThat was when she saw it. A lock of hair caught in the rope. Dark, curly hair.\n\nPromise to take me with you when you go.\n\nAsh took a step back. No...\n\nMoonlight shifted, and shadows on the corpse's face fell into place. Ash saw the high curve of a cheek, the dimpled hollow of a chin.\n\nWhy, you're wicked, miss. Plain wicked!\n\nAsh began shaking her head. Her stomach churned and churned until she thought she might be sick. The corpse, the thing that was and wasn't Katia, watched her with dead eyes as it swung upon its rope.\n\nKatia! Katia! Katia! The raven took to the air, beating its knife wings, screaming and triumphant as it vanished into the night sky.\n\nAsh did not know how long she stood in the stone circle, facing Katia's corpse. Not long enough, a small voice told her. If you stayed here forever, it wouldn't be long enough. When a gray sun began to rise in the east and the city started to creak to life, she turned and fled north... deserting the little maid one last time.\nTWENTY\n\nDuff's\n\nTHEY ROSE BEFORE DAWN and headed southeast. High winds blew, creating a snowstorm from old frozen snow. Raif pulled his fox hood over his eyes and mouth so only his nose showed. The small specks of taiga he saw through the fur were all he needed to guide his horse. The wind came from the north and blew at his back, and it seemed to push him away from the clanhold.\n\nAngus took the lead, taking Raif along gullies and over frozen ponds, finding trails long lost to the snow. Neither he nor Raif spoke. They sat, hunched low on their horses, and suffered the battery of the wind.\n\nRaif's bowhand was swollen, and the skin on his fingertips had begun to shed. An ugly blister, dark and bloody as a kidney, had formed on the heel of his hand. Every time he grasped the reins to make an adjustment, pain made him close his eyes. Beneath the fox fur, his mouth set in a grimace. Well, that would teach him to go axing wood on a night as cold as hell.\n\nAfter six hours spent in darkness, dreaming violent unspeakable dreams, the biting whiteness of the snowstorm and the mindless monotony of riding through the taiga were a relief. Raif had risen before Angus. He had heated fat and stock from the ptarmigan in a small tin pot, and while he was waiting for the steam to thin, he had made the only decision he could. Clan was behind him now; remembering it, longing for it, believing that somehow in the future he would find a way back, were things he could not allow himself.\n\nHe had fixed his own fate, and now he must live with it. He was no longer part of the clan.\n\nHe had thought long and hard about discarding his lore, of throwing it in the iron stove along with the remainders of the last meal or taking it outside and burying it in the snow. But each time he grasped it in his hand and pulled on the twine, he heard the old guide speak.\n\nIt's yours, Raif Sevrance. And one day you may be glad of it.\n\nSo Raif kept it He rode, his thoughts sealed as deeply as cached meat, his raven lore a cold bit of horn against his skin.\n\nHalf a day passed with no relief from the storm. The snow, rolled to hard pellets by the wind, rattled like hailstones against the trunks of stone pines. Great clumps of snow dropped from overhead branches, dislodged by the violent push and pull of the air. Raif did not hunt. His right hand wept pus and blood into his mitt, and the storm created a whiteout. Yet almost against his will he found himself searching for game.\n\nEven on a day like this living things were out in the forest. A weasel, white and sleek as a dish of milk, watched Raif's passing from the cover of a paper birch. An ice hare popped its head out of its burrow, its cheeks puffing as it drew breath. In the overhang above a frozen stream, a snagcat broke shrew bones with a single snap of its jaw. Raif was aware of all these things, swore he saw them, yet when he peered through his fox hood, little more than the white haze of snow on the move met his eyes.\n\nDarkness came early. The wind died with the light, leaving the forest feeling hollow and used up. All the trees had been stripped of snow, and many of the first-year saplings were snapped and broken. Overhead, the sky shifted from gray, to charcoal, to black.\n\nAngus led them to the strip of taiga that bordered along the Southroad, and they followed the road's path from a discreet distance through several hours of darkness. Wagon tracks, horse dung, bones, and cast-off scraps littered the road, reminding Raif that soon he would come into contact with clansmen. In fine weather, taking a direct route, a man could ride from the Blackhail roundhouse to Duff's in a single day. Even the Dhoonehouse was only four days' hard ride from Duff's, and Gnash and Dregg were nearer.\n\nWhen the glow of Duff's Stovehouse finally appeared over the rise, Raif was stiff with cold. His neck ached with a hard, nagging pain, and his hand burned. Angus made a signal, and they cut onto the road. Quarter of an hour later they reached the stovehouse.\n\nDuff's was a stocky building with rounded walls and a rounded roof. Built from great, tree-size elmwood timbers and banded with iron staves, it looked like a giant beer barrel knocked on its side and sunk deep into the snow. Two doors led inside. The largest led to the stables, and Angus and Raif headed there first. Raif brushed down Moose and the bay while Angus exchanged quiet words with the groom. The groom was young, blind in one eye, and he spoke with a soft, hesitant stutter. Raif had seen him many times over the years, but until he watched Angus speak with him, he had never seen the young man laugh or smile. When the exchange was over, Angus grasped the groom's hand and bade him, \"Stable the horses near the door.\"\n\nRaif glanced around the dark, well-ordered stables. Over half of the two dozen boxes were occupied, and a handful of sturdy cobs and mountain-bred ponies stood in the lean-to outside.\n\nIt was a long walk to the stovehouse's second door. Piles of newly dumped snow mounded along the stovehouse walls. Hoarfrost sparkled on the timbers, and high upon the roof, where the brick chimney cut through the wood, snow could be heard hissing and sputtering as it melted.\n\nHeat, smoke, smells, and sounds blasted against Raif's face as he pushed open the door and entered Duff's. Even as his eyes worked to grow accustomed to the light, his mouth watered at the smell of charred fat, elk meat, and onions. Normally at this hour someone would be singing and some crusty old clansman would be blowing the pipes. People would be laughing and arguing and gaming recklessly, yet although over thirty men and women sat or stood in the bright, wood-walled stoveroom, they kept themselves in small groups. Raif recognized a small party of spearmen from Clan Scarpe, their hair either black by birth or dyed that way, their weapons sheathed in intricately plaited cords that were designed to show the sharpness of their blades. A man and woman from Clan Gnash sat warming themselves by the great brick and metal stove. The woman wore her waist-length red hair unbound in the manner of all Gnash women. She was dressed in soft pigskin pants, and the belt around her waist was weighed with the Three Daggers: one horn, one steel, and one flint. A great circle of Dhoonesmen dominated the room. Massive men, they were, with blond hair, full beards, and blue ink tattooed into their faces. Strapped to their backs, waists, thighs, forearms, and calves were their weapons. Steel as perfect and brilliant as running water sent knifelight flashing through the room.\n\n\"Step away from the door, lad,\" murmured Angus close to Raif's ear. \"Let's not give the patrons too long to think on who we are, or why we're here.\"\n\nRaif, as if woken from a trance, obeyed his uncle's order and made his way to the back of the room. Talk, which had come to a dead halt the moment he and Angus had entered, resumed with the hushed frenzy of cockroaches escaping from light. As Raif picked a bench to sit at, as far away from the stove as it was possible to be, Angus exchanged nods with the stovemaster.\n\nDuff had a bit of every clan in him, at least that was what he claimed. He was the hairiest man Raif had ever seen, and in his youth he had been famous for his teeth. Logs, barges, carts, carrion, and sleds: With a rope between his teeth, Duff had hauled them all. His teeth were still splendid to this day, and as he brought over a tray steaming with hot shammies, hot beer, and hot meat, he grinned broadly, revealing surprisingly small but perfectly even teeth. Raif remembered Tem asking Duff once how he had got his teeth so strong. \"I used to crush pond ice with them,\" he had said.\n\n\"Angus! You old dog! How long's it been?\" Duff's brow reflected a moment of strenuous thought as he loaded his goods on the table. \"Aye, I canna be bothered thinking. Too long, that's for sure.\"\n\n\"Duff. You've grown fatter and uglier. By the Stones, man! That neck hair needs a shearing. If I was your wife, I'd bind your arse to that stove and shave you.\"\n\nDuff's laugh was his second wonder. Rich and hearty, it rolled up from his chest like breaking waves. \"If you were my wife, Angus, I'd bind myself to the stove and light it.\"\n\nRaif grinned, suddenly feeling better than he had all day. He had forgotten how much he liked Duff. The two men continued on, railing each other with such unabashed relish and affection, it was obvious they were old, old friends. A few heads turned at the laughter, but no one took longer than they should paying heed to the stovemaster and his guest.\n\nAs he took a draft of bitter foamy beer, Raif spent a moment studying those people who had not caught his attention when he had first walked through the door. A small party of trappers kept to themselves in the far corner, chewing on long strips of birch bark as they mended the wires for their traps. An old Orrlsman, his eyes milky with snow blindness, sat close to the stove with his dog. Across the way, a woman wearing the gray leathers and moose felt of Bannen was busy finishing her supper of fried onions and elk meat. Like all women from Bannen, she carried a longsword of black steel on her back. Two men sat in the shadows directly opposite Raif, nursing half-empty tankards between gloved hands. They were clansmen, but their hoods were up and they were dressed in dark oilskins and Raif could not place them. There were no Bluddsmen. Which, considering a circle of Dhoonesmen commanded the room, was lucky for patrons, staff, and stove laws alike.\n\nRaif knew that everyone in the room saw him as a Hailsman. Blackhail was the most austere and least given to show of all the clans. It had been stripped of its badge five hundred years earlier when Ayan Blackhail took the life of the last Clan King, and no one had worn the Hail Wolf since. Even so, the silver cap on Raif's tine, the beaten silver strip that tied his hair, and the black leather of his belts, scabbards, and fronts placed him from Blackhail as surely as the blue tattoos on the Dhoonesmen's faces named them Dhoone. Blackhail was the only clanhold where silver was mined, and the metal was worked into the hilts of all handknives and swords. Tem's halfsword had a layer of silver wire wrapped around the grip, and the leather scabbard it was housed in was dyed black to match the graphite lesions in the Hailstone.\n\n\"You won't mind keeping your own company for a while, Raif,\" Angus said, slapping a hand on his shoulder. \"Duff's going to take me in the back so I can pick a length of cloth for my wife.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" Duff said. \"Me poor wife hates to show herself once she's plaited her hair for bed.\"\n\nRaif nodded to both men. He thought they spoke a little too casually, but it was no concern of his. Angus shrugged off his coat and packs and followed Duff to a small door in the back of the room. Raif watched them go. Did Angus greet the trappers along the way?\n\n\"Raif Sevrance.\"\n\nTurning, Raif came face-to-face with the two men who had been sitting in the shadows wearing oilskins. They were Hailsmen: Will Hawk and his son, Bron, who had been fostered to Dhoone for a season. Bron was the one who had brought news of Dhoone's defeat to the clan. Raif was immediately on his guard. He gave back greetings but did not ask what business brought father and son to Duff's.\n\nWill, a somber man with the kind of pale skin that showed many veins, sat on the stool that had just been vacated by Angus. \"I see you're here with your uncle. The ranger.\"\n\nIt was an invitation to speak, not a question. Raif nodded.\n\nWill made a gesture toward Bron, bidding that he sit. Bron's mother was a Dhooneswoman, and he had the fair hair and light eyes of the Dhoones. He was known for his swordsmanship, Raif recalled, and, strangely enough, for his fine singing voice. Raif thought he didn't look much the sort to break into song.\n\nWhen father and son were settled close, Will took a heavy breath and said, \"How did the ambush go, lad?\"\n\nRaif worked to keep his face still. He had been expecting the question\u2014as a senior clansman, Will Hawk would have taken part in planning the ambush\u2014yet Raif found it difficult to speak. He had spent the past two days sealing off his memories of the clan, and he did not want to reopen them. Not here. Not now. He glanced into Will Hawk's eyes. Genuine concern nestled there, along with growing impatience. Raif did not know Will Hawk well, yet he was a full clansman and was therefore owed respect. \"The ambush went well. All was as Mace Blackhail said.\"\n\n\"Who amongst us took hurt?\"\n\n\"Banron Lye. Toady Walker.\"\n\nBoth Will and Bron touched their guidestone pouches. Silence followed. After several minutes Will said, \"And so you're heading south to spread the word to Scarpe and Orrl?\"\n\nRaif shook his head. He would not lie to a clansman.\n\nWill waited for him to explain himself. Raif breathed and did not speak. After a minute of silence, he could no longer look his clansman in the eye. Bron took a ewe's heart from a platter and began to chew on it.\n\nIn the corner of his vision, Raif saw Angus emerge from the back room of the stovehouse. He was carrying a dainty bundle with exaggerated care, and one of the trappers made jest of him. Angus laughed along with the rest, falling into an easy conversation that grew lower as the minutes passed.\n\n\"So you are just traveling with your uncle for a while,\" Will said at last.\n\nHe knows, Raif thought. Will knows I have broken my oath.\n\nWill stood. His eyes carefully avoided Raif as he said to his son, \"Come. There is no company worth keeping here tonight.\" Puzzlement shot over Bron's face, but he obeyed his father, swallowing the last of the heart and standing. Together they walked back to their place at the far side of the room.\n\nRaif did not move. Shame burned him. There were no excuses he could give, nothing he could say to bring Will back to his table. He had broken his oath, and no words could change what that made him.\n\nBlackhail was the oldest of the clans, and there were many who held it was the hardest, too. It had its traitors, Raif knew it must have traitors\u2014three thousand years of wars, successions, and infighting had to produce some men who had broken their oaths\u2014yet their names were never spoken. Their memories died before they did. Once when he was younger, Raif remembered asking Inigar Stoop why there was a deep black pit in the farthest corner of the guidestone, big as a wolf and filled with oil that had hardened over centuries to dark jewels. Inigar had run his stick fingers over the hollow and said, \"This is the place where we cut traitors' hearts from the stone.\"\n\nRaif felt the shame heat sear him. How long would it be before Inigar picked up a chisel in his name?\n\nHard footsteps crunched on snow and then the stovehouse door burst open. The temperature dropped immediately as a cold wind circled the room. Raif looked up to see four Bluddsmen enter the stovehouse. Faces hard, bodies weighted with steel, they stopped just beyond the doorway and surveyed the room. Air and space contracted. The Dhoonesmen stood as a single body, swordhands dropping to the hand-and-a-half hilts of their greatswords. In the far corner Will and Bron shifted themselves without seeming to move, making body and weapons ready.\n\nRaif felt the full force of the Bluddsmen's attention. He watched as their gray and dark blue eyes seized upon the silver piece in his hair and on his tine. He saw them hate.\n\nHair shaved clean around their faces, braids descending down their backs like rope dipped in tar, they looked like no other clan. Their leathers were tanned in different ways, and their weapons were heavy forged. Seeing them here, at close quarters, Raif realized how little he had learned by fighting them on the Bluddroad. Clan Bludd was a force unto itself.\n\n\"Close the door, Chokko. Bring your men to warm their bellies at the stove.\" Duff moved into the strip of space separating the Dhoonesmen from the Bluddsmen.\n\nThe one named Chokko raised a gloved fist. \"Nay, Stovemaster. This is not something to be smoothed over with beer and warming. Our clan bleeds this night.\"\n\n\"Take it outside, Chokko. No misdeed is greater than breaking the law of the stove.\"\n\nChokko shook his massive head. \"I have respect for you, Stovemaster. Know that. And I come to pick no fight with the Dhoone.\" He and the head Dhoonesman shared a long, bitter glance. \"But I will fight this night. I have to. My heart will not let me rest until I have taken Blackhail blood.\"\n\nA murmur of cold fear passed through the room. The Dhoonesmen's faces darkened. The woman from Gnash slid her hand down toward the Three Daggers at her waist. The Scarpemen, war-sworn allies of Clan Blackhail, bristled like hackles on a dog. Will and Bron Hawk shed their oilskins and walked with hard dignity into the center of the room.\n\nBeneath the table, Raif's fist closed around Tem's sword. His heart hammered, yet strangely he felt something close to relief. So this is how it would end, fighting Bluddsmen.\n\n\"The stove laws work two ways, Chokko,\" Duff said, holding his position directly in front of the Bluddsmen, barring them access to the rest of the room. \"If men are at my stove, keeping my peace, I will not allow anyone to force them outside against their will.\"\n\n\"Bravely said, Stovemaster,\" said Will Hawk, entering the Bluddsmen's space. \"But we are Clan Blackhail, and we will not cower and we will not hide, and if Bludd wants the chance to best us, then so be it.\" The last words were addressed to Chokko, and the stovelight seemed to dim as they were spoken, leaving the two men in a place of their own.\n\nChokko did not blink\u2014hardly, in fact, seemed to breathe. He spoke, and although his words were said to Will Hawk, he meant the whole room to hear them. \"Our chief sent a dog to us\u2014we, who were camped along the Elk Trail\u2014telling of what Blackhail had done. The bitch died even as I took the bale from her collar, so hard had she traveled in two days and one night. The message told of an ambush along the Bluddroad, and how three dozen of our wives and children were hunted like animals and then slain in the snow, in cold blood.\"\n\nA hiss, like the sound of trees whipped by high wind, took the room. Duff closed his eyes and touched his lids. The couple from Gnash signed to the Stone Gods. The woman from Bannen touched the black iron pendant containing her measure of powdered guidestone and spoke a single word: \"Children.\" Even the Dhoonesmen looked down.\n\nWill Hawk shook his head. \"You lie, Chokko of Clan Bludd. My clan would never slay wives and children in cold blood.\"\n\nThe Bluddsman at Chokko's side pushed forward. \"We do not lie. Our chief does not lie. We are Clan Bludd, and even when the truth is hard we speak it.\" Chokko gripped his clansman's arm to stop him from drawing his sword.\n\n\"It is the truth, Hailsman,\" he cried. \"And you will know it soon enough when you receive the swift judgment of our blades.\"\n\nA muscle pumped high on Will Hawk's cheek. His eyes glittered in the stovelight. Raif tensed, his chest as tight as a bow at full draw. Will Hawk turned toward him. \"Tell them they lie, Raif Sevrance. That I may carry the pride of my clan to this fight.\"\n\nAll eyes fell on Raif. The Bluddsmen, realizing straightaway the full implication of Will's appeal, sent looks filled with such loathing that Raif felt them as blows against his skin. All was quiet for one terrible, unbearable moment. The knowledge Raif held damned them all. Bluddsmen and Hailsmen would fight this night regardless of what he said\u2014that much was clear\u2014but how could he send Will and Bron Hawk into a fight with no honor? Four massive Bluddsmen in their prime, against three Hailsmen, two of them yearmen newly sworn?\n\nThey would die. He, Will, and Bron would die.\n\nRaif swallowed hard, gathered himself in. Clan was everything. What he was didn't matter\u2014his soul was already lost\u2014but he couldn't send Will and Bron to their deaths on a lie.\n\nHe stood. \"We did what we had to.\"\n\nGasps erupted. The Bluddsmen drew steel. The expression on Will Hawk's face was a kind of death for Raif. He knew he would never be forgiven for the words he had spoken.\n\nWill struggled with the truth for only a moment, yet when he turned to face the Bluddsmen he was no longer the same man. \"Hold your steel until we are outside,\" he said, his voice hard and weary in one. \"I will not confound one wrong with another. Bron.\" He looked at his son. \"Your yearman's oath to Dhoone still stands. This is not your fight.\"\n\nBron shook his head. \"Tonight I am a Hailsman,\" he said.\n\nA look of pure pain crossed Will's face. By the time he spoke it was gone. \"Come, then, son. Let us fight for our clan.\"\n\nFather and son moved toward the door.\n\nRaif stepped forward, following them.\n\nHearing the scrape of his chair and the slap of his footsteps on stone, Will Hawk turned and held up his hand. \"Nay, Raif Sevrance. Take your seat. I would rather a Bluddsman cut out my heart than a traitor fight at my side.\"\n\nWill held his position for one moment and then walked outside. The Bluddsmen followed. Bron followed. Someone shut the door.\n\nLike a ghost, Raif continued walking. Slowly. Unstoppable.\n\nAngus came and fought him, big meaty arms clamping around his chest, knees jabbing at his shins. Duff slid a bar across the door, then came to Angus' aid. Raif fought back. Hands pushed, feet kicked, chests blocked his way. They slowed but could not stop him. He took great hurt and gave great hurt, yet it all seemed as unreal as any dream. All that mattered was the door. Not once did he doubt that he would reach it. Like game, he had set its oak and iron heart in his sights. It was his, and he would take it. If Angus and Duff had known that, if he could only have explained, they would have let him go. But they didn't, so he fought them, and all three took harm.\n\nSometimes he caught glimpses of himself in other men's eyes. A Dhoonesman held his hand to his tine, as if he were seeing something unspeakable like a Stone God come down for vengeance. The Scarpemen looked afraid.\n\nHot blood ran down Raif's nose to his mouth. Yellow fluid slid across his eye. His fists were like machines, up and down they went, smashing flesh, as his feet claimed ground beneath him. Filled with the same inevitable force as an arrow in flight, he had no choice but to move toward the door.\n\nThen, suddenly, Angus spoke a word. He wiped blood from his face and shook his head, and then he and Duff fell away. Raif barely registered their withdrawal. It was nothing to him. He would have reached the door without it. His hands came up and dealt with the bar, and a moment later he stood facing the snow and the night. Cold breezes worked his skin as he took in the last seconds of the fight. One Bluddsman was down. Bron was down. The remaining Bluddsmen delivered long thrusts with their swords, impaling the flopping, powerless form of Will Hawk. Only their blades kept him standing.\n\nRaif lost himself after that. Afterward he would remember things, or perhaps what little Angus Lok told him became memory, but when he stepped through the threshold and into the snow he became something else.\n\nSwords don't ring when you draw them, yet to Raif it seemed as if his did. His mouth was dry, utterly dry. His raven lore burned like white-hot steel against his skin.\n\nWatcher of the Dead\n\nThat was his last thought before his mind spiraled downward to a place where all that mattered were the Bluddsmen's beating hearts.\nTWENTY-ONE\n\nSarga Veys\n\nPENTHERO ISS STOOD HIGH in the cool marble blackness of the Bight and watched as Sarga Veys entered Mask Fortress. Not for Veys the soldiers' sparseness of stable gate or the common squalor of north gate. No. Veys took the east gate, whose fine marble columns and wrought-iron gratings were usually reserved for lords, ladies, and those of high office, not second-rate envoys who had knowledge of the old skills. Iss exhaled softly into the shadows. Sarga Veys was an interesting piece of flesh.\n\nAs he crossed the quad, Veys kept turning his head toward the Splinter. After a moment he stopped, spun his heels, and spent a full minute contemplating the ice-bound tower. Iss didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. A small drawing out of himself, like a long sniff or a wet finger thrust into the air to test wind speed, served to assure him that Veys was studying the Splinter purely with his own two eyes, not probing it with sorcery as he feared.\n\nWithdrawing back into himself, he became aware of the taste of metal in his mouth and a drop of urine sliding down his thigh. It was disgusting to feel the wetness there. He despised his weaknesses. Working the tainted saliva into a wad for spitting, he looked once more upon the white-robed form of Sarga Veys.\n\nSarga Veys was looking directly at him.\n\nUnsettled, Iss took a step back. I am in shadow, he told himself, and five stories above him. How then does he know I am here? The drawing! Sarga Veys had sensed the drawing. Iss' face darkened. The power he had drawn to test for sorcery was so slight, a little moth on the wing, it should not have been detectable. Yet there was Sarga Veys, smiling now, raising his arm in greeting. Iss turned and exited the room. Veys would know now, with utter certainty, that something was housed within the Splinter that his Surlord wished him not to see.\n\nDescending the ice-cold stairs of the Bight, Iss prepared himself to meet with Sarga Veys. Although the sun had newly risen above Mount Slain, the day was already little to the Surlord's liking. Only an hour earlier, beneath the darkly sloping ceiling of the Hall of Trials, the Lady of the Eastern Granges and her besworded son the Whitehog had challenged his right to apportion land along the city's northern reach.\n\n\"My grandfather's brother owned hunting rights to the Northern Granges,\" Lisereth Hews, Lady of the Eastern Granges, had said, her voice rapidly becoming shrewish. \"And I claim them here and now for my son.\" It was a ridiculously trumped-up claim, of course, but Lisereth Hews was a dangerous woman. The white and the gold of the Hews suited her just as well as it suited any man. She would cause trouble over this. Four of the past ten surlords had come from House Hews, and the good lady was scheming to place her son as the fifth. The matter of the Northern Granges, newly come into dispute owing to the death of its lord, Allock Mure, had provided her with a convenient excuse to show her teeth.\n\nIss bared his own teeth. Lisereth Hews was a fool if she thought she could take him on. He would not sit and grow old and wait for the assassins to come. The great old houses of Hews, Crieff, Stornoway, Gryphon, Pengaron, and Mar would find battles aplenty soon enough.\n\nOnce within his private chamber, Iss took time to change his clothes. The urine stain on his robe was a tiny thing, but Sarga Veys had quick eyes and a quick mind, and Iss would not allow him the satisfaction of putting two and two together and realizing that his Surlord was not as powerful as he seemed. Sarga Veys was a skilled and subtle magic user, and that meant he was dangerous as well as useful.\n\nIss dressed without haste, content to let Caydis Zerbina fasten the dozen pearl buttons on each cuff and lace the ties on his silk coat so that they formed an elaborate herringbone design across his chest. He was indifferent to clothes but knew well enough their many uses and always made a point of dressing in expensive silks, heavily weighted and exquisitely cut.\n\nWhen he was satisfied that he had kept Sarga Veys waiting long enough, he indicated that the Halfman should be let in the room. Caydis moved to the door without making a sound.\n\n\"My lord.\" Sarga Veys entered the chamber and then bowed, awaiting his Surlord's pleasure.\n\nIss studied the curve of Veys' neck, the texture and pigment of the skin. Even though Veys had just returned from a journey lasting several weeks, no dirt from the road clung to him. He must have stopped in the city and bathed before presenting himself at the fortress. Not liking the cool detachment such an act betokened, Iss made a note to have Veys followed while he stayed in the city. He already knew much about the Halfman, but it never hurt to know more.\n\n\"Sarga Veys. I trust I find you in good health?\" Veys opened his mouth to reply, but Iss blocked him. \"I failed to notice the sept as you returned. I trust the brothers-in-the-watch came to no harm?\"\n\n\"They asked if they could ride on ahead of me when we came within sight of the city. I saw no reason to refuse their wish.\"\n\nHe lied. No member of the Rive Watch would ever ask anything of Sarga Veys. More likely they had abandoned him as soon as they'd judged it safe. Iss nodded. \"I see.\"\n\nSuspecting his lie had been detected, Sarga Veys straightened his shoulders. \"Next time I ride on your behalf, my lord, I would prefer to handpick the sept myself.\"\n\n\"As you wish.\" Iss didn't care either way. Let Veys try to handpick a sept. It would be interesting to see just how far he'd get before Marafice Eye stepped in to have his say. \"Have you any further demands before we begin? Perhaps a new horse, or a new title, or a new set of robes with gold trim?\"\n\nSarga Veys' violet eyes darkened. His throat muscles worked, and for a moment Iss didn't know if he meant to draw sorcery or to speak. Veys hardly seemed to know himself. After a moment he calmed himself, swallowing whatever sorcery or wordage had massed upon his tongue. \"I apologize, my lord. I am tired and ill worn. I do not much care for the cold open lands of the North.\"\n\nIss was immediately conciliatory. \"Of course, my friend. Of course.\" He touched Veys' arm. \"Come. Sit. Wine. We must have wine. And food. Caydis. Bring us what you know is good. Make it hot. Yes, by all means see to the fire first. How right of you to think of our visitor's well-being as well as his belly.\" It was interesting to watch the effect the little show of pandering had on Sarga Veys. He liked being courted. That was one of his weaknesses, his belief that he was entitled to better than what he got.\n\nWhen Caydis left the room, closing the door as softly as only he could, Iss turned to Veys and said, \"So. All has gone to plan in the clanholds?\"\n\nVeys' smooth skin glistened like linen dipped in oil as he said, \"They're fighting like dogs in a pit.\"\n\nIss nodded. He did not speak for a moment, wanting to settle the knowledge in his mind and claim it for his own. Absently he ran a hand over his mouth. \"So Mace Blackhail acted upon the information you gave him?\"\n\n\"Immediately. It was a massacre. Thirty women and children slain in cold blood\u2014most of them kin to the great Dog Lord himself. Now Bludd is at Blackhail's throat, Dhoone and Blackhail are at Bludd's throat, and all the clans in between are scrambling to take sides.\" Veys smoothed the perfectly white sleeves of his robe. \"The Dog Lord will find thorns growing on the Dhooneseat soon enough.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\" Iss had a higher opinion of Vaylo Bludd than Sarga Veys did. Sarga Veys saw only the crudeness, the spitting and swearing and dogs. Iss saw the ruthless determination of a man who had lorded Clan Bludd for thirty-five years and was loved as a king by his sworn men. Besides, Sarga Veys was missing the point. The Dog Lord was just one chief among many. Clan Croser, Clan Bannen, Clan Otler, Clan Scarpe, Clan Ganmiddich, and all the rest had to be brought into the war. It wasn't enough that Blackhail, Bludd, and Dhoone fight; all their war-sworn clans must, too. When the time came to send a host north for battle, it would be the promise of easy land and easy wealth that stirred the grangelords and their armies. The fat border clans would be first taken. The cold giants of the Far North, with their massive stone roundhouses, steel forges, and ice-bred warriors, would come later... once they'd fought themselves bloody over years.\n\nIss ran a pale hand over his face. Could he do this? Did he have a choice? The world was changing, and the Sull would ride out from their Heart Fires soon enough. If ever there was a chance to seize greatness and power, this was it. If Spire Vanis didn't move to claim a continent, then Trance Vor, Morning Star, and Ille Glaive would. An empire would be created. And he, Penthero Iss, son of an onion farmer from Trance Vor and kinsman to Lord of the Sundered Granges, would not stand by and watch as others took what should be his.\n\n\"I picked up one or two other intelligences whilst I was in the North,\" Veys said, his voice slicing through Iss' thoughts like cheesewire. \"I think you may find them interesting.\"\n\nIt was an effort to bring his mind back to the subject at hand. \"Go on.\"\n\n\"Our old friend Angus Lok is on the move again. Heading north to the clanholds, last I heard.\"\n\nThis was news. Angus Lok had been to ground for six months. None of Iss' spies had been able to locate him. He and his family live within a few days' ride of Ille Glaive, was all they could ever tell him. \"If Angus Lok is on the move, then so is the Phage.\"\n\nSarga Veys met eyes with his Surlord. \"I wonder why.\"\n\nI bet you do, thought Iss. Not for the first time he contemplated ridding himself of Veys. The Halfman was too clever, too sharp. He had already betrayed one taskmaster. How much easier would a second betrayal be? \"Seems you were one of them once, you tell me what the Phage are up to.\"\n\nVeys shrugged. \"With the Phage... who can know for sure? They keep themselves as close as bats on a cave wall. In the whole of Spire Vanis there are probably only five people who have ever heard of them, and two of them are sitting in this room.\" Veys moved forward in his seat, and Iss knew to expect a second revelation. \"Of course, there was that raven Stovemaster Gloon brought down.\"\n\n\"What raven?\"\n\n\"Well, apparently the good stovemaster lives in fear of ravens flying over his chimney\u2014you know how superstitious stovemasters can be about their god-cursed stoves.\" Veys waited for his Surlord to nod. \"So, whenever Gloon climbs up on his roof to clean his stack he always carries a braced bow with him in case he spot a raven flying overhead. He likes to take potshots at them. Hangs them from the rafters like trophies. Anyway, seven days before I arrived, Gloon brought down the biggest raven he'd ever seen. He couldn't stop bragging about it. The man exaggerated, of course\u2014little men like that always do\u2014but when he cut the bird down to show me, I noticed a line of sinew wrapped around its leg.\"\n\n\"A messenger bird.\"\n\n\"Yes. And it was heading north toward the ice.\"\n\n\"There was no message.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThen the bird was homing, toward the Ice Trapper tribe. No others besides Ice Trappers and the Sull used ravens. Invisible hairs on Iss' arm rose. \"What direction did it come from?\"\n\n\"South. Just south.\" The look on the Halfman's face told Iss that he had already made the connection between the bird and Angus Lok. He was clever, so clever.\n\nBut the news was tantalizing. That was the problem: Veys had a way of uncovering just the sort of information that Iss liked to know. And he was so very useful, so very adept with sorcery.\n\nIss attended the tray of food and wine that Caydis had discreetly slid upon the marble-topped table. All things fragrant were upon it: the wine warmed with cloves and then poured into cups rubbed with lemon, the egg yolks shuddering like oysters under the weight of turmeric and sesame seeds, the fried figs split and steaming, and lamb's tongues spread with rose jam, musk, and amber. No one prepared food like Caydis Zerbina. No one could find the things he did.\n\nOffering a silver cup filled with wine to Sarga Veys, Iss contemplated all he had learned. So the Listener of the Ice Trapper tribe had sent a raven? That meant the North was prepared itself for the dance of shadows to come. Iss sat back in his chair, stilling himself with deep breaths held long in his lungs. Let them dance, he thought. Let the Sull dance with shadows and the clanholds dance with swords, and let those bold enough to move while the music plays steal a world from under their feet.\n\nSarga Veys popped a fat fig into his mouth. He was looking more than a little pleased with himself. \"I hear your ward has gone missing. The sweet and lovely Asarhia. I could help you track her down if you like.\"\n\n\"No.\" Iss let the word stand alone. He would not explain himself to a second-rate envoy who had neither land nor family allegiances to call his own. The thought of Sarga Veys even touching Asarhia filled Iss' chest with cold unease. Asarhia was so young, so unknowing...\n\nIss put down his wine cup untouched. She had to be found. The city was no place for her to be. She could get hurt, raped. She could lose her fingers overnight to the cold, starve to death in some dingy little tent in Almstown, or curl up in the cairn-size snowdrifts that massed along the city's north wall and sleep her way to death. Iss had seen it happen. Every spring, during first thaw, a hundred or more bodies would be carried through the sluice gates along with the snowmelt The poor fools all died with smiles on their faces, thinking that the blue tongues of frost that killed them were as warm and soothing as flames.\n\nIss breathed heavily. He needed to call the Knife. The search must be expanded, the reward doubled, Almstown and all its shanties razed to the ground. Asarhia must be brought home. He had not spent sixteen years in her rearing to let her fall into another's hands.\n\nCatching Veys looking at him with eyes that knew and guessed too much, Iss rose and walked to the door. Caydis Zerbina waited on the other side, and one word was all it took to give him purpose.\n\n\"Will you need me to head north again, my lord?\" Veys said.\n\nIss shook his head. \"No. It's a delicate game we play, this making of wars. Push too often and we risk making our intentions known. Far better to watch and wait and see. Blackhail has lost its chief, Bludd has lost women and children, and Dhoone has lost its clanhold: Let clannish pride and clannish gods do the rest.\"\n\n\"But what of their war-sworn clans? What of Ganmiddich, Bannen, Orrl...\"\n\n\"All in good time, Sarga Veys. If the game slows or the rules change, you'll be the first to know.\"\n\nThe Halfman bowed his head. \"As you wish.\"\n\nIss waited for the next question, knowing full well what it would be.\n\n\"And my next duties?\"\n\n\"I haven't given them much thought, my friend. There's nothing pressing. Obviously, I'd be grateful for any word you might bring of Angus Lok and his family. Apart from that I suggest you rest yourself after your long journey, take time to enjoy the refreshments of the city.\" Iss flipped the lid on a silver box crusted with emeralds that had once belonged to the Surlord Rannock Hews, whom Borhis Horgo had slain in the black mud of Hound's Mire forty years earlier while five Forsworn held him down with the heels of their boots. Taking something from the box, Iss smiled indulgently at Sarga Veys. \"Here,\" he said pressing the object into the Halfman's hand. \"Spend it wisely.\"\n\nSarga Veys' face was a thing to behold as he stared at the golden piece the Surlord had given him. The idea that he wasn't needed, that he could be dismissed as easily as a wetted prostitute, was something that had never occurred to him before. He was the young and brilliant Sarga Veys, the Phage's greatest find in over a decade. Who would not want or need him? Any other time Iss might have been tempted to smile at the specks of stricken pride shining like salmon roe in Sarga Veys' eyes, yet for some reason he did not. Veys was dangerous. And although it had been necessary to teach him a lesson, he was exactly the sort of person who collected and nursed his slights.\n\nIss was saved further thought on the subject by the arrival of Marafice Eye, swiftly brought by Caydis Zerbina. The Knife neither knocked nor waited. He entered the room, claimed space, then set his small blue eyes upon the game: Sarga Veys.\n\nInstantly Iss regretted summoning him. His intent had been to intimidate the Halfman and put him in his place. Yet the business with the gold piece had already achieved part of that, and Iss knew he was in danger of going too far.\n\nSarga Veys, who still hadn't recovered from the blow of being judged unnecessary to his Surlord's immediate plans, colored slightly under the force of the Knife's gaze. Without realizing what he did, he shrank back in his chair.\n\nThe Knife did nothing except stand; he needed to do no more.\n\nIss looked from one man to the other. A change of plan was in order. Taking a shallow breath, he addressed himself to the Knife. \"The sept you sent north with Sarga Veys needs disciplining. See to it.\"\n\nMarafice Eye scowled. Iss turned his back, dismissing him.\n\nFootsteps shook the room and then the door was slammed with enough force to split the frame.\n\nIss turned to Sarga Veys. \"I will not keep you idle for long.\"\n\nThe Halfinan's cheeks glowed prettily with spite; he had very much enjoyed the dressing-down of Marafice Eye. \"I await your call, my lord.\" Standing, he slipped the gold piece into a fold in his robe. \"I trust my lord was pleased with the duties I performed in the North?\"\n\nAll this and praise, too? Iss' dislike for the Halfman deepened. Smiling, he crossed to the door and opened it. Splinters of wood fell in great chunks to the floor. \"You have more than proved your worth.\"\n\nSarga Veys continued to glow as he walked through the door.\n\nAs soon as he was out of earshot, Iss called to Caydis to bring back the Knife.\nTWENTY-TWO\n\nMatters of Clan\n\nPAIN RODE WITH HIM like a second skin. Boot-shaped bruises marked his flesh, organs and soft tissue leaking blood beneath. Wounds sewn closed with black thread punctured with soft hisses, spilling pus. Hurts riddled his body like pine beetles in wood. His sliced lip throbbed. His black eye turned every blink into an agonizing procedure of weeping flesh and pain. Crusted yellow stuff accumulated in his swollen ear, and the blister on his right hand was fire upon the reins.\n\nMiserable, cold, and tucked deep into a place well warded against thoughts, Raif Sevrance rode at Angus Lok's side. Bleak, gray light shone upon a landscape glittering with frost. A predatory wind stayed close to the ground, content to let the terrible cold weaken its victims before moving in for the kill. Stands of hemlock, their trunks dulled by rime ice, rose like a ghost army to block the advancing night.\n\nAngus rode in silence, his back bent and his head sunk deep within his hood. Although Raif could not see his uncle's face, he knew all about the bruises and lesions there. Raif shuddered to think of them. There was even a bite mark.\n\nHow many days had passed since the night at Duff's Stovehouse was difficult to tell. Perhaps a week. Maybe longer. All days and nights were the same in the taiga. Raif could remember little about the night of the fight. Dimly he recalled Angus leading him away from the hacked pieces of flesh that had once been the Bluddsmen's bodies. He remembered the looks of fear and horror on the faces of the Dhoonesmen, then the coming together of Scarpe, Dhoone, Ganmiddich, and Gnash to draw a guide circle around the six bodies in the snow.\n\nThey couldn't wait to be rid of him. Angus and Duff had taken him to the stables and seen to his injuries there. As soon as Duff finished the stitching, Angus had forced a flask full of malt liquor down his throat and hefted him over Moose's back. Raif's last thought was that one of Duff's famous teeth was now missing: He would never pull a sled that way again.\n\nOnly later, much later, did he realize that he had been the cause of Duff's missing tooth and the bite mark on Angus' cheek. It didn't bear thinking about.\n\nAngus had told him what little he judged it necessary for him to know. Raif knew he was holding back and was glad of it. He didn't want to hear all the details of the fight. Angus himself had been strangely quiet these past days, holding his peace around the stove at night, speaking of little but the weather and journey by day. Glancing over at the hunched, frost-dusted form of his uncle, Raif felt a rough soreness press against his throat.\n\nYou are not good for this clan, Raif Sevrance.\n\nNow Angus knew the truth of it, too.\n\n\"Angus,\" Raif said, surprising himself by breaking the silence.\n\nAngus turned his head so Raif could see his face. All the cuts and bruises were heavily waxed; broken and damaged skin was an invitation to the 'bite. \"What?\"\n\nRaif felt his nerve waver so rushed on before he had chance to think. \"Why did you let me go? You and Duff fought me all the way to the door, but then you said something and both you and he pulled away.\"\n\nA soft grunt came from Angus' lips. Turning his attention back to the way ahead, he said, \"Aye. You would ask that. And you'll be wanting the truth of it, too.\"\n\nHe was silent for a while, guiding his bay around a thicket of frozen thorns. Just when Raif had given up hope of an answer, he spoke again, his voice lower than the wind. \"There came a point when I knew you couldn't be stopped, just knew it in my old Lok bones. To carry on fighting would have only brought Duff and myself more harm. Yet it was more than that.\" Angus sighed heavily. Bits of ice on his saddle coat slid into his lap. \"I have a trace of the old skill in me, Raif. Just a wee bit, enough to sense when others around me use sorcery, and a few small things like that. I'm not a magic user, don't hear me wrong. I couldna shift air and light if me own life depended on it\u2014and if we're ever in a situation where that sort of thing is called for, then remember Angus Lok isn't your man. As I said, though, I can sense things when I have a mind to. And that night when you kept fighting and fighting, butting old Duff in the teeth and kneeing me in the knackers, I felt something\u2014\"\n\n\"Sorcery?\"\n\n\"No. Fate.\" Angus held the word a long moment, then shrugged. \"Call it an old ranger's fancy if you like. Call it bloody delirium brought on by having my balls disbanded. All I know is there came a moment when I thought to myself, As terrible as this is, it's meant to be.\"\n\nRaif took a breath. Pain from his stitches and blistered hand made him wince. Fate. He wanted none of it. Yet even as his thoughts pounced, ready to attack the idea, fragments of memory slipped through his mind. A red lake, frozen, a forest of silver blue trees, and a lightless city without people: The places the guidestone had showed him.\n\n\"Fate pushes,\" Angus said, breaking through Raif's thoughts. \"Sometimes, if you lie under the stars at night, you can feel it. Children sense it\u2014that's why they always get so excited at the thought of camping out. They know, yet can never put it into words. As for myself, I've felt fate only a few times in my life, and always it made me change my course. The stovehouse was one such push.\"\n\n\"Yet I might have died.\"\n\n\"Aye. And I canna say if I would have stepped in to save you.\" Angus turned and looked at Raif, his coppery eyes flecked with green. \"You know that word of what you did will reach every corner of the clanholds. To slay three Bluddsmen single-handed is a feat not soon forgotten.\"\n\nRaif shook his head. He hated what he had become when he'd walked through the stovehouse door. There was no pride in slaying men so; he had been little more than a wolf tearing out throats. It sickened him to think of it. He had a memory of the snow outside of Duff's saturated with blood. \"Blackhail will sing no songs in remembrance of me.\"\n\n\"Maybe not. But thirty pairs of eyes saw what you did, and songs don't always need to be sung to be heard.\" Angus stared hard at Raif a moment, then kicked the bay forward onto ground that had once been marshy and wet and was now fast with ice.\n\nRaif followed after. Soon they came upon a frozen stream and took the cleared and frozen path it offered them through the hills and ravines of the taiga's edge. By the time they left the ice to make camp for the night, the trees surrounding them had stopped being a forest and become a loose collection of woodland instead. A quarter moon rode low on the horizon, making the stream ice glow like blue fire.\n\n\"What will happen now between Blackhail and Bludd?\" Raif asked, banking snow against the base of the tent to weigh it against the wind. His hands ached as he worked, yet the pain was a small thing. This was the first night there had been no stovehouse to stop at... the clanholds were coming to an end.\n\nAngus had peeled off his gloves and was busy stripping wood. His knife never stopped dancing as he spoke. \"You know what will happen, Raif. War. It's in the clanholds' nature to make battle. Look at your clan boast: We do not hide and we do not cower. And we will have our revenge. And Dhoone's: We are Dhoone, Clan Kings and clan warriors alike. War is our mother. Steel is our father. And peace is but a thorn in our side. Bludd claims that death is their companion, Castlemilk swears they'll be fighting the day the Stone Gods shatter the world, and even cursed Clan Gray holds that loss is something they know and do not fear.\" Angus sniffed. \"Quite brings a tear to a man's eye.\"\n\nRaif frowned at him, yet he seemed not to notice. Resting his blade, he said, \"The point is, the clanholds have been at each other's throats for three thousand years\u2014probably more if you count the time before Irgar drove them north across the Ranges. Clan Withy and Clan Haddo keep the histories, and believe me, those histories are grim. Grim. You've fought yourselves, the Sull, the city men, the Forsworn, Trenchlanders\u2014anything you could see and shake a stick at and a few things you could not. The past forty years have been different, and you have the old Dhoone chief Airy Dhoone and Dagro Blackhail's father, Ewan, to thank for that. Both grew up during the River Wars, both lost kin on the banks of the Wolf and the Easterly Flow. Airy lost his sister Anne, whom he loved above all others, and Ewan lost two of his three sons. Such losses shape men. Airy rode the thirty leagues from the Flow to the Dhoonehouse with Anne's body laid over the back of his mare. Her death fell hard upon him. Some even say it turned him mad, and that he kept Anne's dried-up corpse on a chair made of willow wood next to his bed.\"\n\nAngus smiled softly, reached for another log to strip. \"With chiefs, who will ever know the truth? But both Airy Dhoone and Ewan Blackhail did withdraw to their roundhouses, ordered their clansmen to retreat, turned their backs on their gains, and left their war-sworn clans to battle amongst themselves. Gullit Bludd did well by them, as did Roy Ganmiddich and Adalyn Croser. All got the land and water they wanted.\n\n\"Five seasons went by where Ewan Blackhail and Airy Dhoone watched as their war-sworn clans pushed north against their borders. By this time Dagro had grown to manhood and taken his first yearman's oath, and Vaylo Bludd had put a dagger to his father's heart and taken over the lording of that clan. That was when Ewan and Airy began to see a future where the clanholds were ruled by Clan Bludd. They knew what sort of man Vaylo Bludd was, that early, even before he started calling himself the Dog Lord and braiding his hair in the manner of the Dhoone Kings.\n\n\"Vaylo Bludd shook Airy Dhoone and Ewan Blackhail from their mourning. Both chiefs took command of their war-sworn clans. They met at the House on the Flow, with the river brown as mud beneath them, and brought an end to the war by speaking a treaty there. They met only the once, yet both men spent the rest of their chiefships building bonds of fosterage between their clans that have stayed in place to this day.\"\n\nRaif nodded. He knew this well enough. Only two winters earlier Drey had been set to leave for a year's fosterage at Dhoone. Mannie Dhoone, nephew to the Dhoone chief, Maggis Dhoone, had been set to come to Blackhail in Drey's stead. But Mannie was thrown by his horse while out hunting in the blue thorngrass south of the Dhoonehold, and both his legs were broken, and the fosterage had never gone through.\n\nStanding and brushing ice from his oilskin, Raif said, \"Dhoone will join with Blackhail to defeat Clan Bludd, won't they?\"\n\nAngus let the last of the logs fall to the snow, then reached inside his coat for his rabbit flask. In no hurry to drink, he simply turned the flask in his hand. \"I canna say, Raif. Dhoone is scattered and broken. Maggis and his sons are dead, and no one knows when a new chief will be named. They lost three hundred clansmen and yearmen in that raid. They lost their forge, their stockpile of pig iron, their livestock.\" Angus shook his head. \"Dhoone is as close to being lost as Clan Morrow was on the eve of Bumie Dhoone's wedding.\"\n\nRaif touched his measure of powdered guidestone, as all clansmen did when the name of the Lost Clan was spoken. Clan Morrow had once stood east of the Dhoonehold, rivaling Bludd and Blackhail in size. The Dark King, Burnie Dhoone, spent thirty years destroying the clan when his young wife, Maida, left him for Shann Morrow, eldest son of the Morrow chief. Only outsiders such as Angus ever called Clan Morrow by its name. To clansmen it was always the Lost Clan. Raif remembered Tem telling him once how he and Dagro Blackhail had come upon the ground where the Morrowhouse had once stood. Nothing remains, Raif, not even a cairnstone, and no plants but white heather will root there.\n\nAngus took a swig from his flask, swallowed, then took one more. \"Blackhail will fight alone. Dhoone has battles and demons of its own. The war-sworn clans may help, yet I have a feeling that they'll be too busy saving their own necks to worry about Blackhail and Dhoone.\"\n\nRaif looked hard at Angus. The wind had dropped, and the hard frost turned each of his uncle's breaths into a spell of ice and light. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Naught except that in all wars it's every man for himself.\" Slipping the flask beneath his coat, Angus stooped to pick up the stripped logs. \"I'd better get a fire started or we'll be eating cold kidneys tonight. And I don't know about you, but I've a fancy that once a kidney's been left to cool overnight, it makes a better weapon than it does a meal.\" He grinned. \"Put one of them in a slingshot and I'm sure we could bring down a bird. A big one, mind. Maybe even a goose.\"\n\nRaif watched as Angus built the fire close to the tent's entrance. It wasn't worth restating the question. Angus Lok said nothing he had no mind to. He knew more about the coming war, that was certain, but he would speak it only in his own good time. Bringing his hands to his face, Raif blew on his cold, aching fingers. It had been full dark for several hours, yet he was still careful not to turn his gaze north. Clan was behind him, and that was the way it had to be.\n\nAfter a time, he made his way to the tent. As he crawled through the flap, he felt the stitches on his chest pull at his skin. It took him a moment to deal with the pain. He stripped off his oilskin and eased himself down amid the blankets and elkhides. He had no desire for food, neither hot nor cold, and settled his body into the position that caused the least hurt and waited for sleep to come.\n\nBlackhail will fight alone.\n\nHe did not rest easy, but he slept.\n\nThe next morning when he woke and crawled from the tent to relieve himself, he caught a glimpse of a new landscape far below the southern rise. A massive, partially frozen lake stretched as far as he could see into the distance. Its shore was gray with grease ice, yet its center was black, oily, and steaming with frost smoke.\n\n\"The Black Spill,\" murmured Angus, coming to stand at Raif's side. \"The deepest lake in the Territories. Ille Glaive claims its shore to the east. We'll be heading around its western shore, toward the Ranges.\"\n\nRaif nodded, suddenly acutely aware of how far he was from home. He had never been this far south, never before stepped upon soil that did not belong to a clan.\n\nEffie, Drey...\n\nAbruptly he turned and went to feed and water Moose. They broke camp soon after, heading southwest and then south toward the towering peaks of Spire Vanis. The weather warmed and the winds quickened and storm clouds began to gather in the north.\nTWENTY-THREE\n\nVaingate\n\nASH SCRATCHED HER SCALP. Mites, she thought as she watched the distant arch of Vaingate, got everywhere. And no amount of wind and frost could kill them. She supposed she should be horrified at the idea of things living on her body, but she hadn't eaten in over three days and she was seriously beginning to consider them as a meal.\n\nThat thought made her smile in a grim way, and that made the ice sore on her lip crack open. Seconds later she tasted her own blood, warm and briny like salt water. Eating snow wasn't a good idea. She wished someone had told her that before her mouth had gotten sore. Still, it did have its advantages. Ash couldn't imagine anyone recognizing her now, not even Penthero Iss. Her hair was dark and greasy, her clothes were stiff with mud, and her skin felt like something a carpenter might use to sand a chair. Heaven only knew what she looked like. She hadn't seen her reflection in days and had now reached the point where she was quite sure she didn't want to.\n\nHer stomach rumbled noisily, pulling her thoughts back to Vaingate. It was early morning and the rising sun had turned the gate's three-story arch into a bridge of golden light. Just watching the sunlight flow across the bias-cut limestone filled Ash with such longing, it stopped her hunger dead.\n\nReach, misrressss.\n\nSo cold here, so dark Reach.\n\nThe voices jumped her, beating against her mind like a flock of dark birds. Ash fought, as she always did, yet more and more these days she had less and less to fight with. A razor's edge of darkness cut her thoughts, splitting and resplitting until there was nothing but a thin line left.\n\nSHE BLINKED AWAKE. SUNLIGHT streamed into her eyes, dazzling and making her feel sick. Pain squeezed along her forehead as she rolled sideways and vomited onto the snow. Wiping her mouth clean, she forgot about the ice sore and winced as the edge of her hand knocked the scab. When she was ready, she looked at the sky again. The sun was now high in the south. It was midday. She had lost four hours. Four.\n\nFrightened, she sat upright. It's all right, she told herself. No one could have spotted me up here.\n\nShe was sitting on the flat roof of a broken-down and abandoned tannery. Ever since she had discovered the building a week ago, it had become her favorite place in all the city. The area around Vaingate was crowded with disused buildings, but all were carefully chained and boarded to prevent anyone in need of shelter from breaking in. The tannery's windows were nailed shut, and it had enough chains around its doors to contain a prison full of thieves, yet at some point the weight of snow on the roof had caused a portion of the upper floor to collapse. A season of floods, frosts, and thaws had gone on to break the walls, and it hadn't been difficult at all to find a way in.\n\nUnlike most other buildings in the city that were built with sloping roofs to shunt snow, the tannery roof was mostly flat. Ash supposed the flat sections had been used for pegging out tanned skins to dry. She could still see some of the remaining pegs, poking up from the rooftop like stone weeds.\n\nIt wasn't a very high building, yet its position a quarter league north of the city wall afforded it a good view of Vaingate. It soothed Ash to come here and just look. Yet now, glancing at the boarded-up buildings across the way and the lifeless streets below, she knew she couldn't risk coming here again. This wasn't the first time the voices had made her black out, and it wouldn't be the last. They were getting stronger... and they had learned ways to reach her while she was awake.\n\nAsh shivered. Four hours. What if she had not woken? What if she had lain here, unseen and undiscovered, all day? One night spent outside would kill her. Last night it had been so cold that she had felt the saliva freeze against her teeth.\n\nA sound halfway between a grunt and a sob puffed from her lips. She desperately needed to drink, but the thought of eating more snow made her mouth curl. Slowly she struggled to her feet. She tried not to look at her body as she brushed the snow from her cloak, but bony edges kept catching her eye. Stupidly, ridiculously, it was her breasts that worried her the most. Just two weeks ago they had been heavy and round, growing so quickly they ached. Now they were small again, barely there. It was as if her body had reverted to childhood, leaving only her hands and face to age.\n\nStraightening her back, she turned into the wind and pulled the odors of the city through her nostrils. Saliva pooled in her mouth as she tasted the scents of woodsmoke and charred fat. She was fiercely hungry. Money had run out five days ago, and unless she sold her cloak and boots she had no chance of getting more. Stealing scraps of food from the charcoal burners who stood on street corners day and night, grilling bacon and goose sausages over their darkfires, was becoming increasingly tempting to Ash. Yet she knew from watching children quicker and cleverer than she that being caught was another horror, every bit as dreadful as starvation. Whenever a charcoal burner caught a child robbing, he would hold their hands over his grill and sear their skin like a piece of meat. At first when Ash had seen this happen, she'd wondered why the children took the risk. Now she knew. The smell of grilled fat and onions was enough to drive a starving child insane.\n\nWalking a little bit to test the strength of her legs, she felt her gaze returning to Vaingate. The gate tower looked so quiet\u2014only one brother-in-the-watch that she could see\u2014and the portcullis itself was up. It would be so easy to walk over there and slip through. No one would recognize her; that much was certain. And she knew from watching the gate for the past few days that no special arrangements were in place: just one sworn brother, occasionally two at changing watches. Even the beggars and street vendors never changed. Surely it would be safe?\n\nAsh's stomach growled as she reached the roof wall. Soft cramps had begun to sound in her lower abdomen, and she wondered if her second menses were due. She had to take the gate now. The voices might come back at any time, and she didn't know how much longer she could fight them, didn't know if she could survive blacking out another time. Two hours yesterday. Four today.\n\nAsh shook her head. It was now or never.\n\nDecision made, she felt herself filling up with a splintery, last-stand kind of strength. Once she had been through the gate and seen the place where she had been found, everything would change. She would be free to leave the city and go where she pleased. She could read and write; those skills had their uses. Perhaps she could find a position as a ladies' maid or traveling companion or even a maiden scribe. Maybe she could travel east to the Cloistress Tower at Owl's Reach and ask the green-robed sisters for asylum. If only it wasn't winter... and so cold that the wind blew your breath back as ice.\n\nAsh drew her cloak close as she made her way down through the treacherous landscape of the tannery. She was Ash March, Foundling, left outside Vaingate to die.\n\n\"ER... NAY, LAD. I think we'll be taking the back door in.\" Angus grinned at Raif in the way he always did when he was about to do something that made no sense. \"A wee hike around the back of the city will do the horses a power of good. Work the colic from their bellies.\"\n\nRaif knew better than to argue. He and Angus had been traveling together for two weeks now, and Raif could spot one of his uncle's diversions a league away. Angus Lok seldom took the most straightforward route anywhere. As the blind crow flies, as the wounded crow crawls, and as the dead crow rots were favorite sayings of his, used to excuse his eccentric methods of getting from one place to another. If there was a road, Angus would not take it. If there was a bridge, Angus would not cross it. If there was a city gate, Angus would examine it from a distance and then shake his head.\n\n\"Come on, young Sevrance. Stare up at Hoargate any longer and the guards'll have us pegged as a dimwit and his fool.\"\n\nRaif continued to stare at the black and icy arch of Spire Vanis's western gate. It was massive, cut from a single bloodwood as big as a church. The bark had been stripped away, and the remaining heartwood had the smooth gleam of obsidian. The carvings that chased around the arch were thick with hoarfrost, yet all things the west represented\u2014the setting sun, the bloodwood forests, the Storm Margin, the Wrecking Sea and the whales that swam within it\u2014could clearly be seen etched beneath the ice. In all his life Raif had never seen such a thing. Nothing in the clanholds matched it.\n\nEver since they had caught sight of the city walls two days back, Raif had felt a cold chill of excitement quickening in his gut. The creamy white stone of Spire Vanis glowed in every kind of light that shone upon it. Sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and starlight: The city took something different from them all. Here, in the bright sunlight of late morning, the towering walls shone like forged steel. The entire city seemed to throb and breathe like a living thing. Smoke rose from the stone mass like exhaled breath, and beneath his feet Raif felt the earth shudder and rumble as if a dragon were sleeping in a chamber far below.\n\n\"That's Mount Slain,\" Angus said, grabbing Raif's arm, not gently, and guiding him away from the gate. \"It moves year-round. You'll get used to it after a while.\"\n\nRaif nodded absently. Spire Vanis. He could hardly believe he was here.\n\nThe journey around the Black Spill had taken a week. The Bitter Hills north of the lake marked the clanholds' southern border, and it seemed to Raif that as every new day passed the clanholds receded deeper into the mist. He had not seen a clansman or clanswoman in days. The stovehouses they had stayed at were large and gloomy, not really stovehouses at all, rather places that sold ale. If you had no coin to buy food and drink, the stovemaster threw you out\u2014in the cold\u2014and when fighting erupted, there was no talk of stove laws or due respect, only the cost of broken tables and chairs. Raif had sat in these new nonclan stovehouses and watched these things happen and let the truth of them settle against his skin. Stoves were not sacred here. Old laws did not bind. The One True God of blind faith and fresh air had no love for the men who worshiped stone.\n\nAngus was as at home here as he was in the clanholds. He knew many people and had many different ways of associating with them. Some men he would laugh and talk with openly in full sight of all; others he would simply nod to or happen to meet outside near the jacks or the smokehouse and exchange a few words with as he pulled on his gloves and hood. Some men he pretended not to know at all, yet Raif had little to do but watch his uncle these past weeks and he had seen things a casual observer would not. Angus had a way of acknowledging men without even looking their way. He could communicate a thought with the smallest shrug of his shoulders or arrange a meeting with the slightest narrowing of eyes.\n\nFour nights back, when they were settling down by the fire in a dingy stovehouse on the western shore of the Spill, Raif had discovered he'd left his handknife in his saddlebag. When he'd run over to the stables to retrieve it, he'd come upon a man slipping a square of folded parchment under the bay's blanket. Raif had pretended not to notice. If a stranger wanted to pass a note to Angus, it was nothing to him. The man, a toothless birch eater in a moose coat, was one of a group of five drovers who were driving their cattle upland in search of graze. Angus had not once looked his way all night.\n\nAlthough Angus liked to visit stovehouses, he seldom chose to spend the night there, and more often than not he and Raif camped out under the stars. The warmer temperatures in the cityholds made it bearable, yet the open farmlands and clear-cut hillsides made cover increasingly hard to find. Angus liked cover, Raif had noticed, and often traveled several hours past sunset in search of a dense stand of basswoods, a bank cut low into the hillside, or a favorable cluster of rocks.\n\nAngus set a hard pace, and Raif was glad of it. There was a lot to be said for falling into an exhausted sleep each night. Long days in the saddle, battling the wind, the ice storms, and the aches and pains of a mending body left Raif too tired for thought. He rode, ate, stripped logs for the morning cookfire, melted ice, skinned hares, plucked birds, and took care of Moose. He did not hunt. The blister on his right hand was purple and bloated with blood.\n\nPain was something he lived with. The stitches on his chest itched and burned as the skin knitted itself together. The urge to tear off his clothes and claw the healing flesh was overpowering, and he would have scratched his chest raw if it hadn't been for the sheer number of layers between his fingers and his skin. It drove him mad. He cursed his mitts, his oilskins, his softskins, his elk coat, and his wool shirt. To make matters worse, Angus had insisted that the wounds be covered in purified butter and he now stank like something kept a day too long in the sun. By comparison, the cuts and bruises on his face were bearable. A scab the size of a leech clung to the cheekbone directly below his left eye, and a hairline split on his lip made smiling more trouble than it was worth.\n\n\"This way. We'll make better time the farther we travel from the wall.\"\n\nRaif followed Angus' direction, leading Moose through the bald and rutted ground that surrounded the west wall. A sharp wind blew down from the mountain, hissing in his ears and driving ice crystals into his face. Ahead, the north face of Mount Slain rose above the city like a frozen god, its cliffs and high plains blue with compacted snow, its skirt black with pines. The air smelled of something Raif couldn't put a name to, some faintly sulfurous mineral that belonged deep beneath the earth. Underfoot, the ground snow was hard and unforgiving, harboring no shadows to reveal its depth. The city itself tantalized Raif with brief glimpses of iron spires, blazing watch towers, and stone archways as smooth and pale as the bones of a long dead child.\n\nAngus was quiet as they made their way south along the wall. He had not applied any protective waxes or oils this morning, yet his face looked as pale as if he had. Leading the bay at a brisk pace, he grew impatient whenever snowdrifts slowed them.\n\nRaif glanced at the sky. Midday. \"Do you come often to this city?\"\n\nAngus sent Raif a sharp glance. \"I have no love for this place.\"\n\nIt was the end of the subject as far as Angus was concerned, for he turned his attention to trotting the bay through the tangle of weeds and mud ice that lay in the storm channel ahead. Raif knew his uncle expected him to say no more, but his chest was itching and the devil was in him, and he was getting tired of Angus and his evasions. \"Why come here, then?\"\n\nAngus' shoulders stiffened at the question. He pulled hard on the bay's reins, causing the gelding to whiffle and shake his head. Raif thought his uncle wasn't going to answer, yet when they reached the first in a series of giant buttresses that supported the main wall, Angus turned to face him.\n\n\"I come here because I have people I must see and others I must take heed of. Don't think, Raif Sevrance, that you are the only one in this world who is troubled and hard done by. The clanholds are just the start. There are people who would see more than Clan Bludd and Clan Blackhail at each other's throats. Some of them are in this city, some of them scheme in bed each night and call themselves clansmen when they wake in the morning, and others are hidden in vaults so deep that even the sun can't find them. There is danger here for me, and that means there is danger for you also. Soon enough you will attract enemies in your own right. For now be content that the burdens of danger and protection fall on me.\"\n\nAngus took Raif by the shoulders and held him at arm's length. His face was grim. \"I am your kin, and you must trust me. Save your questions for a place far away from these walls. There's nothing but ill memories here for me.\"\n\nRaif looked at his uncle carefully. He could see him shaking, feel the heat of his body through his sealskin gloves as he waited for Raif to speak. Raif wanted to know more. How was it that Angus knew so much about the Clan Wars? Was Mace Blackhail one of the clansmen he mentioned? Who were the men whom no sun could reach? Raif frowned. Although he didn't much want to, he said, \"I'll hold my questions for now.\"\n\nAngus nodded back at him. \"That's favor enough for me\"\n\nThe sky darkened as they led the horses around the buttress walls and on toward the mountain. Snow clouds were rolling south and the sun was soon hidden from view. Two tall structures rose against the city's west wall, one dark and ringed with metal outerwork, the other as pale as ice and so tall that Raif could not see its peak.\n\n\"The Horn and the Splinter,\" Angus said, slapping his coat in search of his flask. \"That's Mask Fortress on the other side of the wall. Home of the surlords of Spire Vanis.\"\n\nRaif could not take his eyes from the tower called the Splinter. It wasn't merely the color of ice, it was ice. A rime of it covered the stonework like fat around a skinned carcass, gleaming yellow then blue in the light. Raif shivered. He was cold and empty, and he needed a drink.\n\nAngus handed him the rabbit flask. The alcohol had been spiked with birch bark, and it tasted sweet and earthy like newly turned soil. One mouthful was enough. Thumping the cork in place, Raif said, \"Does anyone live in that thing?\"\n\n\"The Splinter? Nay, lad. It was flawed from the day it was built. Too high, you see. Milks the storm clouds. By all accounts it's little more than a broken shell inside. None except Robb Claw ever lived there, if living's the right word for it. Holed himself up one winter, he did, and never came out. They found his corpse ten years later. Took five men to carry it to the light of day, as it had turned as hard as stone.\" Angus sniffed. \"That's the story, anyhow.\"\n\nRaif looked away. He knew little of the Mountain Cities and their history. Some of the border clans had dealings with Ille Glaive, but few clansmen had words, good or otherwise, to spare for the cities and their closely guarded holds. \"Who was Robb Claw?\"\n\nAngus slowed his pace as they reached the southwest cornerstone of the city and the bay was forced to pick its way through the rocks, dead rootwood, and loose shale that had rolled down from the mountain. The path steepened and narrowed, and then there was no path at all. Raif felt sweat trickle along his stitch lines.\n\n\"Robb Claw was the great-grandson of Glamis Claw, one of the Founding Quarterlords of Spire Vanis.\"\n\n\"Was he a king?\"\n\n\"Nay, lad. No king's ever ruled in Spire Vanis, though it's not from want of trying. The Founding Quarterlords were the bastard sons of kings; their fathers ruled lands far to the. south, and each king had enough true sons to ensure that neither lands nor titles would ever cede to their bastards. This pleased the Quarterlords not at all, and there were many battles fought and many knives slipped into princeflesh. Two of the four were the brothers Theron and Rangor Pengaron, and they joined with Glamis Claw and Torny Fyfe to raise a warhost and march it north across the Ranges. Theron was their leader, might have even crowned himself a king if it hadn't been for the other three lords at his back. As it was, he led the host against the Sull, founded the city, and built the first strongwall of stone and timber where Mask Fortress lies today.\" Angus wagged his head toward the Splinter. \"Though it was Robb Claw who built the four towers.\"\n\nAs Raif followed his uncle's gaze, the mountain shivered beneath his feet, sending chips of shale rolling down the slope. The ice on the tower made a soft, knuckle-snapping sound as a hairline crack ran down along the rime. \"Why don't they just knock it down?\" he heard his voice say.\n\n\"Pride, lad. The Killhound of Spire Vanis is said to roost upon the Iron Spire that caps it. Five hundred years ago they'd haul traitors up there by a great contraption of metal and rope and impale them on the spire. The winged beasties were said to gobble them up for breakfast.\" Angus squinted into the clouds that wrapped themselves around the tower. \"Or was it supper? I forget now.\"\n\nThey led their horses away. Raif grew hotter and more uncomfortable as they hiked across a shoulder of pitted limestone and then down into a ravine. Massive stone conduits built to divert the runoff around the city had to be crossed with care, as the ice was unstable and wet. Moose tore his left hock on a jagged edge, but Angus refused to stop and bind it, and they left a trail of horse blood in their wake.\n\nAn hour later, when the gate finally came into view, Raif felt nothing but relief. His stitches itched like all the hells, and so much fluid had leaked from his blister to his glove that the hide had hardened to armor and set itself in a permanent curve around the reins. Raif wanted to go to some dark stovehouse and sleep. He was tired enough that he would not dream or, if he did, not remember it later.\n\nAngus gave the gate a name and struck a path down from the mountainside toward the wall. It was smaller than Hoargate, made of plain stone that arched as gracefully as a drawn bow. No road of any kind led from it. No one stood waiting for admission\u2014indeed, there was nowhere for anyone to stand as the gate opened directly onto a grassy slope. As they drew level with the first gate tower, a hoarse cry split the air.\n\n\"Get her!\"\n\nA child stepped through the gate. A girl. Hearing the cry, she hesitated, glanced back, then started to run. Two men, dressed like beggars but carrying swords of bloodred steel, emerged through the gate and ran straight for her. The girl was weak and very thin, and they caught her in less than ten seconds. She fought them in a quiet, almost animal way, not making a sound, but kicking and jerking furiously, making it difficult for the men to hold her. Her hood was torn off and then her gloves. Her shoulder-length hair was caked in dirt. An ice sore cast a shadow across her lips.\n\nMore men came. One man was massive, with hands that swung at his side like lead weights. His small eyes glinted like iron filings. Raif watched in growing anger as the big man approached the girl and smacked her full in the face. The girl's neck snapped back, and she stopped struggling. Blood trickled from her nose to her lip. The big man said something to the others, making them laugh in an excited, nervous way that seemed more to do with fear than amusement. He struck the girl again, casually this time, with a half-closed fist.\n\nRaif felt his blood heat. He stepped forward.\n\nAngus put a hand on Raif's arm, barring him from taking another step. \"There's trouble here we want no part of. That's Marafice Eye, Protector General of the Rive Watch. If he chooses to torment a beggar girl outside one of his own gates, there's nothing you or I can do about it.\"\n\nRaif continued to press forward. The man named Marafice Eye tore off the girl's cloak. Fabric ripped. A breath of fear puffed from the girl's lips.\n\n\"Easy, lad,\" warned Angus, fingers digging deep. \"We canna afford to draw attention in this place. More than your life and mine depend on it.\"\n\nRaif glanced at his uncle. Angus' face was grave, the lines around his mouth as deep as scars.\n\n\"If it were just you and me alone in this, I would save her. Believe that. I would not lie about another's life.\"\n\nRaif did believe him. He saw what was in his uncle's eyes. Angus Lok feared someone or something greatly in this city... and he was not a man who feared lightly. Raif stopped pushing. Angus released his grip.\n\nA group of six armed men now surrounded the girl. All but two were dressed in muddy cloaks and ragged pants, yet Raif began to realize that none of them were beggars. Their steel gleamed with linseed oil, their hair and beards were trimmed and clean, and their arms and necks were corded with the sort of hard muscle that was built during long practice sessions on a weapons court. The one named Marafice Eye was dressed in a rough brown robe, like a cleric or a monk. Despite his size he carried only a handknife. All the men deferred to him.\n\nThe girl had lost the sleeves and collar from her dress. She was being held by three men, only one of whom was dressed in the same oiled and supple leathers worn by the guards at Hoargate. The girl's body was twisted so that her skirt rode up around her thighs and her head hung down, unsupported.\n\n\"Let her drop.\"\n\nRaif heard Marafice Eye's words clearly. Immediately the three men released their hold, and the girl slumped to the ground. She remained silent as Marafice Eye poked her with the toe of his boot.\n\n\"Thought you'd run away, eh? Thought you'd made a fool of the Knife?\" He jabbed her twice in the ribs. \"Thought you'd get away with leaving one of my men to die.\" Bringing the heel of his boot down on her hand, he drove her fingers into the snow. Something snapped with the soft click of rotted wood. Still, the girl did not cry out.\n\nRaif felt the anger come to him. He imagined killing the six men in slow and hideous ways. Clansmen would never do such a thing to a woman. A small voice whispered, What about the Bluddroad? but he cut it from his mind.\n\n\"Go on. Run. Let's see just how far you'll get.\" Marafice Eye shoved his foot under the girl's back, raising her torso off the ground. \"Run, I said. Grod here has a fancy for the hunt. You remember Grod, don't you? You left him a lock of your hair.\"\n\nThe girl tried to struggle to her feet. She was so thin; Raif wondered where her strength came from. Making the mistake of putting her weight on her damaged hand, she inhaled sharply and collapsed back into the snow.\n\nThat was when she spotted them.\n\nThe six armed men had spread out, allowing her room to stand, and the space between her and Angus and Raif was now clear. Raif got his first real look at the girl free from shadows and darting bodies. Something in his throat tightened. She wasn't as young as he had first thought.\n\nStorm clouds parted and sunlight streamed down onto the girl's face, illuminating her skin with silver light. Raif felt his body cool. One by one the hairs along his spine rose, and the skin beneath them pulled as tight as if ghost fingers were laid upon it. Even as he shook the chill from him, something hardly important and yet at the same time vital fell into place inside his head.\n\nShe was not looking at him.\n\nShe was looking at Angus Lok.\n\nGray eyes drew Angus' coppery ones to her as surely as if they were connected by a thread. A second hung like dust in warm air as they locked gazes. Everything stopped. Wind and cold and sunlight died. Raif felt like a shadow, like nothing. Angus and the girl were all that counted.\n\nThen he heard his uncle draw breath. A word was spoken\u2014Raif heard it clearly but did not understand its meaning. Hera, Angus said.\n\nAngus Lok drew his sword. Plain it was, steel as gray as sleet. He stepped forward, and as he did so, something shed from him like old skin. He grew larger and taller and more terrible. His eyes stopped being copper and became golden instead.\n\n\"Hold the horses,\" he murmured without once looking Raif's way. \"Hold them and wait.\"\n\nRaif took the bay's reins instinctively. Fear filled the hollow spaces in his chest. He didn't understand. Did Angus think he could fight six armed men? What was happening here?\n\nAngus walked forward, his fist curled around the leather grip of his sword. He was shaking intensely, almost vibrating. The girl was still on the ground. Marafice Eye was shoving her with his boot, in the manner of a hunter who wasn't quite sure whether or not the game he had just brought down was dead. The guard dressed in black leathers noticed Angus first. Raising his red blade, he nudged the Knife.\n\nMarafice Eye looked up. Angus was about thirty paces away from him. Slowly Marafice Eye wiped the spittle from his lips. His eyes brightened. \"Drop the gate,\" he shouted to some unseen guard in the gate tower. \"I think I'll take this fight inside.\" Without once taking his eyes from Angus, he gestured to his men to gather up the girl and carry her into the city. Three men dealt with the girl, while the other two moved to flank their leader. Marafice Eye held his position, watching Angus approach. Above his head, metal gears whined, then the gate shuddered into life.\n\nRaif pulled the horses toward a dead birch and tethered them. His eyes were on the gate, watching as spiked gratings black with mud began to descend with a stop-and-start motion. The moment his hands were free of the reins, he broke into a run.\n\nAngus stepped onto the gate platform. Marafice Eye smiled tightly, then backed away, allowing the two men flanking him to cut first steel. Swords, red as if blood were already upon them, angled upward toward the light. Pulleys screeched overhead, spinning out of control, and the gate began to plummet. Angus leaped forward, dodging the iron spikes by a hair-thin slice of a moment. Raif ran and ran and ran. He had to get to Angus.\n\nToo late. The gate crashed to the ground as he stepped onto the platform. Clumps of greasy snow fell onto his head and shoulders as he grabbed the grille and rattled it with all his might. \"Angus!\"\n\nPaces away on the other side, five armed men formed a baiting circle around his uncle. Angus' face was dark and still. His blade edge was already tipped with one man's blood, and as he cut a defensive circle around his position, he wounded two more.\n\nThree men in black leathers rushed from the gate tower and attended the girl, dragging her back from the fighting. Raif counted nine red blades in all. Marafice Eye stood off to the side, watching. His small lips twitched as Angus took a cut to the ear.\n\nRaif's heart hammered in his chest. He had to do something. Wildly he looked around. He saw Moose and the bay nosing snow to get at the tufts of fat thistlegrass buried beneath. A wing-shaped piece of leather riding high on the bay's back caught his eye: Angus' bowcase.\n\nRaif raced for it. A soft cry sounded at his back: Angus had taken a second hit. Raif took a short breath. He couldn't risk thinking about that now; it would only slow him. As he fumbled with the brass buckle on the bowcase, his hands had never felt so big or so clumsy. Grease from the gate made everything slippery, and his fingers wouldn't bend.\n\nBracing the bow seemed to take hours. The waxed string was cold and stiff; it kept breaking free of the knot. He had to use his teeth in the end, pulling the thread through with a violent snap of his jaw. Running his shaking fingers along the belly of the bow, he tried to calm himself. The bow was exquisitely carved, deeply inset with silver and midnight blue horn. Touching it helped. He had drawn it before; he knew its measure and its hand.\n\nTurning, he slid Angus' quiver around his waist and sprinted back to the gate. The iron grating was densely woven. Bars as thick as a man's wrist crossed at right angles, leaving two-inch squares in between. Raif drew an arrow from the quiver. Its leaded head was heavier than he was used to, and in a deep, instinctual part of his brain he knew it would take more pull and height to aim it.\n\nOn the other side of the gate, one man was down, floored by a gash to his shoulder, and another two men were bleeding from snipe cuts to the arms and legs. Only one guard looked after the girl now, twisting her arm behind her back to keep her close. The seven remaining red blades were all focused on containing Angus Lok. Angus was clearly frustrated by their baiting tactics. If one or two swordsmen had come forward to engage him, he would have bettered them; Raif saw how swiftly his uncle moved, how certain he was with his plain journeyman's sword. But the red blades preferred to play a waiting, tiring game. They knew Angus was dangerous. It was easier and safer to wait for a mistake.\n\nMarafice Eye watched from his position on the periphery, jabbing only occasionally with his crab-hilted knife. Unlike the men under him, he chose his moments with care, and his blade always came away wet. A ribbon of blood, dark and slow as molasses, ran down Angus' right cheek and across his jaw. He kept pushing forward toward the girl, but the red blades kept him back.\n\nRaif swallowed a mouthful of saliva. What had driven Angus to attack? It was madness. Standing back from the gate, he nocked the lead-packed arrowhead and raised the bow to his chest. The stitches across his rib cage burned like new wounds as he drew the string. Fighting the pain and the hot salty tears it brought, he concentrated on picking out a target. He had counted five arrows in Angus' quiver. Five. None could go astray.\n\nFocusing his gaze beyond the steel-rimmed eyelet, Raif chose the man who presented the most immediate threat to Angus: a thin, dark-haired weasel dressed in sackcloth and stewed leather who had grown impatient with baiting and was gradually working his way under Angus' arm. He was fast and vicious, and he reminded Raif of a Scarpeman.\n\nRaif aimed for his upper chest, sighting him purely through the notch on the riser. He wanted no heart kills, nothing to sicken or stain him. That was one madness he would not bring to this fight. As he searched for the still line that would lead his arrow home, the blister on his hand cracked open and a line of yellow fluid oozed along his wrist.\n\nHe released the string. The arrow shot ahead. The bow recoiled, slamming in his hand like a bird. Thwang. Metal slammed against metal. Orange sparks sprayed through the grille. Raif cried out in frustration as he watched his arrow nosedive into the snow beyond the gate. The arrowhead had hit the iron grating. One of its flight feathers was lodged in the grille like elk hair on a fence.\n\n\"Aargh!\"\n\nRaif focused his gaze on the fighting beyond the gate. The weasel man jerked his blade free of Angus' shoulder. Blood pumped from a dark hole in Angus' buckskin coat. His face was gray and twisted with pain. The red blades needled him, drawing pinpricks of blood. Angus roared. Swinging in a mighty turning circle, he severed one man's hand and sliced deeply into another's hip.\n\nRaif glanced down at his quiver. Four arrows left. Seven men. Gods help me, I can't miss another shot. Cursing his shaking hands, his weeping blister, and the fierce burning in his chest, he drew the second arrow from the quiver. Angus was slowing; his left arm was dragging and he was taking hard, frothing breaths. Watching him, watching muscles in his cheeks pulse with anger and some other unknowable emotion that lay between sorrow and dread, Raif knew what he had to do. It wasn't a matter of choice anymore. It was a matter of shared blood.\n\nThe arrow was nocked and primed in less than an instant. Raif held it fast against the plate as he drew the bow. The weasel man grew large in his sights, big as a giant. Raif called him nearer. The space between them contracted, and then suddenly there was no space at all. Raif smelled sweat and the secret scent of blood and waste that lay trapped beneath the skin. Then nothing mattered but the heart.\n\nEngorged with blood, heavy with life force, driven by the one thing that the gods had no power over, the heart filled Raif's sights like a glance into the sun. Things became known to him, small things about the body that surrounded the vital, pumping core. The weasel man's blood ran too fast, rushing through his body like hot steam in search of release. His liver was hard and dimpled, dark with disease, and only one testicle hung from his groin.\n\nThis and more Raif knew in less time than it took for a used breath to ascend from his lungs. It meant nothing. Nothing. The heart was his.\n\nHe kissed the string and released the arrow, and by the time his shoulders had dealt with the recoil, the weasel man was dead. Heart-killed. His legs dropped beneath him, his bladder failed, and he was gone.\n\nMetal flooded Raif's mouth. A pain, like the sickening wrench of a bone pulled from its socket, worked its way through his chest. Is this what I am? Cold killer of men?\n\nIt was a question he had no time for. Another arrow was already in his hand, though he had no memory of drawing it, and he brought it to the plate and pulled once more upon the string. His powers of discrimination had gone\u2014blasted away by pain and madness\u2014and he set his sights on the first red blade who crossed his plate.\n\nThe heart came to him, faster than an eye focusing on a distant object. Young and strong, this heart, with a body only lately visited by disease. Something dark grew in the deepest underlevel of the lungs, a lobe of quiet flesh. He spared it no thought as he released the string. The thrum of the arrow merged with the soft gurgle of a stopped breath, and then another faceless body hit the snow.\n\nRaif drew the third arrow. Pain blurred his vision, saliva corroded his gums. On the far side of the gate, Angus was taking advantage of the fear spreading through the remaining men. As Raif pulled his bow, Angus slid his steel into kidney flesh, and a red blade fell to the ground, screaming and clutching at his gut. Behind the circle of armed men, the black-cloaked guard in charge of the girl was beginning to panic. He threw her onto the ground and put the point of his sword against her neck. The girl's chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Her fingers scratched the snow.\n\nEven before he was aware of what he was doing, Raif called the guard's heart to his sights. It happened so quickly he barely got an impression of the man before he released the string. The arrowhead shot through a break in the fighting and entered the guard's heart from behind, pinning his cloak to his spine.\n\nRaif swayed. His head rang with pain. Dimly he was aware of objects hitting the metal grating, as knives and missiles were flung his way. None got through. He could see little now, only sharp edges and glimmers of light. He saw a moving blur that he knew to be his uncle, and three or perhaps four figures surrounding him. His thoughts came slowly, clumsily, floating in his mind like pieces of driftwood. One arrow, that was all he knew. One arrow. One shot. Must take it.\n\nHe couldn't see, but he could feel. As he drew the bow, something within him fastened on to the nearest heart. It happened with the speed and certainty of a stone dropping in a well... and it made Raif sick to his gut. His arms adjusted their positions and his bowhand ceased shaking and he knew with utter confidence the exact instant to release the string. Dead, he thought dully, gone the moment I found his heart.\n\nAfter that, someone else went down: one of the red blades dressed in shabby stripes. Angus landed a blow that made another man squeal like a pig. Raif swayed. Stumbling forward, he grabbed hold of the grille for support. His eyes cleared for a moment, and he saw Marafice Eye looking straight at him. Raif took a breath. The Knife stood apart from his remaining men in the shadow of the east gate tower, his eyes as pale as gristle in a piece of meat. As Raif watched, he turned his gaze first to the girl, then to Angus Lok, deciding what he would do. The girl was thirty paces away from him, and even as Marafice Eye stepped toward her, Angus moved to block his path.\n\nRaif felt himself failing. With his last scrap of strength, he focused his eyes hard on Marafice Eye, holding the man in his sights, willing him to turn and look. When the Knife shifted his gaze and their eyes met, Raif released his hand from the grille and reached down toward the quiver at his waist. In that moment Marafice Eye knew he was going to be shot, heart-killed like four of his men. Raif saw the realization in the man's eyes, saw the understanding that he could not reach the girl before the arrow reached him and that it was better to withdraw than die. As Raif's hand closed around fresh air, Marafice Eye barked an order and fled.\n\nRaif's legs collapsed beneath him, and he slid down to a place where the walls were formed from darkness and the edges creased with pain.\nTWENTY-FOUR\n\nThe Gods Lights\n\nTHERE WERE TWELVE SECRET uses for whale blubber, and this night Eloko, widow to Kulahuk and mother to Nolo and Avranna, had promised to show Sadaluk one of them. Eloko was a fine woman, with teeth as tiny as a baby's and the belly of a fat snow bear. She was not young, but Sadaluk was not fussy about that. When a tribeswoman offered comfort to an old man, it was something to be celebrated, not picked apart like a whale carcass after a kill. Eloko had been widowed for ten months, and it was fitting that she had chosen to break mourning with an elder of the tribe. It showed respect. The Ice God could not fault her for that.\n\nThe Listener permitted himself to think about Eloko and her plentiful supply of whale blubber for only a short while longer. Eloko had waited ten months. Sadaluk himself had waited that and more. It would do neither of them much harm to stand at opposite sides of the village, one in a house made of driftwood and clay and the other in a ground dug from hard earth and braced with whalebone, and watch the Gods Lights for a few hours more.\n\nThe sky was clear tonight, dark and brilliant as the hole in the center of a man's eye. The Gods Lights raged to the north like flames from a wildfire burning beyond the horizon. Pink and green, the lights flashed, the colors of all living things. Every winter the Gods Lights unfurled like banners in the clear night sky. Their slow, languid movements reminded Sadaluk of seaweed floating in deep water, limbs unfurling with the grace of weightless things. If you listened very hard, you could hear them. The noise sounded like the cracking and ripping of wind in the sails of a ship. Some said it was the same noise you heard before you died, but Sadaluk did not know about that.\n\nHe did know that the lights were a message from the gods. Look at us, they proclaimed. See how beautiful and terrible we are. See how we come to you in full winter, when your sons and daughters need us the most.\n\nIt was impossible to look upon the northern lights and deny the presence of the gods. Lootavek, the one who had listened before him, said that the Ice Trappers would know when the end of the world was coming, as the lights would burn red. \"The gods will give us warning,\" he said one night as they camped on the sea ice, butchering seals. \"They will send us a sky filled with blood.\"\n\nSadaluk remembered looking down at his own wet and bloody hands and asking, \"How do you know this?\"\n\nLootavek had given him one of his looks. \"You ask the wrong question, Sadaluk. How is not important, it is the why that counts.\"\n\n\"Why, then?\"\n\n\"So that we will be the first to know.\"\n\nSadaluk had finished the butchering in silence, not really understanding what the Listener meant but unwilling to ask any more questions. He had been young then, in awe of the Listener, as was right and proper for a young hunter in the tribe. Now, tonight, watching the Gods Lights dance in the northern skies, he wished he had asked more. The lights seemed darker than he remembered them, the pinks deeper, the greens flickering and strangely distorted. Sometimes he thought he saw flashes of red in the farthest reaches of the corona. It's nothing, he told himself. There have always been streaks of red in the lights.\n\nBut surely tonight there were more?\n\nFrowning at the wildness of his own thoughts, he turned his back on the sky and entered his ground. Eloko would be getting impatient and might yet close the door in his face. A woman's pride was a fierce thing, and making her wait was one thing, but making her wait too long was quite another. And it would be good to feel warm arms around his back and the touch of another's hands on his face.\n\nWhy, then, could he not get Lootavek's voice out of his head? So that we will be the first to know. There had been pride in that statement, Sadaluk realized that now. Ice Trappers were always the first to know. \"We live on the edge of the world,\" Lootavek had said another time, during summer, when swarms of blackflies formed clouds in the sky and even the dogs stayed indoors. \"We pay a great price in hunger and death, and for this we bear the messages of the gods. We are closest to them, Sadaluk. Never forget that. After I am gone, you must listen to your dreams and wait for the messages to come.\"\n\nSadaluk tsked. If he were a sane man, he would be reaching for his bear coat and gloves; he would march across the village and take himself quickly to Eloko's door. An offer had been made, and a short walk would secure it, and he would be an ice-rotted fool if he let the opportunity pass. But he wasn't sane, and the Gods Lights worried him, and thirty days and thirty nights had passed and still Black Claws had failed to home. The Listener did not think the raven would be coming back. The thought pained him, for he had loved Black Claws the most, and the idea of the raven lying dead on some glaciated cirque or frozen lake was upsetting in strange new ways. Had he been attacked by other birds or the hand of man? Had he delivered his message before he went down, or had the small strip of spruce bark fallen into unwelcome hands? The Listener shook his unease away. It's only a raven, he told himself. One less bird to find scraps for through the long winter's night.\n\nStretching his hard old hands upon the door frame, he prepared to go inside. It was high time that another message was sent. The Old Blood had to be told that the dance of shadows had begun. They must send Far Riders to him and make bid upon the future and stand upon the sea ice and see the Gods Lights for themselves.\n\nPulling a strip of birch bark from a peg near his door, Sadaluk took one last look at the sky. Red, he saw, a world flickering red.\n\nIRON CHAINS RATTLED. METAL groaned. Feet thudded over compacted snow. \"Drink. Drink.\"\n\nRaif instinctively shied away from the cold, stinging fumes that rose from a nozzle thrust toward his face. He did not want to drink.\n\nFingers, neither clean nor fragrant, thrust themselves into his mouth, forcing his jaw apart. Liquid was poured. A moment passed while the open cavity of his mouth was filled, and then the liquid streamed down his throat, Raif gasped and spluttered and raised his head. Spitting, he cleared his mouth of the foulness.\n\nAngus frowned at him. \"You must drink your fill, lad. I know it tastes like lamp fuel, but I swear it will do you good.\"\n\nRaif glanced around. The sun had sunk behind the mountain, and the sky was dark and silvery, transforming itself into night. He was lying in soft snow by the gate. The grating had been raised, and six bodies lay in the plowed field of blood, mud, and slush on the other side. His hand rose to feel for his raven lore. The horn was as smooth as a pulled tooth, hotter than his skin. He drank more of the liquid. Already he felt his body working, tingling, as if it had been whipped with dry birches. His mind sharpened. Suddenly he realized that Angus was wounded; blood was gouting from a hole in his buckskins. Raif began to rise.\n\nAngus put a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down. \"Easy, lad. Give the ghostmeal chance to work.\"\n\n\"Ghostmeal?\"\n\n\"Medicine to you.\" Angus looked over his shoulder, wincing as muscles in his chest were stretched. \"Come. Please. We will not hurt you.\"\n\nIt took Raif a moment to realize his uncle was speaking to someone else. The girl. Edging around, he saw she was standing by the far gatepost, watching them. Ragged bits of her dress blew in the wind, and her pale hair sparkled with ice. Dried blood formed a black line around her jaw. She did not speak.\n\nAngus stood heavily and at great cost, pressing a hand to his chest. \"You must come with us, with Raif. They will be back soon. You are not safe here anymore.\"\n\n\"Who are you? Why did you help me?\"\n\nRaif was surprised by the calmness of the girl's voice. Her gray eyes were cool, and there was an air of confidence about her that he had not expected from a beggar girl.\n\nAngus' gaze flickered to the city behind her back. \"I am Angus Lok of Ille Glaive, and this is my kinsman Raif Sevrance. We helped you because you were in need. We would help you again if you will allow us. You need food and clothing and protection. Come with us and we will take you to a safe place.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\nRaif almost smiled. The girl wasn't about to be fobbed off with one of Angus Lok's typically vague replies.\n\nStrangely, Angus smiled too. His entire body strained toward the girl as he said, \"We head for Ille Glaive.\"\n\nThe girl nodded slowly. She looked at Raif. Shouts and horse thunder sounded within the city. Her face stiffened as she listened.\n\n\"Please,\" Angus murmured. \"I swear on all that is precious to me I will not harm you.\"\n\nRaif had never heard his uncle speak so quietly before. It disturbed him. Why had Angus risked his life to save this thin scrap of a girl?\n\n\"Will we leave through Vaingate?\" The girl's calm demeanor was wearing thin as the thud and clatter of armed men grew louder. Her shoulders twitched as a voice bellowed, \"To the gate!\"\n\n\"You and Raif will. I'll drop the gate behind you so it looks as if you're still within the city with me. Then I'll lead the Rive Watch on a fair chase and meet you on the east road past midnight.\"\n\n\"No. You can't stay in the city alone.\" Raif struggled to his feet, battling pain and nausea with clenched fists. \"I'm coming with you.\"\n\n\"No. You must stay with the girl. A party outside the city gates is too easily found. Someone needs to draw the Rive Watch away.\" All the hearty redness drained from Angus' face as he spoke, and suddenly he looked like a stranger to Raif. \"You must go now. As your uncle I command it.\" Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked toward the gate. Raif thought he would touch the girl as he passed, for his hand jerked awkwardly toward her, yet he didn't. Turning, he headed for the gate tower instead.\n\nPulleys creaked a moment later as the break was kicked free of the crankshaft, and then the gate descended with a crash. Spikes rattled in their sockets like bones in ajar, and plates of ice that had quickened over the limestone arch above the gate fractured and fell, revealing a carving of a great winged beast. The girl began to walk toward Raif. Her eyes were bright and hard, and they stirred a memory within him... . He tried but could not place it. Shrugging, he slipped the flask containing the last of the ghostmeal into his coat. He felt light-headed and full of false strength. What in all the gods' names is that stuff?\n\nAngus emerged from the gatehouse seconds later. The bloodstain on his buckskin coat had spread, and the great mass of his body pitched unevenly from step to step. \"Ride, do not walk,\" he said to Raif. \"The ghostmeal only gives so much; you'll feel worse for having drunk it come dark. Head southeast. In about an hour you'll cross a game trail above a stand of hemlock. Follow it. It should keep you out of sight of the wall. When you come to Wrathgate head east. I'll find you along the road.\"\n\nLet me go in your place, Raif wanted to say. Yet he guessed his uncle's argument even before he spoke it: Angus knew Spire Vanis; he did not. A clansman with no knowledge of the city couldn't hope to evade the red blades. Looking into his uncle's copper eyes, Raif knew he could do nothing but nod and say, \"Until midnight.\" Anything more would have cost Angus time.\n\nThe clatter of hoof irons grew louder. A series of orders was shouted, and the scrape of steel against leather told of weapons being drawn.\n\n\"Take care of the girl,\" Angus warned. Before Raif had chance to answer, he was gone.\n\nRaif turned away from the gate. Four dead men had his arrows in their hearts: It was not a sight he wanted to dwell on.\n\nThe girl was no longer at his side. She had stepped clear of the platform and was now walking through the grainy snow and loose rocks on the slope. Raif ran to fetch the horses. He caught up with the girl on the far side of the gate and forced her to step back against the wall. Night was rising in the east, sending shadows spilling over the snow like black oil. The limestone was cold against Raif's back, smoother than any stone ought to be. As he pulled the horses to him, the ground shook as an armed force descended upon the gate. Breath ached in his throat as he listened to the red blades rein in their mounts. It would be so easy for someone to raise the gate.\n\nFor the longest moment all was quiet and still. Raif imagined the red blades standing in silence over the bodies, their gazes moving from heart to heart. Moose snuffled. Raif sent Orwin Shank's horse a look to silence the dead. Booted feet crunched snow. The gate grille chimed softly, moved by either hands or wind. Make them turn, Raif thought. Gods, make them turn.\n\nA call sounded from within the city, high like the howl of a wolf. Angus, Raif knew in an instant. A cry went up. Horse leather cracked like whips, and then the ground shook once more as the red blades charged from the gate. Hunting.\n\nRaif took a breath. Anger toward the girl welled up inside him. She was the reason Angus was running through the city alone. He turned to face her... and saw that she was kneeling in the snow. Her chin was resting on her chest and her face was curiously still, the muscles relaxed as if she were sleeping. Raif pulled the horses forward. What was wrong with her? Was she half-witted?\n\nThe girl didn't raise her head as he approached. For the first time he noticed how pale she was, like a statue carved from ice. As he opened his mouth to speak, her arms began to rise, gliding up through the air like weightless, boneless things, reaching for something he could not see. Raif felt a pulse of fear beat close to his heart. Her eyes were closed.\n\nHe didn't know what made him act. He just knew that something was wrong and he had to stop it, and he reached out with his blistered hand and grabbed the girl's arm.\n\nReach for us, pretty mistressss. Break our chains of blood. So close now... so close. Reach.\n\nVoices crowded Raif's mind. Terrible, inhuman voices, insane with need, panting with the cold hiss of gases escaping from decaying flesh. A landscape of black ice opened before him, a wasteland of jagged peaks and gleaming edges and dark, dark trenches. Raif's lore flared hot against his chest. His first instinct was to pull away, sever whatever connection held him here: This was no place for him to be. Yet the girl's presence held him. Her heart beat in a way he recognized immediately, and she stopped being a stranger and became known to him instead.\n\nSuddenly his raven lore was white-hot steel. It burned through his skin, to the muscle that lay beneath. Raif gasped for breath. It felt as if the girl were entering him, boring through his chest along with his lore. She opened her eyes. Gray eyes. And he knew then that he had seen her before: The guidestone had shown her to him.\n\nThe memory was like cold water on his skin. Using all the false strength the ghostmeal had given him, he wrenched his hand from the girl's arm. Air snapped as they parted. Droplets of Raif's blood formed a red arc between them. The girl swayed, reached back in the snow to steady herself. Raif stumbled forward, bringing his blistered hand home to his chest; it felt as if it had been dipped into the substance of another world.\n\nThe girl moaned. Raif paid her no heed. Turning from her, he tugged his oilskin apart. His undamaged left hand fumbled with clothing, desperate to get at skin. The raven lore was unchanged, dark and cool: a bloodless piece of horn from a bird long dead. Even his skin seemed unaffected. There was redness and a shallow pressure mark, but no great open wound, no tortured purple flesh. Raif frowned. But he had felt it! He could feel it now, whatever it was, a burn, a presence, a taint. It was as if a red hot poker had been inserted beneath his skin.\n\nFear brought back his anger. He wheeled around to face the girl. \"Get up. We must be gone.\"\n\nShe looked at him with eyes that were impossible to read. With her right hand she cupped the portion of her arm he had touched. \"How long?\"\n\nRaif did not understand the question. He made no answer.\n\n\"I said how long? How long was I kneeling here before you came\"\u2014she struggled for words\u2014\"and woke me?\"\n\nWoke? Raif thought it an odd word to use. He said, \"Only minutes.\"\n\nThe girl nodded.\n\nAfter a moment, when she made no move to speak further or rise, Raif said, \"We must leave now. The red blades will be back.\"\n\nShe made a small gesture with her head toward the gate. \"Will he be all right?\"\n\nHe wanted to say no, tell her that Angus was in grave danger and it was all her fault, yet he found himself saying something else instead. \"Angus is no fool. He can take care of himself. If there's a safe way out of the city, he'll find it.\" The words were little enough, but he felt better for saying them. He almost believed they were true.\n\nThe girl's face relaxed just a little. Brushing snow from her ruined skirt, she struggled to her feet. Raif moved forward to help her, then stopped himself at the last instant. He didn't know if he wanted to touch her again.\n\n\"Please, could you leave me alone for a moment? I'll come and join you by the horses as soon as I... I'm finished.\"\n\nRaif made a point of glancing to the gate. \"Be quick.\" Purposely he kept his back toward her as he walked the horses away. He was curious about her request\u2014and he didn't think she meant to relieve herself in the snow\u2014but he wouldn't question her or spy on what she did. He made himself busy fetching things from Angus' saddlebag: blankets, a spare pair of gloves, a day-old roasted plover packed in a greased cloth, a cake of sheep's blood and whey, a skin of snowmelt kept liquid by its nearness to Moose's rump, a little jar of Angus' beeswax. Things for the girl.\n\nBy the time everything was pulled out and ready, the burn in his chest had subsided to a mild ache. His hand throbbed, but that might have been the blister. Shuddering slightly, he set his mind away from what he had seen and heard. That was the girl's business, not his.\n\n\"I'm ready to go now.\" She stepped alongside him.\n\nHe had not heard her coming. He covered his surprise by asking her if she could ride. When she nodded, he cupped both hands to take her foot and hefted her onto the bay's back. Her boots were thick, and when the leather soles pressed against his palms he didn't feel as if he were touching her at all. That seemed like something to be thankful for.\n\nHe passed her the blankets and the beeswax first. She accepted the jar of wax in a way that made Raif think that she was accustomed to having things handed to her. Her calmness broke when she took possession of the roasted plover, and she tore at the bird with gusto, eating skin, gnawing on bones, licking her fingers for grease.\n\nRaif smiled as he mounted Moose. He liked her better now. \"What's your name?\"\n\n\"Ash.\"\n\n\"I'm Raif.\"\n\n\"I know, the other man... Angus... said.\"\n\nRaif felt put in his place. He searched for something else to say, yet the only subjects that sprang to mind seemed too dangerous to speak of there and then.\n\n\"Raif. You must promise to wake me again if... if I fall asleep.\" Gray eyes met his. Knowledge passed between them, and somehow she knew all that he had seen and heard. She touched her arm. \"They call me,\" she said. \"The voices.\"\n\nRaif nodded. That much he understood. Knowing it wasn't his right to question her, he passed her the whey cake and the waterskin. Their fingers touched over the creamy surface of the cake, but he felt nothing, only the thinness of her skin. \"I'll watch out for you,\" he said.\n\nMOUNT SLAIN'S PEAKS VANISHED into darkness as they rode, claimed by a moonless, starless sky. Flames from the city's watch towers cast a halo of red light upon their backs and set their shadows flickering. No snow fell, yet the wind was white, shifting drifts from the high slopes to the low slopes in quick, brutal bursts.\n\nThe deer path was easy to find and follow. Raif had the feeling that Angus' bay had traveled this way before, for the gelding anticipated every twist and hook in the trail. Raif was glad to let the horses lead the way. The fast, brittle strength that had filled him earlier was gone, drained away as completely as if it had never been there at all. Ghostmeal: It seemed important to remember that what it gave wasn't real. Raif felt as if his body had been trampled by a cart. The only thing that kept him awake was the familiar torment of his stitches. That and his promise to the girl.\n\nHe glanced over at her. She sat hunched on the bay, her shape obscured by blankets, her head upright, her chin nodding with the movement of the horse. They had not spoken since earlier. The shadow of Spire Vanis was too great a presence between them. It was unthinkable to Raif to speak of small things to pass the time while Angus was trapped inside the city. The girl had her miseries and he had his, and there was companionship to be found in shared silence.\n\nRaif watched her as they wound through the pines. It was impossible not to. She had bewitched Angus with a single look, and with just one touch she had... What ? Raif turned his hand so that his blister showed, fat and purple like a tick gorging on his blood. What had happened between them as she'd knelt in the snow?\n\nHe would never forget the voices. They were inside his mind for life.\n\nDrey. Longing for his brother suddenly overwhelmed him, making him feel weary beyond knowing. If Drey were here now, he would know what to do and say. He wouldn't have let Angus go off alone. Raif's lips formed a faint smile. And even if he had, Drey would have stood outside the gate and waited until Angus returned. Drey always waited. Of all the traits a brother could have, that suddenly seemed the best one of all.\n\n\"Wrathgate.\"\n\nThe girl's voice drew Raif back. He looked at her, and she nodded toward the shimmering mass of darkness that was Spire Vanis at night. A ring of blue fire framed a portal three hundred feet below the deer path.\n\n\"They keep the oil lamps burning day and night. It's the most heavily used gate.\"\n\n\"Does the east road lead directly from it?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure.\"\n\nRaif looked at the girl's face, Ash's face, he reminded himself. She lived in this city yet didn't know its roads? Who was she? What sort of trouble was she in? Shrugging, he told himself it meant nothing to him. \"We'll head east a while, then start making our way down.\"\n\nThe girl, as if embarrassed by her lack of knowledge, made no reply.\n\nRaif turned his attention to breaking a path through the shifting snow and loose scree of Mount Slain's northeastern skirt. In his anxiousness to find the east road and meet with Angus, he pushed on ahead of Ash.\n\nThe farther they traveled from the city walls, the darker the night became. Spire Vanis felt like an enemy at his back. He had not once stepped inside it, yet he had killed men there. Another four to add to his tally.\n\nLights appeared in the landscape below, scattered over the rolling darkness like grain waiting to take seed. Some moved. Carts, Raif realized with a small thrill. The lights were torches burning on the guardrails of carts. East road. After glancing over his shoulder to check that Ash was still keeping pace, he began weaving his way down to the moving lights.\n\nEverything that grew on Mount Slain was crippled and hard formed. Moose picked his path with care, hesitating whenever the mountain shivered or twisted bits of dead wood poked rotten limbs through the snow. Raif was so tired his eyes ached. Angus has to be here. He has to be all right.\n\nBy the time they reached the road, the lighted carts were long gone, and the crowds of towns and villages had thinned, giving way to plowed fields, fenced grazes, farmhouses, and unlit strongwalls built from rough-hewn stone. A lone man rode a horse in the distance, but Raif knew it wasn't Angus: too thin, too dark, too upright to be a wounded man. The road itself was wide and gently graded, the snow upon its surface packed to the hardness of ice. To the north lay the Vale of Spires, prime farmland and grazeland that sloped gently for thirty leagues. Angus said that in its center lay a strange formation of granite spires that most people believed had been formed by nature, carved by a hundred thousand years of wind and hail. A few claimed the spires were the work of man, erected in the Time of Shadows by sorcerer-masons who spent their lives working with stone. Fewer still whispered about dark horselords and dark beasts and things impaled upon granite spikes. Raif didn't know what to think of that. Sometimes he swore Angus told him such things just to see how he'd react.\n\nAccording to Angus, it was the granite spires that gave the city and the vale their name: Spire Vanis. Vale of Spires.\n\nRaif waited for Ash to join him before turning onto the road and heading west. The relief of riding on cleared ground almost canceled out the fear of being out in the open. It was bitterly cold, and he could feel the freezing air hardening the threads that held his stitches. Ignoring the pain, he began pulling food and drink from the nearest saddlebag. He wasn't especially hungry, but eating gave him something to do. The wind-dried mutton Angus had purchased ten days ago had the taste and texture of old string. It was easier to suck than chew it. Unwilling to trust his body to alcohol, he washed down the meat with clear water.\n\nAs he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he was aware of a sense of loss, almost as if he were drifting away to sleep. The muscle lying directly beneath his raven lore wrenched softly, as if something had pulled on it.\n\nWithout thought he turned to Ash.\n\nHer eyes were closed, and her head was slumped forward onto her chest.\n\nRaif pulled on his reins, leaping down before Moose had chance to halt. He stilled the bay with a word and then reached up and pulled Ash from the saddle. She weighed almost nothing. As his left arm slid beneath her to support her legs, he felt something wet roll over his hand. Let it not be blood, he thought as he hefted her fast against his chest.\n\nPicking a spot fifty paces from the road's edge, shielded from casual eyes by a grove of sticklike birches, Raif laid her down on the blankets she had been using as a cloak. Quickly he ran back for the horses. As he led Moose and the bay through the brush, he reached inside his skins for his lore. The horn felt cold, and heavier than it had a right to be.\n\nAsh lay where he had left her, perfectly still, breathing fast, shallow breaths. A dark stain on her skirt grew as he looked on, pluming outward like dye poured in water. The horses smelled blood. Raif pushed up his sleeves and knelt in the snow. He hesitated before touching her again. He had felt nothing when he'd pulled her from the bay, but what if the voices had returned? Swallowing hard, he reached out and brushed the hair from her face.\n\nReach for us, reach. We cannot wait much longer, we are cold, so cold, our chains cut us, how they cut us, we want, we need. Reach.\n\nRaif's first instinct was to pull away. Run, said something within him. Run and never look back. He didn't run, though he could not say why. Instead he took Ash by the shoulders and shook her. \"Wake!\" he cried. \"Wake!\"\n\nNo muscle in her face or body moved. She was limp beneath his grip, a doll made of rags. Still he shook her; he didn't know what else to do.\n\nGradually, over the course of many seconds, her shoulders stiffened beneath him. Imagining she was coming round, he took his hands from her and sat back in the snow. He wondered why he felt no relief. A long moment passed, where the wind died and the snow settled, and then Ash's arms began to rise, slowly, mechanically, like machines worked by ghosts.\n\nGooseflesh rose on Raif's arms. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he slammed his fists into her shoulders, forcing the muscles flat. She would not reach out to them. He would not let her. It was madness and he didn't understand it, but he had heard the voices call to her and knew they loved her not.\n\nAsh's body fought him, but not in a forceful way, more a slow relentless push. New blood flared over her skirt, soaking through to the snow beneath. Raif didn't want to risk letting her go to deal with it. There was too much to be woman's blood, that he knew.\n\nThen, suddenly, Ash stopped fighting him. Her body stilled. Raif felt a bead of cold sweat trickle along his stitches. All was quiet for a moment as the night entered a new phase of darkness, then Ash's mouth fell open.\n\nThe stench of blood metal came out. The same odor Raif had smelled the day his father died.\n\nSorcery, and she was drawing it.\n\nRaif howled Angus' name into the night.\nTWENTY-FIVE\n\nTunnels of the Sull\n\nPENTHERO ISS WAS STANDING in the Rive Hall, in the heart of the Red Forge, watching Marafice Eye snap a sword over his knee, when the night came alive with sorcery. The Knife's leathers were stiff with mud and blood, his face smeared with soot, his fingernails jutting from his fingertips with the pressure of wedged dirt. Fury was upon him, though he did not shake and he did not fume; he took things in his hands and broke them.\n\n\"Six of mine dead. Another three wounded in the chase. And they got away\u2014all three of them.\" Marafice Eye raised the two separate pieces he had made of the sword. \"And this is all I got from Angus Lok. This!\"\n\nThat was when Iss felt it: strong, metallic, reverberating with the pure tone of a struck bell. Sorcery, and it shot through the room like siege fire. Iss' tongue wetted, and the glaze on his corneas dried in an instant, leaving a scum of salt and dust that stung his eyes. Fear relaxed muscles in his lower abdomen, and he had to work quickly to stop urine from dribbling down his thigh. Yet even as terror took him and his skin soaked up the aftermath like a rag dipped in oil, he probed the nature of the drawing with small mental jabs.\n\nIss breathed through his mouth, letting minute particles of airborne metal settle upon his tongue. Straightaway he learned things. The drawing was unfocused, the work of a beginner. It came from somewhere close and to the east. If he had been a stronger sorcerer himself, he might have forsaken his body and tracked it back to the source. Almost he didn't need to. He knew who had drawn it and where she was likely to be.\n\nAsarhia. The air tasted of her. A small thrill fingered Iss' throat and groin. His almost-daughter was close by, probably on the east road or traveling just above it, doing what she had been born for: reaching from this world to the one that lay beyond.\n\nAbruptly the flow of sorcery stopped, halted so quickly that Iss was left snapping tongue flesh. He felt disoriented for a moment, as if he had been passing through a doorway that was suddenly and unexpectedly shut. Aware of Marafice Eye's hard blue eyes upon him, he worked to bring his body and mind under control. Only those who could use sorcery could sense it.\n\n\"Trapped wind?\" Marafice Eye said, throwing the broken pieces of sword onto the exquisitely woven rug that covered the length of the Rive Hall. \"Too many quails eggs at supper. You should try eating real meat instead.\"\n\nIss made no reply. Marafice Eye's crudeness was nothing to him; he'd had more than fifteen years to grow accustomed to it.\n\nTaking a moment to still himself, Iss regarded the vast stone-ceilinged chamber of the Rive Hall. Row upon row of red swords armed the walls, hung from their crossguard and pointing down toward the earth. Blood steel, forged in the great black furnace in the adjoining chamber, cooled in oil drawn from the tar pits of the Join. Only two people in the Watch knew the secret of its making: the Iron Master and the Rive scribe. The scribe kept a written record of the brazing. The text was rumored to fill three leaves of parchment and be written backward in the manner of sorcerer's spells.\n\nIss turned to face the Knife. \"Asarhia is no longer in the city. She's east of here, either on the road or just above it.\"\n\nMarafice Eye's mouth twisted unpleasantly. \"I'll leave within the quarter.\" He turned to go.\n\n\"No.\" Iss found himself strangely unsettled by Asarhia's drawing. Its aftermath still lived within him, running like fever through his blood. He forced his mind to focus above the roar of the forge. \"Not yet. I must know more about who we are dealing with. This stranger... the one with the arrows\u2014\"\n\n\"That bastard shot four of my men, dropped them where they stood.\"\n\nThere was that hint of possessiveness again: my men, mine. Iss wasn't sure that he liked this new protective Knife. \"What did he look like?\"\n\n\"Dark haired. Rough clad, like one of those demon clansmen. Had a silver piece in his hair.\"\n\n\"A Hailsman, then.\" Iss felt better for knowing that one small fact. \"And he shot the brothers through the grating?\"\n\nMarafice Eye stamped a booted foot on a section of the broken sword and ground it into the rug. \"Space no bigger than a piss hole.\"\n\nIss ran a hand over the cleverly weighted silk of his robe. He had felt four jolts of power earlier: rough, hard, and stinking of the Old Blood. He had assumed it was Angus Lok, an old dog who had learned new tricks. Now it seemed it was someone else. \"When you chased Lok through the city, did you catch sight of Asarhia or the clansman again?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nSo it was likely the two were together. Now. The thought of Asarhia in the company of some rough-skinned clansman who could draw upon the Old Blood turned him cold. And then there was Angus Lok... . Iss' fingers tightened around the silk. Asarhia was his. He had found her. He had raised her. She called no one else Father but him. Armed men were no longer enough. \"You must take Sarga Veys with you when you leave. Asarhia must be brought back.\"\n\n\"The Halfman.\" Marafice Eye spat the word.\n\n\"Yes. The Halfman. He will be able to track Asarhia in ways you cannot.\"\n\n\"I will not have him in any sept of my choosing.\"\n\n\"Don't be a fool. If this clansman is a demon, as you say, then who better to deal with him than a demon of our own?\"\n\nMarafice Eye grunted.\n\n\"And you do want them back, don't you? All three of them. Asarhia must be brought to me alive and unharmed, but the men...\"\n\n\"They slaughtered my own.\"\n\n\"Precisely. Kill the clansman where you find him. Angus Lok must be brought to the Cask and tortured. He's so full of secrets his skin will likely burst the moment we strap him to the wheel.\" Iss glanced quickly at the Knife, then added, \"You can have him when Caydis is done.\"\n\n\"Don't make light with me, Surlord. I'm not one of your grangelings.\"\n\n\"No. But you want Lok and the clansman, and it seems to me that Sarga Veys is your best chance of getting them.\" Iss' temper rose as he spoke. The thought of Sarga Veys tracking down Asarhia chilled him, yet time was running out and new dangers had come into play, and Asarhia must be found. A dry sept might easily lose her, especially now that she had the protection of a man who could heart-kill seven brothers with seven arrows if he chose. A fully formed sept was the answer: six armed men and one magic user. Such small, fast-moving forces had once been the scourge of the North.\n\nMarafice Eye glowered. \"Very well. I'll take him with me, though I can't vouch for his good health on my return.\"\n\nIss forced himself to smile. \"As you wish.\" Perhaps things wouldn't be so bad after all. The Knife would keep an eye on Sarga Veys... that and one of his dog-size fists. \"Send him to me before you leave.\"\n\n\"Here?\" The Knife snapped his head in a circle, indicating the walls of red steel, the embossed shields and iron bird helms arrayed on racks, the life-size statue of the Killhound standing at the foot of the great fireplace, carved from marble so black that to look at it hurt one's eyes, and the tapestries nailed to the ceiling for want of a better place to hang them, tapestries depicting Thomas Mar, Theron and Rangor Pengaron, the Whitehog, and a dozen other men armed to the teeth and bathed in blood.\n\nIss saw the Knife's point. \"No... tell him I'll meet him in the guardroom instead.\"\n\nThat made Marafice Eye smile. \"There are a lot of angry brothers there tonight.\"\n\nIss shrugged innocently. \"Then he won't be lonely if I'm a little late.\"\n\n\"KEEP THE RAG IN her mouth until she wakes.\" Angus stood, grimacing as his muscles stretched and twisted. He thrust a fist against the wet sparrow-size hole in his chest, counted twelve seconds under his breath, then spoke again. \"You'd better take another draw of the ghostmeal. We have a long night ahead.\"\n\nRaif was kneeling over Ash's lifeless body. Angus had found them an hour ago, drawn by Raif's cry. Shaking with fatigue, his fingers yellow with the first sign of frostbite, and his face black with blood, he had barely spared a glance for Raif before starting work on Ash. After wadding a horse shammy into a ball, he had thrust it into her mouth, then held her jaws together, until nothing, not even breath, could leak out. Raif felt the sorcery stop as quickly as a candle snuffed by hand. Even before the stench of metal had dissipated, Angus began working on something else. He lit a small alcohol-fueled fire, heated snowmelt in a tin cup, then added dried herbs and roots to the liquid once it had boiled. The concoction soon turned yellowy green and gave off an odor that reminded Raif of the Oldwood in spring. \"Bethroot to slow bleeding, valerian to calm her mind,\" Angus said.\n\nAs he turned back to tend Ash, Raif noticed that his uncle's sword was gone. The sheepskin scabbard was limp and misshapen, striped with sword cuts and dark with blood. After a moment Raif looked away. It was hard to think about what Angus must have gone through to reach here.\n\nWhen the green concoction was ready, Angus came and knelt at Raif's side. Gently he eased the wadded shammy from Ash's mouth and dribbled steaming liquid down her throat. He said things, whispers too low for Raif to understand, all the while rocking her back and forth against his chest. When he was satisfied that she had swallowed enough of the liquid, Angus glanced at Raif. \"Turn your back.\" It was fiercely said, and Raif obeyed immediately. Sounds of fabric being lifted and torn followed. Water was poured. Rags were wrung dry. \"Hand me the clean shirt from my pack.\" Raif did so without once glancing at Ash. He wondered how Angus could continue working with his chest wound still open and leaking. The hole needed to be cleaned and stitched, yet Raif knew his uncle would welcome no reminders.\n\nThe sound of fabric being knotted was soon followed by a series of commands. \"I need grease. Warmed wax. The silver vial from my pack. Whatever spare clothes you have must be cut to a size to fit her. Beat the ice from my buckskin mitts, then take the chill from them over the fire. Quick now. There is little time.\"\n\nRaif didn't know how long it took to fetch all the things Angus needed, yet the steady drop in temperature made him aware of time passing. The night had turned as dark and still as the inside of a sealed cairn. The fierce blue flames from the alcohol fire gave off more heat than light, and Raif wondered how his uncle could see to work. When Angus was done with tending to Ash, he returned the shammy to her mouth and bade Raif watch her while he saw to his own hurts.\n\nHe was a good deal harder on himself than the girl. Tippling frequently from the rabbit flask, he cleaned and stitched his own flesh. There was a lot of blood, and Angus was by turns anguished then impatient. He swore like a hammerman When he was finished he had an ugly mass of black stitches on his chest. Raif thought they looked like a heap of dead spiders, yet didn't say anything. Angus stamped out the fire. \"Get the horses ready. I'll wake the girl. Have you taken that ghostmeal yet?\"\n\nRaif shook his head. Ghostmeal was as false as the twin landscapes that hovered above the earth on cold, bright days in the badlands. It fooled the senses, nothing more. Raif preferred to be exhausted and know he was exhausted.\n\nBrushing snow from his dogskin pants, he rose and made his way to the horses. Moose welcomed his approach by snuffling gently and nudging Raif's chest with his head. The gray was a good horse, well suited to long treks through deep snow. Raif brushed him down, cleaning ice from his eyelashes and nostrils. \"It's been a long day for you, too,\" he said, thinking of Orwin Shank and all the fine horses he had bred. \"Not much farther to go tonight.\"\n\nA faint groan sounded, and Raif looked over Moose's shoulder to where Angus was crouched over Ash. \"Wake now, little lass. You're safe. Safe and amongst friends.\"\n\nAsh opened her eyes. A wary, animal expression crossed her face, and she shied away from Angus' touch. Angus let her go, yet Raif sensed he did not want to.\n\n\"It's all right,\" he said softly. \"I'm Angus, and that's Raif, and we're taking you somewhere safe.\"\n\n\"How long was I... asleep?\" Ash frowned as she spoke, her mouth twisting as if she'd tasted something unpleasant.\n\n\"A wee nonce, nothing more.\" Standing, Angus held out his hand for her to take. Once she was upright she glanced around, at Raif, the horses, their surroundings. Last, she looked down at her clothes.\n\n\"Your dress was as stiff as a board when I got here, so I had little choice but to strip it away.\" Angus met Ash's eyes, and after a moment she looked down, suddenly finding a leather strap that needed retying beneath her chin. Angus did not share her embarrassment. Clapping his hands together, he said, \"Well then. We'd better make a start. Raif. Roll the blankets. I'll take Ash on the bay wi' me.\"\n\nDespite Angus' casual tone of voice, they broke camp quickly, burying the remains of the fire and filling the empty waterskins with snow. As Raif turned Moose, ready to head back onto the road, Angus stopped him with an almost imperceptible nod in the direction of Spire Vanis. \"I think we'll take the high road,\" he said.\n\nWhich meant they took no road at all. Angus made his own trail through the gorse and malformed pines above the road, Ash pale and silent at his back. Raif took up the rear. From the pace his uncle was setting and the small gesture he had made toward the city, Raif knew there was a good chance they were being pursued.\n\nThe thought did not make for an easy ride. Raif found himself wishing he had reclaimed the arrows from the dead men at Vaingate. Angus' sword was gone, the bow was useless without sticks to fire, and between them they now had nothing more deadly than a pair of belt knives and a half sword. Neither of them was in any fit state to fight if it came to it, and fleeing in haste was no longer practical, as Angus' bay was loaded with weight.\n\nFrowning, Raif turned his attention to Ash. She was now dressed in a blue wool shirt donated by Angus and a tanned hide coat and pants that had once belonged to Drey. Raif had to admit that they suited her well enough. Strands of hair peeking through her fox hood flashed silver in the snowlight. Why had Angus risked everything to protect her? And what would have happened if he hadn't come along in time to halt her sorcery? Deciding the answers didn't bear thinking about, Raif turned his mind to following the path instead.\n\nThe slope above the east road was heavily canted, mined with bog holes and draws. Snow made the uneven ground difficult to read. Bitter cold made breathing, moving, even looking, an ordeal to be endured. No one spoke. Angus appeared to have a destination in mind, as he picked each step with a deliberateness that Raif found vaguely reassuring. Angus always knew a back way, a hidden path, a break between the rocks.\n\nAs they rode through a stand of limber pines, Raif became aware of noises sounding in the road below. The drum of hooves, the tinny clink of tack, and the rough bark of someone coughing wafted up the slope along with a growing tide of mist. Angus said nothing, merely increased his pace. Most of the metal on Moose and the bay was covered with sheepskin to prevent frostbite in the colder temperatures to the north, so the horses made little sound as they trotted.\n\nEventually the ground began to level off and a path of sorts opened up before them, narrow and soiled with deer droppings. The going became easier, and it took Raif some time to realize that they were actually back on some distant eastern slope of Mount Slain. The steady pace of the horses rocked Ash to sleep, and her head came to rest against Angus' shoulder. Strangely, Raif wasn't worried about her, she wasn't absent, as she had been earlier. She was simply exhausted and sleeping.\n\nAfter a while Raif risked speaking to Angus. \"Where are we headed?\"\n\n\"Aye. You would be wanting to know that.\" Angus' voice was softer than the mist at his heels. \"If your old uncle's memory serves him well enough, there's a bit of tunnel somewhere along this path that leads down from the mountain and under the east road.\"\n\nRaif wasn't sure how he felt about tunnels. \"Won't those following us simply take the tunnel, too?\"\n\n\"Nay, lad. The sept'll likely stay on the road and wait for us to come down. They know we can't stay up here forever. It leads nowhere.\"\n\n\"They know we're up here?\"\n\n\"If they're using a fully formed sept, they will.\"\n\n\"Fully formed sept?\"\n\n\"Six blades and one magic user. It's the way sorcerers have been hunted for centuries. Irgar the Unchained, the Red Priest Syracies, Maormor of Trance Vor, and Asanna the Mountain Queen all used them. It takes a magic user to find one. Force isn't enough. Some with the old skill can stir air and water and earth. They can crack ice that a squad treads on, fuel storms that they ride through, and shake earth they sleep upon in the dark hours of night. They can turn hunting dogs mad and make them attack their own pack brothers, and ignite tiny sparks of sorcery inside a stallion's heart.\" Angus glanced over at Raif.\n\nRaif felt his cheeks heat. He pulled hard on the reins, treating Moose roughly.\n\n\"A trained sorcerer is capable of great subtlety. They can do more with less. They are taught how to deflect and contain powers greater than their own, how to shield those around them by setting bloodwards, and hook their claws into others like themselves, and leech the power from them bit by bit. They can confuse and disorient an enemy, weaving a fine mesh of sorcery called a fret.\" Angus frowned into the mist. \"And they hunt magic users like dogs.\"\n\nRaif shivered. The mist was heavy and wet, like a shifting sea around them. Suddenly it was impossible to see more than ten paces ahead. \"How do they hunt people?\"\n\n\"They hunt sorcery, not people, Raif.\" Angus glanced over his shoulder, pinning Raif with his coppery eyes. \"All sorcery leaves an aftermath that can be tracked. Users can taste the blood of a person who draws the old skill, smell the metal they feed into the air. Even weeks later residue can still cling to a user's hair and clothes, leaving a trail as surely as a deer musking pines in a forest.\"\n\n\"So what Ash did...\"\n\n\"Aye, lad. A sept is likely tracking her aftermath as we speak.\"\n\n\"Then how can we hope to escape? Even if we find a way down from the mountain, they will know it.\"\n\nAngus was silent a moment as he walked the bay through a crop of oily rocks. Ash, disturbed by the change in motion, made a soft, snuffling sound and resettled herself against Angus' back. When Angus spoke again, Raif had to strain to hear him.\n\n\"Tracking someone with sorcery is a risk unto itself. Sometimes a sorcerer must take drugs and forsake his body while he searches. Such skills never come cheap. They use a man up completely, leaving him as weak as a horse ridden clean through the night. Sometimes those who forsake their bodies never come back. The firmament glitters for them, tempting them out toward its cold, hard edge. Secrets lie there, they say. All things become known at the moment of death. Men who cannot resist simply leave their bodies behind. Their minds die the instant their spirit touches the roof of the world, but their bodies waste slowly over weeks.\"\n\nCold. Raif felt so cold his lungs ached. He found himself looking up at the black arc of the sky. Yes, I can see how a man might be tempted.\n\nAngus saw where his gaze had rested. \"I can't say as we'll be tracked that way tonight, not with us being so close to the city. The cost is too high for it to be lightly done. Any time a man or woman draws upon the old skills it takes something from them. The body pays a price. Different people weaken in different ways. I've seen some men bleed from the mouth, and others shiver as if a fever is upon them. A few lose part of their memories or their minds. I knew a man once, one of the Storm Dogs who live on the high slopes of the Join, whose body wasted in small portions every time he broke a storm. The first time I met him I thought he'd been burned. His arms and legs were black and withered. Dead.\"\n\nRaif turned away. He hated sorcery. Clansmen would have no part of it. Strength of mind, will, and body was what counted in the clanholds. Sorcery was the weapon of the weak and the damned. Raif remembered watching as Dagro Blackhail and Gat Murdock clubbed a dark-haired girl senseless one cold winter's morning on the court. Raif couldn't recall who the girl was, perhaps a sister to Craw Bannering or a daughter to Meth Ganlow, but he knew the girl had been discovered calling animals to her without speaking words. She had died a week later. No one, not even her family, mourned her. And then there was Mad Binny, living in her ancient crannog over Cold Lake, exiled from the roundhouse for thirty years. She could make ewes drop their lambs, people said, tell which winters would drive the hardest and cull the most deaths.\n\n\"Most magic users need rest after a drawing,\" Angus said, pulling Raif back. \"Many need to sleep. Some take drugs to lend them strength.\"\n\n\"Like the ghostmeal?\"\n\n\"Yes, like the ghostmeal.\"\n\nRaif looked round to find Angus watching him, and he suddenly realized the purpose of everything his uncle had said. Accept what you are, he seemed to say. You possess the old skills, I have shown you that. I have spoken of their dangers and forewarned you of their limits. Now you must learn to accept it and stomach your distaste.\n\nMist washed in and out of Angus' mouth as he breathed. \"Not all people condemn the old skills. There are places that would fail to exist without them, where they are woven so tightly into the threads of history that you cannot separate the people from their sorcery. Perhaps you and I will travel to those lands one day.\"\n\nRaif made no reply. He didn't want to hear any more. He longed for clan, imagined riding across the thick white snow on the graze, shooting targets with Drey on the court, and sitting so close to the Great Hearth that its hot yellow flames burned his cheeks.\n\n\"The girl is waking,\" he said after a time.\n\nAngus' eyes narrowed. A fraction of a second later Ash moved against his back. Before he turned his attention to her, Angus searched Raif's face, and Raif guessed he had given something away. He had known Ash was waking before his uncle had felt a thing. Abruptly he pulled on Moose's reins, dropping back.\n\nAngus and Ash spoke softly for some time, Ash turning once to retrieve a parcel of trail meat and a waterskin from Angus' pack. Raif thought she looked little better for sleep. Following her lead, he drank some water himself. The liquid was thick and icy, and it numbed something within him for a while.\n\nThe landscape changed as they threaded through the upper reaches of the tree line, becoming rougher and more inhospitable to plants. Bare rocks rose to either side of the path, swept clean of snow by persistent winds. Pines twisted close to the ground, their trunks smooth as bones, their needles shriveled and gray. The air smelled of resin, and the mist was sticky, as if it had slipped into the heartwood and stolen the sap from the pines.\n\nAngus trotted the bay through a series of sharp turns and then surprised Raif by calling a halt and dismounting. \"Wait here,\" he said, handing Raif the reins. By the time Raif had dismounted himself, Angus had disappeared into the mist. Ash stared after him.\n\nSilence followed. Raif had no desire to speak. He felt a dull resentment toward the girl; it was almost as if she'd stolen upon him while he slept, slit the skin on his wrist, and made a blood kin of him. He'd been given no choice in the matter, yet somehow he felt bound. And she was so young and thin, her face red with snowburn, her hair matted with many kinds of dirt. Only her eyes held his interest: huge gray eyes that shone like polished metal, silver one moment, iron the next.\n\n\"Good. You've both dismounted. We're on foot from now on.\" Angus' voice emerged from the mist ahead of his body. \"Raif. Cut a torch from that hemlock. Strip it until the juices run.\"\n\nRaif was glad of something to do. He cut three sticks, hacking at the branches until his dogskin mitts were soaked with sap. Shaving the sticks with his belt knife, he created a series of thin wood curls to catch the sparks from his flint and hold them against the sapwood until it kindled. The business of making fires in snow and ice was something he knew well, and it felt good to do something plain and honest with his hands.\n\nThe first torch was lit by the time Angus had brushed down the horses. Ash had taken charge of Moose and was saying horsey things to him and scratching behind his ears. Moose seemed stupidly pleased, snuffling and clucking like a hen. Raif glared at him. Traitor horse.\n\nAngus led them into a deep draw between the rocks. The pale, ice-riven banks grew higher as they descended, and the path began to narrow and steepen. Soon the walls curved overhead, and Raif got the sense that they were traveling into the mountain. The same kind of oily stone they had passed earlier caught and reflected light. When flames from Raif's torch licked against the wetness, it hissed. Mist rolled around the horses' fetlocks like seafoam, turning from gray to green with each flick of the light. The air became noticeably colder.\n\nThen, suddenly, there was no draw. The rocks fused overhead, and what might have been a water channel during spring melt became a tunnel instead.\n\nRaif felt his stitches itch. The raven lore was as cold as a fossil against his chest.\n\n\"Easy now,\" Angus said. \"Stay close. There are ways here that are not ours to take. Raif. Step forward with the torch. Ash. Keep an eye to Moose. Don't forget to tear a bit of rue leaf now and then and chew on it.\"\n\nAs he positioned himself at the head of the party, Raif was aware of the ground changing beneath his feet. What minutes earlier had been rough, uncut rock now had the smooth shine of stone once tended by a chisel. The walls were more lightly touched, hewn only to prevent sharp edges. Something\u2014mineral oil or water\u2014tapped away in the distance like a leaking roof. All surfaces collected shadows as easily as ditches filling with rainwater.\n\nRaif's first thought was that Effie would have loved this. No one knew the caves in the clanhold like Effie. The only time she ever came out of the roundhouse in summer was to explore the sandstone caverns around the Wedge. Raif smiled. He remembered taking her out one summer morning and having to wait for hours while she explored some odd bit of a pothole not much wider than her own head. He wasn't about to go in after her, and Tem would have given him a beating if he'd left her to return home alone.\n\n\"What is this place?\" asked Ash.\n\nIt was hard for Raif to pull back from his memories. For no reason other than she wasn't Effie, he felt a tide of ill feelings toward the girl. She wasn't who she showed herself to be. Her voice was clear and insistent, and she sounded like no beggar girl in any story Turby Flapp or Gat Murdock had ever told.\n\n\"It's just a wee tunnel, nothing more.\" Angus took a slug from his rabbit flask. \"It was cut many thousands of years ago, before Spire Vanis was even built.\"\n\nAsh reached out a hand and touched the wall. \"Who built it?\"\n\n\"The Sull.\"\n\nRaif sucked in air and held it in his lungs. This was the third time Angus had mentioned the Sull, yet the word sounded no better for repetition. The Sull were enemies to all. They hated the Mountain Cities and the clans. And even though they protected the Trenchlanders with their lives, they hated them, too. Hiding in their vast forests, amid their cities of blue and silver stone, they refused to trade and treaty. Rumor had it they emerged from the Racklands only to defend their borders and reclaim their dead. \"What use is a tunnel here, in the west, to the Sull?\"\n\n\"Do you think, Raif Sevrance, that this land has always been held by the Mountain Cities?\" Angus' tone made Raif wish he hadn't asked the question. \"Before there were cities, before even there were clans, there were the Sull. Clan Blackhail might call itself the first of the clans, yet it's a poor claim when compared to the Sull's. They call themselves the First Born, and they do not mean solely in the Northern Territories.\"\n\nAsh spoke after a moment of silence. \"The Sull were the first men in the Known Lands?\"\n\n\"So legend says. The same legends that tell how they were driven first from the Far South, and then the Soft Lands of the middle, finally making a home of the North. All of it, not just the Boreal Sway and the Great Snake Coast and the Red Glaciers they claim today. All of it, from the Breaking Grounds in the farthest north, to Old Goat's Pass in these Ranges.\" Angus' voice was hard, his eyes dark. \"So this small tunnel, cut so the Sull could cross the mountains and descend Mount Slain without being sniffed out by the Mountain Queen's septs, or scented by Wetcloaks and their hounds, may not be much use to them now. But it once was, and there are a score of others like it in the Ranges.\"\n\n\"Who is this Mountain Queen?\" Ash said. \"And the Wetcloaks? I've never heard of them.\"\n\nAngus shook his head. \"People and forces from another age, before the Red Priest and the Founding Quarterlords were born, before religion took its hold on the Soft Lands to the south, when the world was ruled by emperors and kings, and sorcery was their weapon of control.\"\n\nRaif held the torch away from his body. The damp air was making it crackle and spit. \"You said the Sull could use sorcery. So why didn't they build an empire of their own?\"\n\n\"Once they did,\" Angus said quietly. \"Once they did. Now...\" He shook his head. \"Now they seek only to survive.\"\n\nFrowning, Raif walked deeper into the tunnel. What Angus said didn't fit with clan beliefs about the Sull. \"But the Sull are the fiercest\u2014\"\n\n\"Aye,\" Angus said, cutting him short. \"The Sull are the fiercest warriors ever to raise their banns over the North. They have to be. They are a people unto themselves, deeply private and self-sustaining, and every king, emperor, and warlord in the Known Lands for the past thirteen thousand years has feared them. The Sull have been driven north and east through three continents, and now all that's left to them is the Racklands.\" Angus' voice quieted and turned oddly cold. \"And I pity anyone who tries to take it from them... for they have nowhere else to go.\"\n\nRaif and Ash exchanged a glance, both affected by Angus' words. Ash's eyes looked almost blue in the cave light.\n\n\"We must leave something for the journey,\" Angus said, working to regain his good humor. \"'Tis an old custom and doubtless seems foolish to do so when none but dark-winged bats will likely collect it. But Darra would have my earlobes for salt dishes if I failed to pay my due.\"\n\n\"Darra?\" asked Ash.\n\n\"My lady wife.\"\n\nAsh made no reply, and silence grew around them.\n\nReaching back behind his neck, Raif felt for the band of silver that bound his hair. With one swift movement he tugged it free. \"Here,\" he said, offering it to Angus. \"Take this for the journey.\"\n\nAngus closed his large red hand around Raif's. \"Nay, lad. That's a clan token. Keep it. I'll pay this passage.\"\n\n\"Take it.\"\n\nThere must have been something in his voice, for Angus looked at him hard. a moment, then nodded. \"As you wish.\"\n\nNo one spoke for a while after that. Angus took the silver band in his fist and began kneading the metal as he walked. The tunnel grew narrower and the rock ceiling dipped, so both Angus and Ash had to be careful where they led the horses. Moisture wept from cracks in the stone, forming oily pools that everyone avoided.\n\nRaif lit the second torch, and the fresher, brighter light illuminated markings on the stone. No, not on the stone, he corrected himself, in it. Drawings of the moon and stars, inked in dark blues and liquid silvers, shone through a layer of rock as thin as the membrane on a fish's eye. Somehow the artist had inserted the pigment below the surface, like a tattoo. Raif thought back to Angus' bow; that had an inlay beneath the wood too. Angus has a Sull bow? Raif held on to the question as they entered a section of tunnel partially collapsed by flood damage, trying to decide what it meant.\n\nEvery so often, turnoffs would present themselves: black holes in the rock face that always led down. Angus insisted that everyone stay close to him as they passed them. The largest was as dark and steep as a mineshaft, cut with a thousand narrow steps that seemed to lead straight down to hell. Raif felt cold air kiss his cheeks as they passed it. Ash looked as if she felt something else. When Angus reached out to hold her arm, she made no effort to pull away.\n\n\"Take a bit of the rue leaf and chew on it,\" he said. \"Remember what I said?\"\n\n\"You said scribes use it when they work through the night. You said it would clear my head.\"\n\n\"That's right. Yes, chew, don't swallow now. What does it taste like? I've quite forgotten.\"\n\nRaif listened as Ash spoke her reply, quite aware that Angus' main aim was to keep her talking. After a while Raif joined in, and together they nursed Ash through the deepest sections of the tunnel. At some point during the process, when the conversation had shifted to long winters\u2014one of the few subjects they could share without prying into anyone's past\u2014Raif began to feel something himself. At first it was just a knot of tension in his shoulder blades, a strain he put down to lack of sleep, but the sensation spread to his chest, where it pressed against his heart and lungs like a secret, inner rib cage growing quietly beneath his own.\n\nIt happened so slowly, over hours, that Raif didn't immediately recognize it as fear.\n\nEven when the tunnel's end came in sight and Angus halted the party while he performed a small ritual around the silver band from Raif's hair, Raif still hadn't worked out what he was afraid of. Then, over Angus' bent back, he locked gazes with Ash.\n\nShe knew. She knew what it was. \"Mount Slain runs deep,\" was all she said, yet it was enough for Raif to begin to understand. Something was within the mountain with them. Something knew they were here.\n\n\"Ehl halis Mithbann rass ga'rhal.\" Angus' words seemed to come from a long way away. Raif did not recognize the language. After placing the silver band on a spur of rock, Angus sprinkled it with the last drops of alcohol in his rabbit flask, then lit it. Blue flames leaped for the briefest moment, then died, leaving the silver with a dusky tarnish, patterned like tree mold. \"There,\" he said softly. \"That should please the Sull gods. The offerings they like best are blood and fire.\"\n\nStraightening, Angus reached for the bay's bridle and began walking toward the tunnel's end.\n\nAfter a moment Ash followed, and Raif was left alone by the rock. The desire to reach out and touch the silver band one last time was great, but he fought it. Instead he ran his hands through his loose, shoulder-length hair. From now on when people saw him they would not immediately recognize his clan. It's for the best, he told himself, unhooking his belt knife and cutting a leather tie from the neck of his oil-skin. He didn't believe it, but perhaps belief would come later.\n\nTying back his hair with the leather strap, he followed the others from the tunnel. A pair of ravens drawn to guard the entrance barely caught his eye.\nTWENTY-SIX\n\nSecrets in the Kaleyard\n\nEFFIE SEVRANCE SAT CROSS-LEGGED in her special place beneath the stairs, and watched the raiding party return. Great big clansmen, their axes dripping chunks of frozen blood and muck onto the stone floor, their faces grave and hard, crossed beneath the greatdoor and into the entrance chamber, bringing with them the quality of silence that Effie knew meant death.\n\nShe tried not to be scared. Her hand squeezed her rock lore as she looked into the face of every man who crossed the threshold, searching for Drey.\n\nSo many men, some dragging bloody legs behind them, others with fierce bruises on their necks and faces, and many with their wounds hidden beneath their oilskins, the slowness of their walk and the blue tint of their lips giving their injuries. away. A few were brought in on dragsleds, and Effie's eyes scanned their clothing, searching for the zigzagging pattern of Da's elk coat. She knew Drey had worn it the day he went away.\n\nRaina, Anwyn Bird, and the other women with due respect moved among the injured, tending wounds, bringing black beer and warm clothing and good plain meat. As always when Anwyn was in charge, there was no fuss or wailing from the other women: Anwyn wouldn't allow it, saying that it only upset the men. Raina didn't speak, though she did count, taking careful note of each man who entered, keeping a tally of their numbers in her head. Her widow's weals were healed now, the skin pale and raised like cornrows around her wrists. She hardly ever spoke to Effie these days. She cared, making sure that Effie was fed and clothed and never too long alone, but she seldom brought the food or the blankets or the company herself. Effie knew they shared a bad secret. The badness made it difficult to sleep some nights, and Effie ran off more and more to the little dog cote. The shankshounds loved her almost as much as Raina... and they didn't look at her with dead eyes.\n\nAll thoughts vanished from Effie's head as she caught sight of a big silhouette in the doorway. Drey. He moved slowly, a little bent at the waist to relieve pressure on a wound. His face was a mask of dirt and blood, and there was a deep gash in his breastpiece. His eyes began searching even before his foot hit the stone floor of the roundhouse.\n\nEffie rose, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. Drey.\n\nHe saw her the moment she was free of the stair space. Something deep and massed inside him relaxed, and for a moment he looked young, like the old Drey, like he had been before all the badness had started and Raif went away. Without a word he opened his arms. If her whole life had depended on it, Effie could not have resisted him. She wanted to hold him so badly, her insides ached.\n\nShe didn't run; Anwyn didn't approve of that. Instead she walked forward with slow, deliberate steps. Drey waited. He didn't smile\u2014neither of them smiled\u2014just took her in his arms and held her for a long time.\n\nThey pulled apart without speaking, Drey catching her hand in his. He turned his head for a moment and gave an order to a new-sworn yearman concerning the state and treatment of some men. The yearman, a small youth with a sword that was nearly as tall as he was strapped to his back, was quick to do Drey's bidding. Dent-headed Corbie Meese stopped and asked Drey something. Drey thought before answering, as he always did. Corbie nodded his agreement, then left.\n\nAnwyn Bird caught his eye, a question on her large horsey face. In answer, Drey held up both his and Effie's hand. Effie didn't quite understand, but Anwyn obviously did, for she nodded in a knowing way, then changed her path, bearing the tray of beer and bannock she was carrying toward a group of hammermen sitting on the floor.\n\nDrey tugged on Effie's hand. \"Come,\" was all he said as he led her across the river of clansmen and clanswomen toward the guidehouse.\n\n\"Clan Croser has been threatened by Bludd.\"\n\n\"... a hundred Dhoonesmen dead.\"\n\n\"We had to speak treaty before Gnash would let us pass.\"\n\n\"Corbie dragged him away from the body. He hasn't spoke a word since. His heart is with his twin.\"\n\n\"Nay, Anwyn. See to Rory first. This wound is naught but a ticking.\"\n\nEffie listened to the soft voices of her clan as she walked at Drey's side. War was full upon them now, and raiding parties like the one led by Corbie Meese left every day from the roundhouse,. Two nights back, a squad of Bluddsmen had broken bounds near the lowlands strongwall and slaughtered a dozen crofters. Effie had seen the bodies. Orwin Shank and his sons had ridden out to bring them back. One of the shankshounds had found a baby alive in the snow. Orwin said the bairn's mother had swaddled the tiny thing in sheepskins and hidden him in a drift at the side of her croft as the Bluddsmen approached on their warhorses. Jenna Walker was looking after the baby now. Orwin had brought the bairn straight to her, saying he had such a strong little heart and such hard little fists that there must be something of Toady in him. Every nursing mother in the clan had come forward to offer milk.\n\nEffie thought about the baby a lot, thought of him trapped beneath the snow. She wanted to ask Orwin which of his hounds had found him, but Orwin was fierce and important, and she didn't have the nerve.\n\nDrey pulled Effie into the smoky darkness of the guidehouse and bade her sit at one of the stone benches while he approached the stone. One or two other men from the raiding party already knelt by the guidestone, foreheads brushing against the hard, wet surface. All were quiet. Drey found a place and joined them. He was silent for a very long time: walking with the gods, as Inigar always said.\n\nEffie knew the guidestone well, better than anyone else except Inigar Stoop. She had spent much of her life in its presence, curled up beneath Inigar's chipping bench, staring at the face of the stone. It had a face, that she knew. Not a human face, for it had too many eyes for that, but it could see and hear and feel. Today the guidestone was sad and grave. The deep, salt-encrusted pits that were its eyes glistened with wept oil. The dark gashes that were its mouths were filled with gray shadows, and even the new flaw that ran the length of the stone and everyone said was a bad omen and a sign of the coming war looked like a deep worry line on the cheek of an old, old man.\n\nQuickly Effie took her gaze away. She couldn't look at the flaw without thinking of Raif.\n\nHer lore had told her he would go, pushed the knowledge into her through the skin on her palms. He had to go, the lore had said. Even before he'd returned from the Bluddroad she had known it was so. Sometimes she wished she could tell Drey, to ease his mind, but she didn't have the words. Drey was angry at more than Raif. He was angry at Angus, too, for taking Raif away. He didn't even call Angus uncle anymore, just that man Angus Lok. Effie frowned. A week ago she'd caught Drey standing outside the greatdoor, staring south. At first she thought he was checking to see if the latest storm had passed. Then she saw the look on his face. He was watching for Raif... even though Raina had told him Raif wasn't coming back.\n\nThat thought made Effie's insides pull tight, and her hand crept up her dress toward her lore. The stone was asleep now, cool and lifeless as a hibernating mouse. It was better that way. It never told good things. She dreaded it telling her that Drey would go away.\n\n\"Come, little one.\" Drey stood heavily and awkwardly, not once touching the guidestone for support. Walking with the gods had taken something from him, and he looked tired and old and more troubled than before.\n\nEffie went straight to him, her hand finding his through the smoke.\n\n\"Drey.\"\n\nBoth Effie and Drey looked around in time to see Inigar Stoop emerge from the darkness at the far end of the guidehouse. The guide's face was gray with wood ash, the cuffs and hem of his robes scorched black for war. His dark eyes glanced only briefly at Effie, yet she knew he saw her completely for what she was. The guide knew all about the Sevrances.\n\n\"Inigar.\" Drey closed his eyes and touched both lids.\n\n\"Corbie says you fought hard and well, and took the lead when Cull Byce went down.\"\n\nDrey made no motion to reply. Effie knew he was awkward around praise, but it did not account for the hardness in his face as he looked at the guide. She wondered how Inigar had managed to speak to Corbie Meese so quickly; last she'd seen of the hammerman he was battling with Anwyn for more beer.\n\n\"You must put the past behind you,\" Inigar said. \"All of it. Clan needs good men like you. Do not let bitterness steal your strength. Things are as they are. Dwell on what they might have been, and the ghosts of the past will eat you. They have sharp teeth, those ghosts; you will not feel them bite until they start tearing at the marrow in your bones. You must put them behind you. Bears do not look back.\"\n\n\"You don't know of what you speak.\"\n\nEffie took a quick breath; no one spoke to the guide that way. No one.\n\nInigar wagged his head, shaking the words away as surely as if they were raindrops on oilskin. \"My lore is the hawk, Drey Sevrance. I see much that a bear cannot. Do not suppose that I know nothing of what happened on the Bluddroad. Do not suppose that I pronounce you free of blame. But know this: What is done is done, it is what comes after that concerns me now.\"\n\nDrey rubbed his hand over his face. When he spoke he sounded tired. \"I must go, Inigar. You must not worry about me. I know my place is with the clan.\"\n\nInigar nodded. \"Have you thrown the swearstone away?\"\n\nDrey turned his back on the guide before answering. \"Yes.\"\n\nEffie felt Inigar's gaze on her and Drey as they walked the length of the guidehouse. Drey was silent as they made their way to the kitchens and then picked bread and meat for them both. Effie saw him wince as he stretched a muscle that shouldn't have been stretched, felt his body tremble for a moment as he dealt with the pain.\n\n\"Let's find somewhere quiet to eat,\" he said.\n\n\"We could go to the kaleyard. It's quiet there, and the walls are high so there's hardly any wind.\" Effie was pleased and a little bit anxious when Drey nodded. She dearly wanted him to like her choice.\n\nThe kaleyard was a small square of ground at the rear of the roundhouse that had been set aside for growing herbs. Tall walls kept freezing winds at bay year-round, and someone long ago had thought to build a pair of brick benches so that two or three people could sit and take advantage of the walled haven. The kaleyard was Anwyn's territory now, and every flake of snow that dared to land there was hauled away before it had chance to settle. Anwyn only had to look at Longhead to make him start hauling snow. She had that effect on a lot of men, Effie noticed.\n\nKale, which Effie classified in her mind as tough cabbage, was no longer grown in the kaleyard. Dagro Blackhail had forbidden it, calling kale \"that foul leaf.\" Effie rather liked it, though she did allow that it took quite a chewing. Now Anwyn grew herbs in its place, lots of them, like leeks, black sage, and white mustard, all pulled up for winter so that nothing but mulched-over soil remained.\n\nEffie felt her heart race as she walked around the exterior of the roundhouse. She tried to keep her eyes on her feet and not look up at the wide-open spaces, but sometimes she forgot and found herself staring north toward the badlands and the Want... places that had no end. Only when the gate on the kaleyard was closed and bolted and her world was reduced to a size she could walk across in less than a minute did she begin to feel safe.\n\nDrey sat on the nearest bench. Effie, still a little breathless from the walk, chose to sit on the second bench, across from him. She watched as her brother took in the details of the kaleyard, trying to decipher the look on his face. A willow planted in the farthest corner of the yard creaked like a loose shutter in the wind.\n\n\"Last time I was here I got a beating from Anwyn Bird,\" Drey said after a while. \"I was out throwing spears behind the stables, and the wind caught one of them, sent it clear over that wall. Took the heads off at least a dozen cabbages. Of course, Raif tried to fix them. Stuck the heads right back, he did, smearing them with mud to make them stick... .\" Drey's voice trailed away to nothing. The hard look came back to his face. \"Anyway, it's been a good many years since I was here.\"\n\nEffie nodded. She could think of nothing to say.\n\nAbruptly Drey leaned forward. \"Effie, there is just me and you now, and we must look out for each other. We must stay close. While I was riding back with the raiding party, I had time to think. Arlec lost his twin. Bullhammer lost his foster brother... .\" He shook his head. \"I'm not much for saying things\u2014I don't think anyone in our family ever was\u2014but I see things, and I've stood and watched as you've grown more and more into yourself. I've known something was wrong, but I kept saying to myself, Effie will be all right. Effie's a good girl, she won't come to any harm. Now I think you must tell me what's wrong. Every time I see you there's less than the time before. Raina tells me you take food, but she doesn't know if you eat it. Anwyn tells me that since the night Raina became betrothed to Mace, you only leave your cell to visit the dogs. What are you afraid of? Has anyone said anything to you? Frightened you? Please, Effie, I need to know.\"\n\nEffie, who had been looking into her brother's brown eyes from the moment he began speaking, looked down as he spoke the last few words. It was the longest speech she had ever heard Drey make. It made her feel sad. She made no reply.\n\n\"You went to the woods that day with Raina, didn't you? That day when she and Mace\u2014\" Drey stopped himself. \"The day when they became betrothed.\"\n\nA small shaking motion was all Effie could manage. She didn't want to think of that day. Wouldn't.\n\nDrey rose from the bench with great difficulty, his hand bracing his lower abdomen as he moved, and came and sat next to her. \"You're frightened of something, Effie. I can tell. I saw you hiding under the stairs in the entrance chamber. You didn't want to be seen. I know these past months have been hard, and I know you miss Da... and Raif. But I think there's something different here. A secret.\"\n\nEffie looked up at the word secret.\n\n\"Please, Effie. If something is wrong, I must know.\"\n\n\"Secrets have to be kept.\"\n\n\"Not bad ones. Never bad ones.\"\n\nEffie's hand found her lore.\n\n\"Bad secrets lose their power when they're told. The badness is shared.\"\n\n\"Shared?\"\n\n\"Yes. Between you and me.\"\n\n\"You and me?\"\n\nDrey nodded. He looked so old, like a proper clansman in his boiled-leather breastpiece with its ribs of steel. And he was hurting so much\u2014she could tell by the border of sweat around his hairline and the uneven rhythm of his breaths. She didn't want to disappoint him or lie to him. She didn't want to lose him, too, the way she had lost Da and Raif.\n\nA quick squeeze of her lore steadied her, and then she spoke. She told her brother everything about the day in the Oldwood: how Raina had woken her and bade her come to check on the traps, how Mace Blackhail had come upon them, his horse lathered and muddy, and told Effie to leave as he wished to speak to Raina alone; how she had scrambled onto the cliff above them and what she had seen and heard. She told about the threat Mace had made to her, and the dead look in Raina's eyes. Effie wasn't good with words, and sometimes there were no words to describe what had happened between Mace and Raina, but she told everything as best she could, encouraged by Drey's silence and patience and the unchanging expression on his face.\n\nWhen she had finished, he nodded once. He did not question her in any way or ask her if she was sure. He took her hand in his and sat and thought. Effie had started shaking sometime during the telling and continued to shake now as she waited to see what her brother would do. She noticed that the sky was almost dark. It was very cold, but only her outsides felt it. Inside she was hot and rigid.\n\nAfter some time Drey rose. \"Come, little one. Let's go inside.\"\n\nEffie rose with him. She hated how tired he sounded. She hated how she couldn't tell what he felt\n\nThe walk back to the roundhouse took forever. Effie looked down at her feet, crunching frozen weeds from step to step. They found the entrance chamber much changed from when they had left it. Torches burned, clansmen were gathered in small groups, speaking in hushed voices and drinking beer. Four young boys were sitting around a pile of mud- and hair-matted weaponry, cleaning hammer and ax heads in silent awe. Massive red-haired Paille Trotter was singing a song about the Clan Queen Moira Dhoone and the Maimed Man she had loved and lost. All the wounded had been carried away.\n\nEffie thought that Drey would lead her through to the kitchens or the Great Hearth or even her own cell, but he cut left across the hall, toward the little crooked stair that led down to the chief's chamber. Realizing straightaway what he meant to do, Effie pulled back, but Drey held her firm and would not let her go. They met man-chested Nellie Moss on the stairs. She was carrying a fiercely flaming lunt, which she made no effort to shield as they passed. Effie felt the heat of the flames singe hairs around her face.\n\nClan Blackhail had no seat like Clan Dhoone. No Hail chief had ever called himself a king, though over time many had gathered items of kingly power to them. The Clansword was one such thing, known throughout the clanholds as the symbol of Blackhail power. Clan Bludd had the Red Axe, which wasn't really red at all and was said to be older than the clanholds themselves. Ganmiddich had a great plate of green marble known as the Crab Lode, as it had a giant fossilized crab in its center and had been quarried a thousand leagues from the nearest sea. Effie could recite all the clan treasures and emblems. Her favorite was Clan Orrl's; they weren't know by some grand weapon or polished stone, rather a simple oakwood walking stick known as the Crook.\n\nEffie liked the thought of these treasures. They seemed beautiful to her. Precious. Once, when she had been reciting the emblems of each clan to Raina at the ladies' hearth, Dagro Blackhail had walked in. She had stopped straightaway, but Dagro had bade her continue, and she'd gone through the clans from Bannen to Withy, pausing only once to show respect for the Lost Clan. When she had finished, Dagro Blackhail had laughed heartily\u2014but not in a mean way\u2014ruffled her hair, and told her that no one in the clan, not even Gat Murdock, could remember all those things. Dagro Blackhail had then thrust out his hand toward her and said, \"You'd better come with me, young clanswoman, and I'll show you our treasures firsthand. That way if anyone ever makes off wi' them in the dead of the night, we can send you straight to the smithy. Between your memory and Brog's hands, we'll have new ones forged within a day.\"\n\nEffie had loved being called clanswoman. She had loved going to the chief's chamber with Dagro Blackhail even more. Dagro had talked for hours about the clan treasures, holding them up to the torchlight and polishing them with the cuff of his sleeve before he'd let her look. It was the last time Effie had been in the chief's chamber, a year before Dagro's death.\n\nThese thoughts and others passed through Effie's mind as she and Drey descended the stairs. It seemed a very long time since Dagro Blackhail had been chief.\n\nReaching the glistening, tar-blackened door of the chief's chamber, Drey paused to push a hand through his hair. He took a breath, then shouldered open the door and forced his way into the room. Mace Blackhail, who had been sitting on a hide stool behind the square stone table that everyone called the Chief's Cairn, stood. He was alone. His eyes flickered yellow and black in the torchlight. As he looked from Drey to Effie, his hand slid down to rest upon his swordbelt.\n\n\"What is the meaning of this?\"\n\nDrey tightened his hold on Effie's hand. He took a breath, then said, \"Effie told me what happened in the Oldwood. You are not worthy of my respect, Mace Blackhail. I call you out onto the court, here and now, to settle this matter with swords.\"\n\nEffie let out a choked cry. No. Drey couldn't fight with Mace Blackhail. Not now, while he was injured. Not ever. The sword was Mace Blackhail's chosen weapon, Drey's was the hammer. Why had she told? Why? Why? Why?\n\nMace Blackhail looked at Effie, his thin lips curling to something between a sneer and a smile. A finger came down upon the Chief's Cairn, casually, as if he were testing the surface for dust. \"So you would cross steel with me, Drey Sevrance? Raina's honor means that much to you?\"\n\nDrey made no reply. His body shook him with every breath.\n\n\"Now I come to think of it, it was you who thought to bring my foster father's last token back from the badlands. You who tanned the hide, making it soft for Raina's back\"\n\nDrey wrenched his head savagely. Effie didn't understand what Mace Blackhail was getting at. Of course Drey cared about Raina... everyone did. The chief's chamber, which was small and coved like a bear cave, suddenly felt as hot and dangerous as a firepit primed with fat.\n\nMace Blackhail made a negligent gesture with his hand. He was dressed in wolf hides dyed black. \"No matter, Sevrance. You're not the only yearman who feels... protective of my wife. I know how highly she is regarded. And while your concern for her honor is touching, your rashness is a grave mistake. I\u2014\"\n\n\"This isn't about Raina's honor, Mace. It's about yours\u2014your lack of it.\"\n\nEffie swallowed air. Part of her wanted to cheer at Drey's words. The other part of her was deeply afraid for her brother. Mace Blackhail was dangerous in different ways from other clansmen. He wasn't hot-blooded like Ballic the Red, or fierce like Corbie Meese. He was as cold and sharp as the spikes of needle ice that formed on the bottom of melt ponds in spring, impaling bears and dogs by the act of simply existing.\n\n\"I wouldn't be so foolish as to challenge my chief's honor on the word of a half-grown girl.\"\n\n\"My sister is no liar. I would lay my life on that.\"\n\n\"I didn't say she was a liar, Drey. She saw some things and heard some things, but only through the eyes of a child. She doesn't understand what goes on between a man and a woman when they're alone and in private. Tem lived like a hermit. She never happened upon him lovemaking, that's for sure. She doesn't even know what lovemaking is. Think, Drey. When Effie spied upon me and Raina in the Oldwood, what did she see? She saw Raina playing coy and slapping me away\u2014what woman would not do that? You know how they are. We tussled in the snow, I will not lie about that, and I daresay I pinned her down and she cuffed me for my trouble. A woman like Raina needs her loveplay rough\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop it!\" Drey lashed out at the space separating him from Mace Blackhail, his face contorted with rage. \"I will not hear such filth about Raina.\"\n\n\"No. And I wouldn't have had to speak it if it hadn't been for your little sister here. It's not her fault. Of course what she saw distressed her\u2014all lovemaking looks like violence to a child.\"\n\n\"You threatened her.\"\n\n\"Yes, I did, and with good reason. I didn't want the truth of what had happened coming from anyone's mouth but mine or Raina's. The child had no right to tell. It was not her business.\"\n\n\"You're lying. You have no honor.\"\n\n\"Don't I? Perhaps we should call Raina in and ask her the truth of it. She was the one who agreed to be my wife.\"\n\nEffie saw something within Drey waver. He didn't step back exactly, but he let out a breath, and part of him seemed to withdraw as he did so. Effie felt sick with relief. She didn't care about Mace Blackhail's lies\u2014and she knew they were lies. Mace Blackhail would kill Drey in a fight.\n\n\"Drey, heed me in this. I am your chief. I will not stand by and watch as you take the same path as your brother. You are too valuable to me and this clan. I see how the yearmen respect you. Corbie and Orwin are full of your praises. Just this past quarter, Corbie was here telling me how you saved Arlec's life at battle's end. I need men like you by my side. Good men, whose honesty and loyalty I can rely on.\n\n\"What has happened here in this chamber need go no further. You heard something and acted from your heart; I cannot fault you for that. I respect your challenge to fight me on the court, and hope that if the time ever comes when I'm in want of a clansman's justice, you will stand where you are right now and make that same challenge again.\"\n\nDrey continued looking at Mace long after he had finished speaking. Mace's expression did not change, but he brought himself up to his full height and sent a hand out to trail along the wall where the Clansword was mounted on wooden pegs. His eyes were all darkness now; there was nothing of wolf yellow in them.\n\nAfter what seemed like hours, Drey turned to face Effie. Kneeling on one knee, he took both her hands in his. His face was pale, and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. \"Do you think you may have been confused by what you saw, little one? Did you actually see Mace strike Raina in a proper way, like I would strike a man in a fight?\"\n\nEffie's chest was heavy with love and sadness. She had brought this mess upon him, and he had done what was right and proper and absolutely good. Even now he would fight. Even now, on just her say. The thought was almost too much to bear. Either way she harmed him. Lie, and she became a conspirator with Mace Blackhail, leading Drey away from what was right and true. Hold to the truth, and he would end up dead or gone... like Da and Raif.\n\nThat could not happen. Effie knew it in the deepest bit of her insides, yet it didn't stop her from hating herself as she opened her mouth to lie. \"I'm not sure anymore, Drey. Not sure. I thought... but then what Mace said\u2014\"\n\n\"Hush, little one. Hush.\" Drey hugged her to him, wrapping his big arms about her like a cloak. She shook with relief and a dreadful kind of shame. It was as if she had betrayed him.\n\n\"I am glad in my heart this matter is settled,\" Mace Blackhail said, moving out from behind the Chief's Cairn and offering his hand to Drey. \"It is behind us now, and we shall not speak of it again.\"\n\nDrey released his hold on Effie and stood. He stepped toward Mace, and the two clasped forearms without exchanging another word. Their gazes held, and Effie could almost feel Mace Blackhail's will working upon Drey, like when Brog Widdie took white-hot metal from his oven and pulled it into the shape he needed. Mace slapped Drey on the shoulder as they moved apart. \"Get yourself to Laida Moon. Have her take a look at whatever injury you're nursing beneath that breastpiece. I need you well. I heard a rumor that the Dog Lord is set to march on Bannen, and we ride south tomorrow to steal his thunder.\"\n\nMace Blackhail ushered Drey to the door. Effie followed after. As Drey turned his attention to the first of the stairs, Effie felt Mace Blackhail's finger slide across her throat. \"What did I say would happen if you went telling tales?\" His voice was softer than the sound of Drey's boots against the stone.\nTWENTY-SEVEN\n\nDancing on Ice\n\nSKINNED HANDS CLAWED HER. Faces burned by something darker and more terrible than flames pushed against her, openmouthed and pleading. Seared tissue cracked, revealing pale pink flesh beneath. Proud flesh: raised and stippled and full of lifeblood. The first sign of healing.\n\nReach, reach. We must have it... we need it... give us what we need... you must... we have waited too long. Reach!\n\nRed eyes glowed with malice. Lips spread, revealing night smiles. She turned, but there were more at her back. She crumbled their substance in her fists, breaking them down into ash and fire scraps, but for every limb she broke, another dozen rose to haunt her. Glancing into the distance, through the charred and greasy timbers of their arms and legs, she saw the wall of black ice. The ice cave. Suddenly it no longer seemed like a\u2014\n\n\"Wake up! Ash! Wake!\"\n\nHands of flesh and blood pulled at her, tugging her back through so many layers of sleep that she felt like a diver emerging from water.\n\n\"Wake! Please wake.\"\n\nShe opened her eyes. Daylight flooded in like salt water, harsh, stinging, and unwelcome. It had been pitch dark in her dream, she remembered. She always dreamed of night.\n\n\"Angus. She's awake.\"\n\nHands touched her forehead and cheek, warm hands, rough and gentle, not like her foster father's hands at all. A face appeared before her. Raif, she thought, pleased at her ability to find names.\n\n\"It's me. Raif. You're safe. Angus is here. We're three days north of Spire Vanis, in the spruce woods east of the Spill.\"\n\nIt took Ash much time to decipher what he said. She looked into his eyes: What color were they? An inky blue? A shade between midnight and black? After a moment she asked the only question that mattered. \"How long?\"\n\n\"All of last night and most of the morning.\"\n\nFeeling she might be sick, Ash tugged herself free of his hold and twisted her head toward the ground. Half a day! How long will it be before no one can wake me? Aware of Raif's eyes upon her, she straightened her spine. She decided she would not be sick in front of him. After a moment she felt well enough to sit. The action made her hurt in new ways. The third finger on her left hand felt big and sore, tucked away in its splint. Her shoulder ached, and her mouth tasted of saddle leather and horses.\n\n\"Here. Drink this.\"\n\nAsh took the offered waterskin and let some of the icy water run over her face. Raif watched her as she opened her mouth to drink. He knew about the voices. She didn't know how it was possible, but he knew.\n\n\"I felt you... go last night, just before we made camp. We tried to wake you, but you were far away. Angus thought it better to let you sleep.\"\n\n\"He bound my mouth?\"\n\nRaif nodded. \"And your hands.\" They both looked away.\n\nAsh scanned the surrounding territory. Camp had been made on a hillside above a wooded valley. Great columns of black spruce, weighed down by ton upon ton of new snow, rose up like a city around them. To the south the blue giants that were the Southern Ranges floated above the horizon, shimmering with ice. Overhead the sky was thick with snow clouds, and it was impossible to tell where the sun lay. Ash shivered. She had no memory of coming here.\n\nAs she turned back to face Raif, she heard hounds howling and barking in the distance. Following the sound with her eyes, she looked down across the valley and into the deepest depths of the spruces, whose needles shone black as night.\n\n\"I think we'd better be on our way.\" Angus strode into her line of vision, his big red-stubbled face as calm as if he had heard sparrows singing, not hounds. \"Ash.\" He held out a gloved hand for her to take. Ash grasped it, and he pulled her off the ground as effortlessly as if she were made of twigs. \"Raif. Saddle the horses. I'll see to the remains of the camp.\"\n\n\"What should I do?\" Ash forced a calmness into her voice that she did not feel. She didn't like appearing weak before Angus.\n\n\"Fill the skins with snow.\" Angus fished inside his buckskin coat and took out a package wrapped in linen. \"Take this and eat every scrap of it, even the fat around the eggs. I know you don't feel much like it, but you must force yourself. You haven't eaten in over a day.\"\n\nUnable to think of a reply, Ash nodded. In a strange way Angus' vigilance reminded her of Penthero Iss; they both wanted to feed and watch over her.\n\nThe past three days had been a new kind of nightmare for Ash. Her life had changed absolutely and forever the moment she had stepped into the shadow of Vaingate. Marafice Eye had conjured himself up from a pile of beggar's rags. Two charcoal burners attending a brazier had peeled red blades from their sides like strips of skin. An old drunk lying in the snow had shaken off his years and infirmities like a leper touched by the gods, and one guard standing alone in the gate tower had suddenly turned into three. Ash had seen it as a kind of magic, the sort used by street corner magicians, all misdirection, mirrors, and smoke. She had continued running for the gate anyway. To be that near and not cross to the other side was unthinkable, a failure of the worst kind.\n\nAfter that, madness took her. She remembered only fear and death. When it was over and the man who called himself Angus had asked her to travel with him and his kinsman to Ille Glaive, all that had mattered to Ash was getting through the gate. That was why, in the end, she had agreed to go with them: They were heading her way.\n\nShe had not counted on what had happened next. Somehow, as she'd sunk to her knees in the hard snow outside of Vaingate, she had lost herself to the voices. There had been a moment, just before they claimed her, when she thought she saw her mother's face. It was there and then it was gone. Robbed. She could remember nothing... except a feeling... a feeling that the woman who had abandoned her had cared. Probably nothing but a fancy, and she could never, ever be sure. The voices had seen to that. Perhaps they'd even conjured the image up to fool her. They were desperate and they would do anything to seize her. Forcing their way into her mind, they had dragged her into their world. Raif had pulled her back. He had touched her arm, and as he'd done so knowledge had passed between them. Ash shook her head. It was more than that, almost as if something inside her had reached out toward him\u2014an invisible tentacle probing and binding\u2014yet the idea of that was so distressing, she shied away from it. They were connected now, that she knew. And it was her doing, not his.\n\nAsh frowned as she scooped snow into the horn nozzle of the waterskin. The cry of the hounds was louder now, more insistent. Almost against her will, her gloved hand rose up to the part of her arm Raif had touched.\n\n\"Ash. To the bay.\"\n\nHauling the waterskins over her back, she obeyed Angus and crossed to where Raif held the horses. Raif did not speak as he took the skins from her. He was not like Angus; he never made conversation for the sake of passing time.\n\nMounting the horse wasn't easy for Ash. The quick movement made her head spin, bringing back flashes of the dream. Surely there had been something... some revelation, something she had to remember? As quickly as she thought of it, the idea flitted away.\n\nAs soon as she was settled behind the saddle, Angus came striding over\u2014not running, exactly, but moving more quickly than was his wont. His copper eyes kept flicking to the valley below. Following his gaze, Ash saw a blur of movement gliding across the packed snow. Unconsciously she squeezed the bay with her thighs. The sept had caught up with them at last.\n\nThe Sull tunnel had given them a quarter day's start. Angus had kept them traveling through the night and on into the next day. His knowledge of the roads and ways helped, and the nearer they drew to Ille Glaive, the greater his knowledge became. He could read snow and ice like other men read books. He knew when snow lay over ice, not solid ground, where drifts were deepest, and where pond ice was thinnest and liable to crack. He could spot an animal trail lying beneath two days of snowfall and could tell when a hard frost was coming just by sniffing the wind.\n\nHe always seemed to know when it was time to move on. Ash had sat behind on the bay and felt as his shoulders stiffened for no reason that she could hear or see. Always at such times he'd kick the bay into a canter or send Raif to high ground to check the trail.\n\nAngus knew lots of things for a man who claimed to be a humble ranger. Ash was sure he knew who she was. He never asked what she had done to warrant being chased and tormented by Marafice Eye. Nor did he show any curiosity about her second name, her position in the city, or her life before she had met him. It wasn't politeness that halted his tongue, rather a desire that nothing be said until they reached Ille Glaive. Ash went along with this because it suited her. The longer she could put off telling either of these two men anything about herself, the better.\n\nAngus Lok was no fool. It might suit him to play one now and then, but that wasn't who he was.\n\n\"Northwest through the trees, Raif. Then hard along the stream.\" Angus gave the bay its head, and they took off after Raif at full gallop.\n\nAsh held on tightly as the bay charged through the spruces. Behind her she could hear the high, excited braying of the hounds. A horn blared, brash and triumphant, growing louder and louder as seconds passed. The hair on Ash's neck prickled. Was Marafice Eye one of the seven?\n\n\"Hounds are a quarter league ahead of the sept,\" Angus said, perhaps speaking to calm her. \"And likely they've been traveling through the night.\"\n\nAsh struggled for his meaning. \"So their horses will be tired?\"\n\n\"Aye. Unless they've been given false strength.\"\n\n\"Like the ghostmeal?\"\n\n\"As close as damnation would have it.\" Angus kicked the bay up a bank. White breath pumped from the gelding's nostrils in thick bursts. Raif had already gained the stream and was now waiting for them to catch up. \"Damn the lad,\" hissed Angus under his breath. \"He gets that from his brother\u2014infernal waiting.\"\n\nAsh watched as Raif turned the gray, a strange tightness pulling at her chest. She hadn't known Raif had a brother, hadn't thought of him as having any family other than Angus. For some reason she had thought he was an orphan... like her.\n\nRaif reached over Moose's dock and slid his bow from its soft leather case. With practiced movements he strung and braced the bow, rolling the twine between his fingers as he tied a series of knots. His face was gray with shadows, his eyes focused on the road below. Can he see the sept from where he's sitting? Ash wondered. The thought turned her cold.\n\nShe had seen what he could do with a bow. That day at Vaingate, while Marafice Eye and the others had watched his arrows, Ash had watched his face. Even through the grating she had seen the hunter's glint in his eyes, recognized death as a presence behind them. Even now, days later, the memory chilled her like cold breath upon her spine.\n\n\"No!\" Angus screamed. \"No arrows. Not at the men.\"\n\nRaif, who had taken an arrow from his case and was in the process of raising it to his bow, halted in midnocking. Ash frowned. She had thought he had no arrows left. Where had they come from? As the bay drew nearer she saw the arrow was crudely shaped, whittled from pine, not hardwood, fletched with horsehair and tipped with flint. He had made it himself. But when? Ash answered her own question: while she had slept through the night.\n\n\"Do not target the men. Any of them. Understand?\" Angus' voice was harsh as he flanked Moose. \"One of them is a magic user\u2014we have no way of knowing which. Sight his heart and you give him a weapon to kill you.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"No, Raif. Do not question me on this. There's no time to explain. When the dogs get close, shoot at them if you must. For now, though, put the arrow away. Distance is our best protection.\" With that Angus kicked on ahead, leaving Raif to the ridge top and the stream. Moments later Ash heard Moose gaining speed behind them. She breathed a sigh of relief.\n\nBelow the ridge, the spruces rippled like things made out of water, not wood. Ash tried to spot the sept, but every tree and bush moving in the wind looked like a horseman. Ahead, the ground began to level off. The stream slowed, and cords of ice smoke rose from its partially frozen surface. The impact of the bay's hooves along the bank was enough to crack shore ice as they passed. Ash's heart beat fast in her chest. There was a fierceness in her, and she wanted to ride and ride and never stop.\n\nShe still couldn't believe she was free. Sixteen years she had lived in Spire Vanis. Sixteen years of being watched, cosseted, and confined. All she knew was within the city; all her dreams had ended five paces south of Vaingate. When she was younger, Penthero Iss had taken pains to teach her about the world in which they lived. He had brought her books, beautiful fantastic books, painstakingly written in High Hand, illustrated by master engravers, and colored by oathbound scribes. Ash had seen the tall spiraling form of the Cloistress Tower at Owl's Reach, surrounded by its ring of petrified trees; she'd studied the ruins at Morning Star, the giant steps that led nowhere, and the runners of silver ivy that climbed them year by year; she'd gazed upon the vast stonefields of Trance Vor, the iron cairns sunk deep into the soil of Hanging Valley, the Towerlode at Linn, the sheer cliffs that rose around Raven Head, and the golden walls of Ille Glaive with their windows shaped like tears. She had seen the world from those books, yet she had never once dreamed she'd be part of it.\n\nSpire Vanis was her home. Mask Fortress was her home. Now she was riding around a lake she had only read of in books, on her way to a city she knew only through lines of ink. She supposed it felt like freedom, if freedom was a fall into the unknown.\n\n\"Cross the stream!\" Angus called. Raif was ahead of them again, leading Moose along the bank with a tight rein. On Angus' word, he descended the shallow slope to the water's edge.\n\nThe stream was frozen along its banks, yet green water still ran at its center, frothing over unseen rocks. Ash feared for Moose. She saw his hooves break rotten ice, watched his momentary hesitation as he fought his natural instinct to back away. Raif stroked his neck, spoke soft words that Ash couldn't hear. Slowly Moose moved forward through the shore ice into the center of the stream.\n\nThe bay, who as far as Ash could tell had a name that Angus preferred no one to know, knew no such fear. It was almost as if he had been ice trained, for he seemed to test the ice before he broke it. When they came to a small runoff pool where the water was mostly undisturbed by the stream's current, the bay made no attempt to break the ice at all: He simply knew it was thick enough to take the combined weight of himself and his riders. Angus said nothing during the process, but Ash could tell he was proud of his horse as he scratched the bay's neck and shoulders continually.\n\nAs they scrambled out of the ice on the far side of the stream, the lead hound broke from the trees. Snapping and snarling, it made for the bank, its orange-and-black body humped with ribs, its docked tail quivering like a second snout. A second emerged a moment later, then another. Suddenly the sound of their calls was unbearable. The pitch changed, growing higher and more frenzied. They had the quarry in their sights.\n\nAngus turned the bay in the last of the ice. Freezing water splashed as high as Ash's face. The bay's tail whipped against her thighs.\n\n\"Carry on along the bank!\" called Angus to Raif. \"They'll cross long that way. If we're lucky, we'll lose some to the water.\"\n\nAsh didn't understand what he meant, but Raif did and he turned Moose quickly, staying as close to the stream as he could. With Moose's hooves barely a pace above the shore ice, horse and rider broke into a gallop. Angus followed suit, the bay keeping perfect pace.\n\nAsh risked glancing back, then wished she hadn't. Half a dozen dogs swarmed like wasps on the far bank. Yellow teeth glinted in ice-reflected light. Pink-and-black gums wet with saliva reminded her of scorched flesh.\n\nAs Moose and the bay picked up speed, the dogs began to shadow them along the bank. Soon Ash didn't need to turn her head to see the dogs, as they pulled level with Moose within a matter of seconds. Only the stream separated them now. Then, as Ash looked, the first of the dogs scrambled onto the shore ice. Ash dug her fingernails into Angus' buckskin coat to stop herself from crying out. The dog skidded over the ice effortlessly, its weight not great enough to break the surface. Others followed, howling and shaking their heads like things possessed.\n\nOnly when they entered the water did Ash begin to understand what Angus had meant by \"crossing long.\" The dogs, seeing how their quarry was racing ahead of them while they splashed in the water, actually began swimming upstream, rather than take the shortest route across. If Angus had simply ridden away from the stream and out of the dogs' sights, the dogs would have crossed in a straight line. This way he tormented them into trying to keep pace.\n\nNot all the dogs were fooled, and some began to swim through the froth toward the far bank. Seeing their sleek wet heads bobbing toward the shore ice, Raif reined in Moose. \"Keep going!\" he shouted to Angus as he kicked Moose onto the rise above the bank. Already he had one of the pine arrows in his hand.\n\nAsh felt Angus' body stiffen. He drew breath to speak yet stopped himself at the last moment, perhaps deciding it was better not to repeat his earlier warning. Despite Raif's cry, he pulled on the bay's reins, slowing the gelding to a trot. \"How many dogs?\"\n\nIt took Ash a moment to realize Angus was speaking to her. She glanced over her shoulder at the stream. One dog had already reached the far shore and was shaking its body viciously, spraying a fine mist of water droplets into the air. Another two dogs were skating over the shore ice toward the bank. A fourth was trying to scramble onto the ice from the water but was obviously tired, as the current kept tugging it back. A fifth dog was still in the free-flowing water at the center of the stream, paddling furiously. The sixth had fallen back. Ash watched as its small head went under, saw panic in its amber eyes as it emerged once more from the froth.\n\nThuc.\n\nGlancing in the direction of the soft, knuckle-snapping sound, Ash saw Raif sitting high in his saddle, his left arm absorbing the shock of the recoiling bow, his eyes focused on the bank below. The first dog was dead. Ash pressed her hand against her mouth, holding her breath. It was a terrible thing... terrible... to be able to kill another being so surely.\n\n\"Five dogs,\" she heard her voice say. Even as she spoke, Raif's second arrow found another heart.\n\nAs the third dog tore toward Raif, the spruces on the far bank came alive with noise and movement. Branches thrashed air, snow spewed upward in a glittering arc. Seven silhouettes came into view. Swift moving, dark as beasts that hunted by night, they rode in a close V formation with only the space of a child's hand between them. The Rive Watch. Ash had seen them ride that way before, watching them from the high windows of the Cask as they drove a wedge into an armed and angry mob. A man had been hung, a popular rogue and ladies' man, and the people of Spire Vanis had taken offense at his death. Not the fact of his death, rather the manner of it, for Penthero Iss had ordered his handsome face cut off and then stitched on backward. Ash swallowed hard. Sometimes her foster father did things like that just to see what such horrors would look like.\n\nThe riot had been quelled within an hour. Marafice Eye had spearheaded the first sept. Just the rumor of his presence had been enough to take the fight from the crowd. No one in the city, not even Penthero Iss, was stupid enough not to fear the Knife.\n\n\"No, Raif!\" Angus screamed at the top of his voice. \"No more shooting!\" He spun the bay, depriving Ash of her view of the sept.\n\nAsh lost sense of what was happening as she was forced to hang on to Angus as they crashed through shore ice and frozen reeds toward Raif. Suddenly a dog exploded from nowhere. Ash felt air pump against her thigh, then the dog's muzzle sprang open, ripping hair and skin from the bay's rump. The horse screamed and bucked. Angus bunched the reins in his fist. \"Take the knife from my belt.\"\n\nAsh did as she was told. The dog danced around the bay's rear hooves, then launched itself once more at its rump. Ash's only thought was for the bay. Already she could see two holes full of blood where the dog's canines had bit deepest. Anger made her lash out violently, uselessly, at the dog's snout. Angus whipped the bay's head back, making the horse wheel so quickly, the dog was left snapping at air. Ash cursed her own uselessness.\n\n\"Wait until its snout touches horseflesh.\" Angus' voice was low, almost threatening. His teeth were clenched.\n\nAsh readjusted her grip on the knife. The hilt was carved from rootwood, but some unseen metal at the center made it heavy in the hand. As she waited for the dog to attack, she risked glancing back across the stream. The sept was clear of the trees now. The lead rider shouted an order, and the V bore down upon the stream. The leader was huge, dressed in the black and the red of the Watch, with the Killhound sewn above his heart and a black iron bird helm forming a cage around his face. Ash looked into the shadows behind the helm, and slowly, so slowly, her belly shrank to the size of a fist. Marafice Eye rode at the head of the sept.\n\nSomething dark streaked below her. A muzzle packed with teeth came straight for her thigh. Ash shifted back in horror. Small orange eyes closed in self-protection as the dog sank its fangs into her thigh. Shock and pain tore through her like a jolt from a lance. Hot tears filled her eyes. Rage drove the knife. She hardly knew what she was doing, hardly bothered to place the blow, yet she drove the blade in with all the force she possessed. Bone split with a wet crack. The dog's eyes opened, and its jaws sprang apart. As the creature fell away from her body, Ash yanked the knife back. She wasn't about to lose her blade to a dead dog.\n\n\"I said horseflesh. Not girlflesh.\" Angus seemed angry. He drove the bay up the slope in silence, making his way toward Raif. Ash held her hand to her thigh and pressed. She was angry herself. She had expected Angus to praise her.\n\nRaif waited for them at the top of the hill. He had stowed his bow and now had a short double-edged sword in his hand. Two dogs lay butchered by Moose's hocks. Both Moose and Raif were scratched and bloody. Raif was breathing heavily, and his face was all angles and grayness. It takes something from him, she thought with cold certainty. Killing the things he does, the way he does, hurts him in some way.\n\nCatching a glimpse of something dark and sparkling over his shoulder, Ash strained to see more. The Black Spill stretched out in the valley below them like a beast under glass. Ledges of ice crusted the shoreline, supporting great frozen piers that extended toward the heart of the lake and the black steaming water that ran there. A haze of mist floating above the surface mirrored each curve and break of the shore, forming a ghost lake above the Spill.\n\nAsh breathed softly, letting her hand relax against her thigh. The eastern shore of the Black Spill, where the Maker of Souls had shown himself to the Condemned Man, Rob Ruce, who went on to take Ille Glaive; where the Red Priest had washed his hands of the blood of the Five Sisters, who saw visions and spoke in Old Tongue; where Samrel of Spire Vanis had met to exchange hostages with the Clan King Hoggie Dhoone; and where Sorissina of the Elms had drowned beneath the ice as she followed her lover's calls into the mist Ash sat, transfixed for the briefest moment, and watched the play of light and shadow on the surface of the lake. She had always felt a kinship for Sorissina of the Elms: She had been a foundling, too.\n\n\"Cut the saddlebags.\"\n\nAsh was brought back to the present by the sound of Angus' voice. Before she could decide whether or not he was speaking to her, he jumped down from the horse. His boots crunched snow as he moved to inspect the wounds on the bay's rump: \"I said cut the saddlebags.\"\n\nAsh exchanged a glance with Raif.\n\n\"Both of you. Hurry. Ash. Move forward into the saddle.\" Angus opened the saddlebag on his near side and took out a handful of small hide-bound packages, then slipped them beneath his tunic. He moved quickly, continually looking over his shoulder to check the progress of the sept.\n\nMarafice Eye was clearly visible now, his gloved hands like twin ravens at a kill as he reined in his stallion for the descent to the stream. As Ash sawed at the pannier harness to release the bags, she noticed that one man in the sept had broken formation and was now straggling behind. Although he wore a black cloak like the others, he held no weapon and obviously needed both hands for his horse. As his cloak tails caught the wind and ripped behind him, the white colors of a cleric or anchorite were revealed at his chest. Ash felt a small thrill of remembrance. She had seen the man before. She recognized his pale skin and the sharp set of his shoulders. He was one of Penthero Iss' creatures, one of those special people whom Caydis Zerbina brought to his chambers after dark.\n\n\"Sarga Veys.\" Angus plucked the name from Ash's tongue, making it sound like one of Marafice Eye's curses. For a moment his copper eyes turned red, as if the metal there had been heated by a burst of flame. \"Raif. Hand me the bow. Now.\"\n\nRaif, who had cut his saddlebags moments earlier, unbuckled the bowcase and quiver and handed them to his uncle. Angus did not take his eyes from the sept as he hooked the quiver to his belt. \"We must part now,\" he said. \"All of us. There are seven of them and three of us, and our only hope is to split them. Raif. You will follow the shoreline north. Fight only if you must. Better to flee and be safe. If you are pursued by many, cross onto the ice. Moose is less laden than the sept's horses and will be more readily borne. Do not venture farther from shore than the length of four horses.\" Angus waited for Raif to nod. \"Good.\" The sound of the small word was nearly drowned out by the noise of Marafice Eye's horse fracturing ice as it entered the stream. Others followed, and the slim body of water became alive with dark, pitching forms driving toward the bank.\n\nAngus ran a finger over the bowstring, warming. \"Ash. You must go directly onto the lake ice. You're the lightest among us\u2014\"\n\n\"No,\" hissed Raif. \"She'll be killed. There's no telling how thick that ice is past the shore\u2014\"\n\n\"Do you not think I know the dangers, Raif Sevrance?\" Angus asked quietly, a muscle pumping in his cheek. \"I know the Spill better than you know the graze around the roundhouse, and the bay knows ice better still. He will lead her safely across.\" Angus turned to Ash. \"You cannot fight, lass. You have only my belt knife as a weapon. The best way I can protect you is to lead you to a safe place. No man can follow you deep onto the ice\u2014the Maker help them if they do. The frost smoke will shield you from arrows. You must trust the bay. Old Blood runs in his heart. He will deliver you from harm. I would not let him take you if I did not believe this wholly.\"\n\nAsh looked into Angus' eyes. He was shaking slightly; the force of his words still upon him. She believed what he said absolutely. She had seen for herself the bay's knowledge of ice as they crossed the stream, and if Angus had wanted to kill her, he could have done so a dozen times before now. No. He wanted her alive and safe... the truth of that was in his eyes. But why? What made him shake? What emotion was he controlling within himself when he spoke? Did he fear her? Thrusting that thought aside, she glanced across the lake. The Black Spill. It never froze completely, not even in deepest winter. Sorissina of the Elms had taken that truth with her to her death.\n\nLeft outside Vaingate to die. The words came to Ash, as they always did, as a kind of prayer. They were her life, those words. They made her who she was.\n\nShe took the reins.\n\nAngus breathed heavily, showing no sign of relief. His eyes flicked to the stream. Marafice Eye's spurs claimed horseflesh as he forced the beast through the last of the ice. His small mouth was clearly visible now, pale and twisted like butcher's string around a roast.\n\n\"Go! Both of you.\" Angus smacked Moose's rump as he spoke. \"Raif. Watch Ash as far as you can, but do not follow where the bay leads. Moose is a good horse, but he's no skater. Don't test him. Ten leagues north of here, where the lake bends inward like a quarter moon, you'll find a grove of white oaks above the shore. If I don't find you before then, I'll meet you there after dark.\"\n\nRaif nodded. He did not look pleased. Ash could tell he wasn't happy about leaving her to ride on the ice. Their gazes met, and Ash watched as he raised his hand to his throat and touched the piece of horn that hung there. Unsettled, but not sure why, she looked away.\n\nAngus had hold of the bay's bridle. \"Tharra dan mis,\" he murmured. Then quickly to Ash: \"Trust him. He'll lead you a fine dance. When all is quiet I'll call you back.\"\n\nAsh jerked her head in something she hoped was close to a nod. She could not speak. She wanted to ask him what he would do on foot, but there were only seconds left between them, and she feared to detain him with thoughtless speech. Sliding her feet into the stirrups, she took control of the horse.\n\n\"Go,\" he said. \"Hold your mind in the now.\"\n\nAsh turned the bay and let the gelding find his own way down the slope. Already she could hear the whip of leather and horse tails as the sept sloughed off water from the stream and re-formed themselves into a V. When she glanced over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Angus running down the slope away from her, making for the cover of a dense island of spruces.\n\n\"Maker save him,\" she whispered, suddenly wishing she had spoken up after all. She should have told him to keep himself safe, asked him the true name of the bay, found out why he'd taken the bow from Raif the moment he'd spied Sarga Veys.\n\n\"There she is! On the bay! Shoot the horse from under her!\"\n\nAll thoughts were expelled from Ash's mind at the sound of Marafice Eye's voice. She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Her child's terror of him bubbled up from the past. Clutching at the reins, she kicked the bay hard\u2014harder than she knew she should. A salvo of orders followed her down the slope. Marafice Eye was screaming at the top of his voice. \"Thray, Stagro, with me. Malharic, Hood, after the clansman. Crosshead, to the trees. Stagro, flank Veys.\" He wanted her to hear him. He knew the quality of her fear.\n\nThe bay cantered down the slope toward the hard-froze mud that formed the lakeshore. An arrow shot past his hocks, a second sailed wide of his head. Ash ground her teeth together. The world around her was a blur of trees and harsh, ice-reflected light. Which way had Raif gone? North? She looked that way but could not spot him. The clansman, she had heard Marafice Eye call him. Some small part of her had known that all along, recognizing the rough, almost barbaric manner of his dress from descriptions she'd read in books. Yet he'd never once mentioned his clan.\n\nThe bay slowed his pace as he hit the lake ice. Tugging his head forward, he demanded more rein. It was against all Ash's instincts as a rider to allow him the freedom to choose his own path in such a place. Trust him, Angus had said. Ash frowned, slid her hands a small way down the reins. She was just beginning to realize how hard such a thing would be.\n\nThe bay's iron-shod hooves made the shore-fast ice ring like a bell. The water was frozen solid, offering no give, and Ash was jolted around in the saddle as they entered the wall of mist. The temperature dropped immediately, making her cheeks smart as if burned. The light changed texture, and suddenly there were no shadows or highlights\u2014no structure for judging distance or depth. Frightened, Ash looked down. The surface of the lake shone beneath her: wind scratched, snow encrusted, the color of diamonds and salt.\n\n\"Follow me! Don't lose her!\" Marafice Eye's voice carried perfectly through the mist. Seconds later the lake ice began to vibrate as other horses gained the shore. Ash heard Marafice Eye spit a curse at the mist. Softly he said, \"Do your business, Halfman. She must not be lost.\"\n\nAsh shivered. The mist surrounding her was as ragged as rotten linen. Could Marafice Eye see her? She didn't want to risk looking back.\n\nThe bay's huge liquid eyes were fixed upon the ice, his entire being bent upon the path ahead. Ash could feel the blood humming along his spine, see the rigid set of the muscles in his withers and neck. Abruptly he changed his course. Straightaway his hooves began to make a flatter tone when they hit the ice, and Ash caught his ears twitching accordingly. He's listening, she thought. The revelation filled her with wonder. Where had such a creature come from?\n\nBehind her she was aware of other horses slowing. They were close now. Even the sound of their breaths carried.\n\nAsh gave the bay more rein, squeezed his ribs with her thighs. She thought she smelled something familiar, like copper or the stench of lightning during a storm. The sensation passed as the bay altered his course once more, turning into the wind. They were very far out on the ice now. Ash looked ahead into the peaks and plains of frost smoke. Was this what Sorissina of the Elms had seen before she died? This world of white, captured light?\n\nSomething prickled the back of Ash's neck, like an insect's touch or a fingernail scored down her spine. Fear came alive in her chest. Everything was quiet. When did I last hear the sept's horses? She found she could not remember. She didn't want to turn and look behind her. Didn't want to see what was there.\n\n\"Stop where you are, Asarhia March,\" came a voice from close behind. \"Or we'll shoot the horse.\"\n\nAsh looked back. Four men rode on the ice thirty paces behind her. Marafice Eye, Sarga Veys, a watch brother with a thin face and a nose made ugly by scar tissue, and a fourth man farther behind. Thin Face had a cranked and loaded crossbow resting in the crook of his arm. Marafice Eye was hunched low on his horse, his arms drawn close to his body, his gloved hands knotted at the reins. Beneath the wire of his bird helm, his eyes glinted like lenses of ice. Sarga Veys rode in the middle, his pale and unprotected head rising from the leather plumage of the Rive Watch cloak like something already dead. He was breathing hard, and a film of gray sweat shone on his nose and brow.\n\nThen it struck her. There was no mist between them. She shouldn't be able to see them at all; the mist was too thick for that. Ahead she could barely see five paces, yet behind her a tunnel of clear air had been created.\n\nShe swallowed hard. It was an aberration, wrong in every way, like water running upstream or the sun coming out at midnight. The mist had been held back, molded, forced to do the bidding of one man. It made Ash's flesh crawl. So this is what sorcery is? Not gaudy tricks and flashing lights; control over nature.\n\nTht. An arrow shot over the heads of the three men. Even as Ash recognized the crude shape of the shaft and the horsehair fletchings at its tail, she kicked the bay into a gallop. Angus must have fired high because he couldn't be sure where she was and didn't want to risk hurting her. It wasn't much, but it was a distraction. As she lowered her body over the bay's neck, she heard the crisp thuc of the crossbow discharging. The bay was in the process of switching its path, and the crossbolt scraped along his rump, taking hair and skin with it.\n\nAsh pressed her lips together to stop herself from crying out. Horse blood spilled over her boots. Beneath the gelding's hooves, the ice began to creak. Horses charged after them, tracing the bay's path. Marafice Eye shouted an obscenity at Sarga Veys. Ash heard metal rattle as Thin Face cranked the bow for a second shot.\n\nThe bay galloped faster and faster. Looking down, Ash saw where the ice had grown darker as the deep, lightless water began to shine through. Her foster father had once told her that a man could stand on freshwater ice as thin as a hen's egg. But what about a girl on a horse? She could recall no wisdom to cover that.\n\nAsh felt the ice move beneath her. The bay veered keenly to the left. One of his hooves broke the surface with sharp, wet snap. Crack lines began to appear in the ice, running through the bay's legs like fast little ants. Lather foamed along the gelding's neck as he danced across the fracturing plates. Ash felt freezing water spit against her face. Behind her, ice snapped with the force of a felled tree. Someone screamed. A horse squealed, high and terrible like something being slaughtered. Ice pitched and rolled, causing the lake water to swell. The shelf of ice the bay ran across bobbed like a raft in a storm.\n\nAsh risked a glance over her shoulder. Frost smoke spewed from the surface in a shower of blue sparks. Horses and men plunged through the erupting ice field, arms flung outward, eyes wide with terror, fingers clutching air. Marafice Eye's horse plummeted into the lake, its forelegs kicking wildly, its rider clawing at its neck. The last thing she saw before turning her back was a pair of gloved hands struggling for a handhold in the cold black water.\n\nAsh rode across the ice, dancing with the bay.\nTWENTY-EIGHT\n\nStrike upon Bannen\n\nTHE DOG LORD STOOD in silence as his fifth son, Thrago, fastened his armor to him. The plate was thirty years old, bashed in places, its many punctures packed with solder, and its pot-black finish scratched to hell. Vaylo almost smiled to see it. Two stone of case-hardened iron... and it had been with him longer than any friend.\n\n\"Not so tight, Thrago. I'm not a chicken to be trussed for the spit.\"\n\nThrago Bludd looked at his father with eyes that were the exact same shape and color as those of old Gullit Bludd. It gave Vaylo a chill to see them. Gullit Bludd was dead thirty-five years now, yet his likeness was borne by all seven of his grandsons. Sometimes Vaylo thought the Stone Gods had arranged such a thing just to spite him.\n\nHe scowled as Thrago tightened the cinches around his waist. Five winters ago this armor had fitted him perfectly; now it rode over his belly like a loose collection of bowls. Damn the thing to hell! Who'd have thought iron plate could shrink?\n\n\"You should have Croda forge you some new plate,\" Thrago said, putting his back into the task of making the runnels meet. \"Else use the Bludd armor Gullit had made for his\u2014\"\n\n\"No.\" Vaylo's voice was hard. He would not wear that man's armor.\n\nPut the knife here, boy, so that it will enter the upmost chamber of my heart. Vaylo breathed hard at the memory. He could still see his father lying on his bench of old black wood, his face shrunk with disease, his eyes bulging with swollen veins. Do it! For gods' sakes, do it! We both know you've dreamt of little else for the past seventeen years. Now, when I finally hand you the knife, you stand there with your balls shriveled to hailstones and a bastard's fear upon you. What's the matter with you, boy? I thought you had more jaw.\n\nThat was when the knife went in. To this day Vaylo truly didn't know if he thrust the blade or his father moved forward to take it. It hardly mattered. His hands had been on the hilt. His fingers were covered with the red wetness that gushed from the hole. So much blood... pouring over the bench and onto the floor, running between the cracks in the stone. And his father's eyes... triumphant. He had thought himself rid of his bastard son.\n\nVaylo rubbed a hand over his face. It had all gone as smoothly as any epic sung by a hearthsinger. Right on cue Arno and Gormalic had burst into the room. He was still standing there, knife in hand, his father choking on his last breath below him. Vaylo hoped very much that he hadn't seen his father smile then, that the stretching of Gullit Bludd's lips was nothing more than a death rictus or a trick of that bloody light. Of all the things that happened that day in the chief's chamber at Bludd, that was the one thing that haunted him the most. That smile.\n\nArno and Gormalic had come at him with steel bared. Two longswords against a knife made for slicing fruit. Yet Vaylo could honestly say that there was not one instant when he'd thought he might die. He knew his half-brothers well. Arno and Gormalic practiced for two hours every day on the court. Vaylo practiced for four. Arno and Gormalic were filled with the rage of legitimate sons who had just seen their father murdered by a bastard. Vaylo was filled with a bastard's rage. His father had tricked him! Gullit Bludd had been dying for months, his teeth rotting from the bone, his gut shrinking to a loose flap of skin, and his fingers shriveling to bird claws. When he called his bastard son to his chamber, he was as good as dead. He would not have lived out the month. Yet this was Gullit Bludd, son of Thrago HalfBludd, and his pride would not allow him to die alone. He had sought to take his bastard with him.\n\nPut me out of my pain, boy. I cannot bear it. It eats me, how it eats me. Would you see it turn me into a shitting, drooling babe?\n\nGullit had readied the knife himself, Vaylo remembered. He had it waiting beside him on the bench. Blue steel with a hilt of sacred ash. With fingers so pale and wasted they seemed already dead, Gullit Bludd had raised the point to his heart.\n\nVaylo closed his eyes for a moment. It might have happened yesterday, so clear were the memories. By the time that day was over three Bluddsmen lay dead in the chief's chamber, and Vaylo could recount every blow it had taken to send his brothers to the floor.\n\nThey called him the Death Lord later. Legends grew, as legends always did, and suddenly he was no longer a bastard yearman celebrated for stealing the Dhoonestone from Dhoone, he was a killer of men. A usurper. A kinslayer. A chief.\n\nHe had offered no explanations or denials. Even then, thirty-five years ago, he knew it was better to say nothing and let men think what they would think. Who would have believed him, anyway? It was well known he hated his father and his half-brothers. Who would have believed he had killed his father as a mercy, that Gullit Bludd had directed the knife himself and begged his bastard son to thrust it deep to cut the great blue vein?\n\nTouching his fifth son on the shoulder, Vaylo said, \"Enough. I'll see to the helm and gorget myself.\"\n\nThrago nodded. \"I'll ready the horse.\"\n\nVaylo watched as his fifth son climbed the narrow stair that led up from the chief's chamber at Withy. It was a strange place, this Clan Withy roundhouse, built to confound outsiders. It made no sense, what with its maze of tunnels, mine holes, dead ends, secret chambers, and traps. A man could lose himself, turn a wrong corner, and find himself falling through a trapdoor and into a pit floored with spikes. Molo Bean had broken his ankle when a stone flag had given way beneath him, and Pengo had taken a fall and ended up with a spike through his cheek for his trouble. Vaylo thought his second son looked no worse for the spike hole, yet it had certainly darkened his humor.\n\nThey had taken over Clan Withy ten days ago for no other reason than its roundhouse was southwest of Dhoone. Pengo had led the assault, backed by three of his seven brothers and nine hundred hammermen and spearmen. Vaylo almost pitied the Withymen. The anger was upon Clan Bludd, and the proud Withymen, who had lived in Dhoone's shadow for two thousand years, must have thought the Stone Gods had deserted them. Perhaps they had; the Dog Lord claimed no knowledge of such things. He did know that Withy had received the fury meant for another clan.\n\nBlackhail. Vaylo's entire body stiffened at the word. It was Clan Blackhail his four sons had attacked that day, not Withy. It was Mace Blackhail's face they saw in their minds as they smashed every bone in the Withy chief's corpse. It was Raif Sevrance, he who stood at Duff's and proudly admitted slaughtering Bludd women and children, whom they imagined gutting with their three-bladed spears.\n\nPengo, Hanro, Gangaric, and Thrago had killed two hundred Withymen between them that day, and another eleven hundred had died by other hands. Proud Withymen, who wore ringmail over coats stuffed with blue fox fur, and boasted, We are the clan who makes kings.\n\nThe boast was true enough. It was a Withyman who had proclaimed the first Dhoone King and a Withyman who crowned him.\n\nVaylo buckled his gorget to his plate. If Withymen made kings, then it was Blackhail who slew them. Oh, people forgot that now. Five hundred years had passed since Dhoone last had a king, and in that time Blackhail and Dhoone had cozied up like two blind men with sticks. Bludd was the enemy. Godless, ruthless Bludd. Yet it wasn't a Bluddsman who put an arrow in Roddie Dhoone's throat, it was the Hailsman Ayan Blackhail. Vaylo's blue eyes shrank. Roddie Dhoone may have been a mother-spoiled weakling with a cruel streak as deep as the Black Spill, yet an arrow was no way to kill a king. A Bluddsman would not have killed Roddie Dhoone at distance; he would have walked straight up to him and thrust cold steel through his Dhoonish heart.\n\nNo matter, no matter. What does anything matter? Vaylo grabbed his gray braids in his fist and held them down while he fixed his homed helm in place. Other men wound their braids beneath their helmets to help buffer blows, but not the Dog Lord. His braids streamed free in battle. It was a small thing, but such small things made men who they were. And when the battle was joined this night, two thousand Bludd-sworn eyes would be looking toward his braids.\n\nVaylo touched the red leather pouch containing his measure of guidestone before he tucked it beneath his plate. Stone Gods, see my clan through this night.\n\nThe Clan Withy roundhouse was only a tenth the size of Dhoone's, yet its builders were artful and had shown a penchant for building down, not up or outward. The chief's chamber was sunk far below the earth, perhaps even to a depth of a hundred feet. Vaylo could only wonder where the Withy chief had dressed for war, for it hardly seemed likely that he'd willingly climb the hundred and twenty steps to the surface while loaded with two stone of plate.\n\nVaylo climbed and puffed and was careful where he put his feet. Already all thoughts were falling from him. He was the Dog Lord, and he must lead his clan to battle as he had led them a hundred times before. If the Stone Gods showed him grace, then dawn would find him one step closer to taking the Hailhold. If they turned their cold cheeks toward him, then he would strike somewhere else another day.\n\nFor he would have Blackhail. He was the Bludd chief, and a hard life long lived was his reward. Gullit Bludd had died in his sixties, yet Thrago HalfBludd had lived until he was eighty-two and Wolver Bludd before him had seen out ninety-four years in the Bluddhouse. Vaylo expected he would live for another thirty years himself... and by his reckoning that was more than enough time to send Mace Blackhail to hell.\n\n\"Vaylo. The Bludd host waits upon your word.\"\n\nIt was Cluff Drybannock, crossing over from the boatsize piece of white oak that formed the Withy door. Drybone was dressed in armor only marginally less battered and worn than his chief's. A hand-down from Ockish Bull, who had been dead these past five years and who had stood second to every oath Drybone had ever spoken. Oil lamps flickering in the perfect circle of the entrance hall showed the hard bones in Drybone's cheeks and the brilliant blueness of his eyes.\n\nA young scrap of a boy came running over with Vaylo's war hammer, the metal all shiny and near dripping with oil. Vaylo didn't have the heart to tell him that he had not wanted it cleaned, that he liked it good and worn to match his armor, his sword, and his horse. \"Strap it on me,\" he commanded the boy, who might have been Strom Carvo's son.\n\nIt was an honor, and the boy's hands shook as he laid the great spiked and lead-weighted hammer in its cradle of soft suede and fastened the steel chains about it. As always when the hammer was laid against his back, Vaylo felt the first stirrings of battle fear. So many battles, so many melees, yet in all this time he still hadn't found a way to calm the turmoil in his stomach and the hammering of his heart.\n\nThrago had the Dog Horse standing ready as promised, and as Vaylo and Cluff Drybannock passed under the oak door and emerged into the late afternoon light, he trotted the old black stallion forward. Vaylo stood on the steps a moment and looked out upon the sea of red that was his men. Pengo was there, on his great gray warhorse, his hammer as big as his head. Gangaric, Vaylo's third son, stood at the fore, dressed in new-forged plate, a troop of Clan HalfBludd axmen surrounding him. Vaylo recognized men from Clan Otler, with their maroon-colored battle cloaks and cleanshaven faces, and men from Clan Frees with copper wire braided into their hair, and the bones of their ancestors forming bosses on their shields. Even little Clan Broddic had sent sixty men, who sat high upon their snowy horses, resplendent in oxblood leathers and hound-skull helms. All the Bludd-sworn clans had sent men, even cursed Clan Gray who could ill afford them, and that meant something to the Dog Lord. No matter that of the two thousand horsed upon the Withy greatcourt, fifteen hundred were Bluddsmen. No matter at all.\n\nTies of blood and battles bound Bludd to HalfBludd, Frees, Otler, Broddic, and Gray. Dhoone had more clans sworn to it than Bludd, but ties didn't run as deep in the middle of the clanholds as they did in its farthest reaches. All clans here today knew what it was to defend themselves against the Mountain Cities, against Trance Vor and Morning Star... and against the cold quick arrows of the Sull.\n\nVaylo took a hard breath as he descended the steps. He would not think about the Sull... not here, not now.\n\nUsing the bottom step as a platform, Vaylo mounted his horse. The beast was lively today and fought the reins the moment he pulled them. Vaylo fought back, and the Dog Horse screamed and reared and other horses shied away to give it space. Vaylo was not displeased. Drawing his greatsword from the hound's-tail scabbard at his side, he looked upon the faces of his men and roared, \"South to Bannen!\"\n\nThe howls of two thousand warriors followed him as he rode to the head of the line.\n\nThe Dog Lord set a hard pace. The day was cold and clear, and the wind was changing, and there'd be a halfmoon rising soon enough. The territory north of Withy was wooded with elms and white oaks, with many groves cleared to provide forage for wild boars. The grazing land and wheat fields lay to the north. To the northeast, the dull brownish waters of the Easterly Flow could be seen, as they bowcurved north toward Dhoone. Southwest, toward Bannen, lay a landscape of gentle rolling lowlands seeded with white heather, thistlegrass, and oats.\n\nVaylo pulled great quantities of air through his lungs as he rode, savoring the coldness of the day and the ice upon the wind. The snow underfoot had a crust to it that snapped with a pleasing sound as the Dog Horse claimed ground beneath him. At his back, Vaylo heard the thunder of his men, and the noise made the bloodlust rise within him.\n\nBannen. They had once sworn oaths to Blackhail, had fought beside the Hail chief at the battle of Mare's Rock, yet that almost wasn't important. It was where they lay that counted. The Banhold pushed far into Blackhail's southern reach. Take it, and Bludd would have a base for attacking the Hail Wolf himself. Vaylo had thought long on this and knew that an attack upon Blackhail would be better coming from the south, not the east. Gnash could not be bested; the Gnashhold was crammed with Dhoonesmen and its roundhouse was as good as a fort. Bannen, though... Bannen was something else. Bannen could be taken. Blackhail and Dhoone would be expecting the Dog Lord to strike west, take Gnash or Dregg. They would not think he would move south instead. Bannen herself would not be expecting an attack; her doors would not be barred, her livestock would be afield, and the foot-thick layer of sod that lay over her roundhouse could be doused and set alight.\n\nVaylo arched low in the saddle, letting the wind stream his braids behind him. Once he had Bannen, he could begin taking Blackhail's sworn clans. Scarpe first. The Hail Wolf's birthclan. No one would weep to see them taken. Dregg next, though the Dreggsmen were hard-bred warriors and Vaylo knew they would give him a fight. Orrl last. Vaylo had respect for Orrl; like Bludd, they knew what it was like to live on the far edge.\n\n\"Do you mean to outrun your army, Bludd chief?\"\n\nVaylo looked around to see Drybone pulling alongside him on his gray. In the fading light he looked little like a clansman, and Vaylo found himself wondering why his Trenchland mother had sent him away. Surely he would have fit in well enough in Hell's Town?\n\nThe Dog Lord managed a grim smile. \"What's the matter, Dry, frightened I'll get to Bannen ahead of you?\"\n\nDrybone shook his head. \"Just worried about an ambush, that's all.\"\n\n\"Cautious as ever.\"\n\n\"Tell me you haven't thought of it yourself.\"\n\nVaylo could not. There was always chance of an ambush. \"Open ground between here and Bannen. We'll be there before the moon peaks.\"\n\n\"We're close to Gnash, Scarpe, Dregg... even Ganmiddich. The middle clans are all pressed close.\"\n\nWith a small pull on the reins, Vaylo slowed his horse. He knew better than to trade words with Cluff Drybannock. It was close to dark now, the sun sinking in a red sky. The dying wind smelled of cold things from the north, of frozen lakes and ice fields and glaciers. Vaylo tasted old memories in his mouth, and the old desires rose with them. Looking into the blackness beyond the setting sun, he said, \"Sometimes I wish I could just ride away, Dry. Head north and never come back.\"\n\n\"Join the Maimed Men?\"\n\nVaylo laughed. \"It wouldn't be the worst thing. I swear I thought of it a thousand times when I was a boy. To have the badlands and the entire Want as my ranging ground, to ride with storms against my back and the Gods Lights in my face and a hard frost beneath me.\"\n\n\"And to lose two ears, three fingers, and a nose to the 'bite?\"\n\nIt was true enough. The Maimed Men were an unhoused, unnamed clan who wandered the farthest reaches of the badlands. It was said that no man or woman among them was whole, that all had lost limbs or appendages to the frost. It was also said that the Maimed Men had come into being the year Morrow was wiped out by Dhoone and that many who rode their ranks could trace their ancestry back to the Lost Clan. Vaylo didn't know the truth of it. As a child he had started north to join them a dozen times. He was a bastard, and his father wished he had never been born, and everyone knew the Maimed Men accepted traitors, exiles, and bastards.\n\nSuddenly sober, Vaylo said, \"We'll ride at trot to Bannen.\"\n\nTwo thousand men slowed to Drybone's shouted order. Drybone himself moved back into the ranks; he was seldom comfortable riding at the head of a line.\n\nVaylo rode south and then west as the terrain demanded. The moon rose, half of it, and silver light ran upon the snow. Vaylo kept his mind in the now as he rode, determined not to think of another night similar to this one, of another ride upon the white.\n\nThe northeastern border of the Banhold was formed by a giant stand of black spruce, each tree as tall as thirty men. There were streams to be forded and ancient glacier tracks to circumvent and pale stone ruins where the horses feared to tread. As they neared the trap rock cliffs that protected the Banhouse, Vaylo sent six men forward as scouts.\n\nOnly one came back.\n\nThe man, a little red-haired bowman from Broddic, had taken a quarrel to the meat of his upper arm\u2014clean through the stewed-leather munnion he was wearing. Vaylo called a halt, and all his sons and warlords and the warlords of his sworn clans gathered in a great circle around the bowman.\n\n\"They know we're coming,\" said the bowman, still atop his horse. \"And there's more than just Bannen.\"\n\n\"Cawdo!\" shouted the Dog Lord to the Bludd healer who was far back in the ranks. \"Come forward and see to this man.\" Then to the bowman. \"Who else is present, and in what numbers?\"\n\nThe bowman swallowed. His face was ghastly pale. \"I saw Dhoonesmen... I'm not sure of their numbers. They were waiting below the cliff, quiet as the dead. What I saw had spears.\" He grimaced as the healer bade him slide from the horse. \"A Blackhail bowman\u2014\"\n\n\"Blackhail?\" The words fell like ice from the Dog Lord's mouth. A ripple of quiet, made up of held breaths and unmoving limbs, spread through the company of two thousand men. Suddenly it did not matter how the ambush had come into being, who among the Bludd-sworn clans had given word to Bannen. It mattered only that Hailsmen stood in the valley below.\n\nCawdo Salt pressed hard fingers into the bowman's arm as he snapped the arrow shaft near the base. Wood broke with a sickening crack. The bowman swooned, but Cawdo held him firm. Vaylo could not take his eyes off the man's blood, black and shiny in the moonlight.\n\n\"How many Hailsmen did you see?\" he heard himself ask.\n\n\"Not many. Less than two hundred. Mostly it's Bannen and Dhoone.\"\n\nCawdo held a flask to the man's lips and bade him drink.\n\nPushing away the flask, the bowman said, \"They've taken the best positions at the neck of the valley, along the rise, behind the Banhouse. All high ground except the cliff is theirs. We'd have to ride through the bottleneck of the valley to reach them.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord nodded. \"Drink, man,\" he murmured. Cawdo Salt had a silver-bladed knife in his hand, and Vaylo knew the healer was readying himself to cut out the arrowhead.\n\n\"We must turn back,\" Drybone said in a strange voice. \"We don't know their numbers. They're well entrenched in their positions, they know the ground, and they haven't just come off a five-hour ride.\"\n\n\"We strike now, bastard,\" Pengo Bludd hissed. \"There's Hailsmen in that valley, and I for one don't care whether they hold all the ground between here and the Night Sea. I'd ride through wildfires and ice storms just to place my hammer into a single Hailish skull.\"\n\nNot one muscle in Cluff Drybannock's face changed as Pengo spoke, yet Vaylo saw the anger in his eyes. He was probably the only one among two thousand who did.\n\n\"We can split up,\" Thrago said, his hammerman's chains rustling as he kicked his mount forward. \"Take the cliff from two sides. Have the Broddic archers cover us as we go down.\"\n\nPengo was quick to nod, one of his black braids falling loose from his helmet as he did so. \"And we can send a troop of spearmen wide to attack the rear.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" agreed the HalfBludd warlord, \"and post another west to flank them.\"\n\n\"And hold two hundred pikesmen in reserve\u2014\n\n\"Enough!\" roared the Dog Lord. \"We will not split ourselves a dozen times over, like a leg of pork carved at table. We are Bludd and Bludd-sworn, and we are the Stone Gods' chosen, and we will not ride like cravens to this or any other fight. Pengo. You will take a hundred men only and ride wide. Take up position a league south of the Banhouse, ready to cover a retreat if needed.\"\n\nPengo glowered. \"You said we would not ride like cravens. Yet you talk of retreat in the same breath.\"\n\n\"It's one thing to act bravely, another thing entirely to act like a fool. There is danger here. As Cluff Drybannock said, there is much unknown to us. I will not lead men into this battle without being sure I have a.way out.\" As he spoke, Vaylo was aware of Drybone, sitting his horse at the far edge of the circle, watching him with Sull-blue eyes. I know you are right, Dry, he wanted to say. This is not a wise thing to do, but sometimes we must do things out of rage, not wisdom. If you were wholly clan, you would know that. But you are not, and I would have you no other way. Instead he said, \"Dry, I want you and your swordsmen with me.\"\n\nDrybone nodded.\n\nIt would have to do. There was no time for anything more. While Cawdo Salt cut a cross into the Broddic bowman's arm, turning the circular wound into something larger that could be more easily stitched, the Dog Lord and his warlords planned their strike. They settled on riding for an extra ten leagues and approaching the valley from the west, not the northeast as expected: Strike hard and fast and work their way south toward Pengo's position.\n\nA second silent strategy lay beneath the spoken one, and fifteen hundred Bluddsmen knew it: Kill every Hailsman in sight.\n\nVaylo led the main body west. The ground shook beneath the Bludd host, and the night wakened to their calls. Screams and terrible low bellows, Stone Gods named and named again, wolf howls, and desperate low keening thickened the air like smoke. Vaylo pulled his hammer from its sling and whirled it high above his head. Three stone of lead, limewood, and steel, yet it moved like a goddess in his hand. The bloodlust was upon him, and for the first time in eleven days and eleven nights, he allowed his mind to settle in the place where he kept his losses.\n\nSeventeen-grandchildren dead.\n\nWhen he descended to the valley floor and the Dhoone host rose to meet him, he saw fear in their gray blue eyes. His hammer smashed into a iron-helmed skull, unhorsing the first foe that he met. Sword blades licked him like cold fire. All around, black spruces bent and rippled in the quickening wind. Torches circling the Banhouse burned red, but the half-moon stole their glory, turning the fields of snow blue. Vaylo smelled resin and sword metal and the stench of his own fear. Ahead he saw the Dhoone foreguard and the wing of spearmen that flanked them. The Bloody Blue Thistle had been raised above the black dome of the Banhouse, and the standard blew straight and true and to the south.\n\nBlackhail arrows rained from the sky, their shafts black as night, their arrowheads bound to their nocks by cords of silver wire. Vaylo swatted them from the air with his hammer, furious that the men who sent them were out of sight. The Dhoone foreguard felt his wrath as he rode upon them, howling like the Dog Lord that he was. Ranks of mounted Dhoone swordsmen closed around him, yet any man who drew within hammer range received a kiss of lead and steel for his trouble.\n\nDhoone steel screeching against his armor, braids lashing against his back, Vaylo screamed for Blackhail to take the field.\n\nAt his back Cluff Drybannock killed men with a cool efficiency that Vaylo found mildly disturbing. Dry's longsword was sharp and heavy, and its double-edged blade could pierce all but the thickest plate. He was deadly silent as he fought, his face unmoved by fear or anger, his eyes always looking two moves ahead.\n\nWith Drybone at his back, Vaylo felt safe to push farther into the Dhoone line. To the east, he saw the first of the Bannen swordsmen moving to cut off the Bludd rearguard. The Bansmen were dressed in cloaks of gray leather trimmed with moose felt, and their swords were things of clannish beauty, the steel burned with acid until it shone black. The Bansmen sang a slow metered deathsong as they marched down the slope, wailing about some ancient battle where the Wolf River ran with blood.\n\nThe deathsong drove the Dog Lord to distraction, and he prayed that some hawk-eyed bowman would put an arrow through the head singer's tongue. Vaylo was choked by Dhoonesmen, tantalized by brief glimpses of Hailsmen on the far edges of his reach. His hammerman's chains rattled in fury as he swung his hammer in ever widening circles. His throat was hoarse from screaming. Dead men rode past him, slumped over their horses' necks, blood oozing from cracks in their plate. A piece of a man's face was glued to his hammerhead, yet he could spare no moment to pick it away.\n\nThis battle was madness, madness, yet he had no choice but to keep moving forward. A lance shattered against his breastplate, sending splinters flying into his eyes and knocking him sideways in the saddle. When a hand reached over to steady him, he didn't need to glance over his shoulder to know who it was.\n\nMist began rolling north from the Wolf River, and soon the snowfields were a sinking ground of scattered forces and unhorsed men. Vaylo's shoulder ached with a deep and terrible pain, yet he kept his hammer swinging in spite of it. There were Bludd swordsmen ahead of him now, hacking at Dhoone spears. Vaylo saw one man with a spear rammed so far down his throat that he had been impaled upon his fallen horse. An axman from Clan Gray, the Dog Lord thought with a small shudder. Truly they are the cursed clan.\n\nFinally they broke the Dhoone line... and Vaylo did not fool himself for one instant that it was his doing. Yes, he had rage and a hammer that never stopped. But it was Drybone and his crew, going one-on-one against the Dhoonesmen, that saved the day. Cluff Drybannock came alive in moonlight. His movements had a grace that all other clansmen lacked, and once he found his rhythm he could strike or unhorse a Dhoonesman with every blow. When the mist came and Vaylo was hard-pressed to see ten feet ahead of the Dog Horse's neck, it was Drybone who forced a path in the whiteness, Drybone who stood upon his stirrups and murmured, \"There's a break in the Dhoone line to the west.\" Vaylo looked and squinted but could see nothing but the arses of Bluddsmen's horses.\n\nHe let Drybone lead the flight to the south, where Pengo and his hundred men were waiting to escort them off the field. They would not stay and fight. The Dog Lord knew a rout when he saw one. Bannen would not be taken this night... and far too little Blackhail blood had been spilled.\n\nUnsated, the Dog Lord turned for home.\nTWENTY-NINE\n\nBy the Lake\n\nRAIF SAT WITHIN THE circle of light created by the white oak fire and cut arrows. They would not be good ones, for the wood was unseasoned and widely grained and would likely split upon impact, but it was something to do. He had a stone warming at the base of the fire, ready to heat and straighten the shafts when he was done. Later, much later, he would think of sleep.\n\nIt was dark, sometime past midnight, and moonlight came and went as the wind shifted clouds overhead. Angus was kneeling by the bay's forelegs, rubbing them softly with a shammy. His gloves were clotted with pine sap and blood, but he was too caught up in tending his horse to clean or care for himself. Ash sat on the opposite side of the fire, her face made golden by the flames. Moose's horse blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, and Angus' buckskin coat lay across her lap, yet neither stopped her from shaking.\n\nRaif had watched as she rode off the ioe, her hair sparkling with frost, her eyes fierce and full of light. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time. Suddenly she wasn't a skinny girl in borrowed clothes, she was a young woman with fine shoulders and a sure way of sitting a horse. The brightness within her had faded as they'd made their way north to the campsite. The reality of wet clothes and aching muscles had set in, and by the time Angus found them an hour later, Ash was crouched in the snow, shivering. Angus had called her his \"wee lassie of the ice\" and built up the fire to warm her. What destruction she had left behind could not be known. All was hidden by the mist over the lake.\n\nAt least two of the sept were dead. Raif had killed one of them himself. It had been a nasty fight... one he'd found he had little stomach for. After he'd taken two fingers from the second red blade's swordhand, he had shown the man grace and let him live.\n\nShor Gormalin had taught him about grace. \"You must learn to recognize when a fight is won,\" the small fair-haired swordsman had said one spring morning as he'd put Raif through his paces on the practice court. \"Some wounds will take the fight from a man as surely as a dragon breathing fire. Others will just make him angry and want to hurt you more. The secret is knowing the difference.\"\n\nRaif remembered waiting for Shor to continue, certain that the swordsman would tell him to be on the lookout for spilled guts, bits of bone poking through skin, or wounds that bled and bled and wouldn't stop. Instead Shor had said, \"The truth of it's always in your opponent's eyes. I've known hammermen who could fight from noon to sunset with wounds the size of rats in their chests, and I've seen swordsmen turn tail and flee with nothing but a fine set of scratches on their necks.\" Shor had raised his hand to his own neck, perhaps reassuring himself that there were no scratches there. \"When you've wounded a man and looked into his eyes and seen for yourself that you've taken the fight from him, then you must decide whether to take his life or spare it.\n\n\"Grace is a matter between a clansman and the Stone Gods. They give you a choice\u2014and make no mistake, they'll judge you for it yet none but they know the rights and the wrongs of it. Never assume that leaving an opponent alive on the battlefield will gain you entrance to the Stone Halls that lie beyond. With our gods nothing is ever certain. They damned Bannog Tay of the Lost Clan for choosing not to kill his brother at the Battle of the Verge.\"\n\nShor's words had run through Raif's mind as he'd looked into the red blade's eyes. The man's sword was lying in the snow alongside two fat fingers and a pool of blood. The fight's left him, Raif had thought, a strange tightness pulling at his chest, and he'd turned his horse and fled.\n\nRaif felt that same tightness now. Abruptly he thrust the last of his arrows into the fire and watched as the yellow flames warped the wood then turned it black. Truth was, he didn't really know if he'd shown grace at all, not in the way Shor Gormalin meant, where one clansman spared another out of respect. It had sounded good in the telling, and even Angus had nodded and said, \"That's your right, Raif, and I will not question it.\" Yet Raif wondered if he hadn't spared the red blade simply to prove to himself that he could; that not every fight he fought and every arrow he loosed was destined to end in death.\n\nWatcher of the Dead.\n\nRaif shivered, fed another arrow to the fire.\n\n\"Do you think Sarga Veys is dead?\" Ash's voice broke the silence of the camp like a tree snapping under the weight of winter snow. Raif couldn't recall the last time she had spoken, and he and Angus exchanged a small, worried glance.\n\nAngus left the bay untethered and came and crouched by the fire. Peeling his stained gloves from his fingers, he said, \"I will not lie to you, Ash. I have an inkling he's still alive.\"\n\n\"But the ice... . I saw\u2014\"\n\n\"Aye, but did you smell? I heard the ice break, heard the horses scream, but I also smelled sorcery moments later. Sarga Veys is a clever sorcerer. Powerful, too. You may have left him to the frozen waters of the Spill, but such a man is seldom easily killed. There are things he could have done, bodies he could have robbed heat from, drawings he could have made to still and stiffen the ice.\"\n\nAsh looked down. After a moment she said, \"What about the Knife?\"\n\n\"Marafice Eye is Penthero Iss' right hand. Veys would be a fool to leave him to damnation. Veys wants power in his own right, yet he knows he won't get it by returning to Spire Vanis alone. If there was any way he could pull the Knife from the water, then we must assume that's exactly what he did. I doubt very much if there's any love lost between those two, but Sarga Veys has a high opinion of himself, one that doesn't allow for failure.\"\n\n\"You know Sarga Veys?\" Raif asked.\n\nAngus fixed Raif with his copper eyes. \"Aye, you could say that. We've crossed paths before in our time... and I'd sooner not think on it now.\" It was the end of the subject. Angus made that clear by standing and stretching and turning his back on Ash and Raif.\n\nRaif traced a line in the snow with the tip of an arrow. His uncle had as many secrets as Anwyn Bird had recipes for mutton. Always there were evasions, lines that couldn't be crossed. After today there were more mysteries than ever. A sept led by the Protector General of. Spire Vanis had hunted them down like game. Sorcery had been used out on the lake. Raif signed to the Stone Gods, touching his closed eyelids and the tine at his waist. Angus might speak casually about sorcery, but as a clansman Raif could not. Some things were too deeply engrained. Clan was earth and stone and mud, things that could be held in the hand and weighed. Sorcery was air and light and tricks.\n\nRaif sighed heavily. Sorcery had been used in broad daylight, under an open sky. And for what? At first he had thought Angus was the main quarry of the sept, yet the magic user and the Knife had followed Ash onto the lake, not Angus. Glancing through the yellow needlework of flames, Raif looked at Ash. Who was she? The Surlord of Spire Vanis wouldn't send his Protector General to track down a girl off the streets. Raif took a breath, drawing in the warm air and gray smoke from the fire. The newly knitted skin on his chest pulled tight as he filled his lungs. The stitches were gone now, winkled out by Angus and his knife. The scars left behind reminded Raif of widow's weals.\n\n\"Why did Marafice Eye come after you?\" Suddenly it seemed easier to ask than think.\n\nThe question was meant for Ash, yet Raif saw Angus' shoulders stiffen as it was asked. For half a moment he thought Angus would speak up and end the subject on her behalf, but he didn't. Instead he busied himself with his gloves, scraping away ice and pine needles with the edge of his knife.\n\n\"You think he came after me?\" Ash raised her head from her knees. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, and even the smallest movements she made seemed powerless and disjointed.\n\nRaif was already beginning to regret the question. Mist trapped in Ash's clothes would turn to ice through the night. She needed fresh linens, hot food, and extra blankets\u2014none of which they had now that the saddlebags were gone. Angus had taken a few things\u2014some trail meat and medicine, as far as Raif could tell\u2014yet he had no clean cloth to bandage Ash's thigh and the bay's rump, and only a splash of alcohol to clean them. Raif shook his head. \"No. It doesn't matter.\"\n\nAsh looked at him with large gray eyes. After a moment she made a small warding gesture with her hand. \"It does matter, Raif. It matters because you don't know what you're putting yourself in danger for. Even if Marafice Eye and Sarga Veys both died out on the lake, Penthero Iss will send more to replace them. He wants me back... I'm his foster daughter, Asarhia March.\"\n\nIt took Raif a moment to understand the words. \"The Surlord's daughter?\" he repeated stupidly.\n\n\"His almost-daughter.\" Ash glanced quickly at Angus.\n\nRaif caught the look, understanding it immediately. \"You knew,\" he said to Angus.\n\nAngus put down his knife. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"And that's why you moved to save her by the gate?\"\n\n\"What do you think?\"\n\n\"I think you won't tell me the whole truth.\"\n\n\"Why ask, then?\"\n\nRaif pushed himself to his feet. \"I asked because I'm sick of lies, because every time I get close to the truth, you push me away. We are blood kin, yet you do not trust me. I have followed you blindly, trusted you blindly, yet it's Ash who finally speaks the truth to me, not you.\"\n\n\"I have told you no lies, Raif Sevrance. Be sure of that. If I have held things back, it is to protect you. If I have kept knowledge to myself, it is because some things are better not known. I have learned many things and gathered many burdens. Such truths as I hold come only at a cost. What sort of kin would I be if I passed all the horrors I have seen and all the fears that I live with onto you? Once something is spoken it cannot be unsaid.\"\n\nAngus' voice was low and dangerous, yet Raif hardly cared. He took a step forward. \"Don't treat me like a fool, Angus. You're content to let me share the danger when it suits you. In the past three days I've been hunted, ridden down, and attacked. What more has to happen before you'll speak?\"\n\n\"The less you know, the safer you are.\"\n\n\"Why? Who are you protecting me from? Penthero Iss' sept seemed more than happy to slit my throat regardless of what I knew or didn't know. No one slowed down between blows to ask questions.\"\n\nAngus shook his head. \"Don't make the mistake of supposing that you are the only person I must protect. Some secrets are not mine to tell.\"\n\n\"Tell me what is yours to tell, then. Why was it so important to visit Spire Vanis? What happens when we get to Ille Glaive? How do you know Sarga Veys? And why did you take the bow from me the moment you knew it was him? I had a full flight of arrows. I could have shot the other six.\"\n\n\"And the bay,\" said Ash, softly. \"Who taught him how to dance upon the ice?\"\n\nBoth Angus and Raif turned to look at her. In the heat of the exchange she had been forgotten. The Surlord's almost-daughter, cold and shivering like a child.\n\nAngus' face softened. \"The bay was given to me as a gift. I saved a man's life once, a Sull warrior named Mors Stormyielder. He promised me then that he would breed and train a horse in payment. The Sull do not take such things lightly, and the horse was many years in the breeding. Mors' pride demanded that he send me only the best of his stock, and it took eleven years and two generations of foals before he was satisfied that a horse fitting his debt had been born. He spent another three years training the horse in the Sull manner, teaching it how to hold itself steady beneath an archer taking aim, how to survive in white weather and keep moving through thick drifts, how to endure the sudden pains of rocks and arrows without throwing its rider, how to war in formation with other horses, scent trails, read snow, and dance ice. When Mors was finished he sent the horse to me.\"\n\n\"Fourteen years seems a long time to repay a debt,\" Ash said.\n\n\"Mors was bound by his word, not by time. The years that passed between my deed and his repayment were nothing to him. He is Sull, he sees things differently from you and I.\"\n\n\"What's the bay's name?\"\n\nThe bay, as if knowing it was being spoken of, whickered softly and stamped snow. The makeshift bandage covering its hindquarters had already been thoroughly sniffed at, then chewed on for good measure.\n\n\"He has a Sull name, one that can't properly be translated into Common.\" Angus smiled as he saw Ash's next question, already formed, in her eyes. \"Ehl Rhayas Erra'da Motho. It means 'One Who Is Born for a Debt but in the Rearing Becomes More.'\"\n\nAsh smiled sleepily.\n\n\"It's easier to call him the bay.\"\n\n\"I see that now.\" She yawned. Closing her eyes. she pulled the blanket over her chest and lay down in the snow. \"Ehl Rhayas Erra'da Motho,\" she whispered. Then, a few minutes later, \"I'm so cold.\"\n\nRaif and Angus exchanged a glance. Raif began to tug apart the ties on his elk coat. He wasn't angry at Angus anymore. They would speak later when Ash slept\u2014the look Angus had given him had promised that. For now he had to look after Ash. Walking around the fire, he braced himself for the shock of cold air and then stripped off his coat. Frozen leaves and forest matter crunched like glass beneath his feet. As he knelt to tuck the coat around her shoulders, his hand brushed the side of her cheek. Her skin was as cool as ice.\n\nSlipping beside her, he took her in his arms and pulled the elk coat over them both. He held her, shivering and silent, until she fell asleep.\n\nRaif's mind drifted with the icy stillness of the night. Angus kept watch, occasionally walking between the horses and the steep bank that led down to the lake. Strings of mist from the Spill slithered across the snow like snakes. Overhead, the half-moon shone through a mesh of clouds. Raif thought of Drey, of the time Drey had fallen through the ice in Cold Lake and Raif had held him as he held Ash now. Tem had been mad with anger, furious at Drey for running on thin ice. It was a month after their mother had died. All the Sevrances had done wild, dangerous things that month.\n\n\"Raif.\"\n\nRaif looked up, surprised to see Angus crouching close. He began to rise.\n\n\"Nay, lad. Stay where you are. I'll stand both watches tonight.\" Angus nodded toward Ash. \"Is she sleeping?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Resting in her mind?\"\n\nRaif nodded. He couldn't recall at what point during the past four days Angus had come to know about the connection between him and Ash, but he did, and the question he asked showed it. Unsure how he felt about that, Raif was silent for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, \"About what I said earlier\u2014\"\n\n\"Hush, lad. Don't think for one moment I didn't deserve it. What you and Ash said was right and proper: You have a right to know what you're putting yourself in danger for.\" Angus slid his hand inside his tunic and pulled out his rabbit flask; that was one thing that hadn't been lost with the saddlebags. He shook it in his fist. \"Damn thing's empty\u2014I'd clean forgotten.\"\n\nRegarding the flask as a man might regard a beloved old dog who had just turned around and bitten him, he said, \"First of all there are some things I'm hard sworn to. I can't explain how and why I know Sarga Veys, you must simply accept that. Perhaps later you will come to know. What I can tell you is that Sarga Veys is closely spun. He's dangerous and unpredictable, and if you'd sighted that bow at any man's heart today, chances are he would have killed you.\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\nAngus sighed. \"Aye, well, you wouldn't. A clansman would sooner prick his belly with a pitching fork and soak himself in vinegar for a week rather than sit and talk of sorcery. You've got Hoggie Dhoone and a whole line of Stone God-fearing Clan Kings to thank for that. Don't give me that Sevrance frown, lad. Such is the way things are. What you must come to accept is that whenever you pick up a bow and sight it upon a man's heart, you're drawing on the old skills. I know it's not what you want to hear, and I know we could both waste a lot of time talking ourselves soft around the subject, but for now just listen to what your old uncle says.\" Angus' copper eyes twinkled like newly struck pennies: He seemed to be fully recovered from the blow of the empty rabbit flask.\n\n\"The most important thing you'll ever learn about sorcery is this: Entering a man's body to cause harm is the most dangerous thing a sorcerer can do. Our bodies work to preserve us in a thousand different ways. The pain of touching hot coals will cause a child to snap back her hand, fear will make a man move faster, fight harder, and cold will make him shiver to warm his blood. If we sicken with lung fever, something within us battles the disease, and if we are fed tainted food, our livers work to rid us of the badness. There's a natural instinct in all of us to fight anything that threatens our survival. And when sorcery enters our body, it meets that instinct full on.\"\n\nAngus leaned over toward Ash and tucked the elk coat close around her chin. \"Sorcery is an invasion of the worst kind. It's unnatural in every way, and a body will fight it tooth and nail. Nothing can prepare a sorcerer for the sheer force of a person's will. It can sever the thread of a drawing within seconds, sending it snapping back like a whiplash of red fire.\n\n\"I saw the face burned from a man once, a sorcerer who thought himself cleverer than most. We were walking together in the Sluice\u2014an old section of Trance Vor that we were both arrogant enough to think we'd be safe in despite the world of rumors that surrounds it\u2014when a young sharper lightened me of my purse. I was for running the lad down, but Brenn would have none of it. Drew sorcery then and there on the street. Whether he had a mind to kill the lad, slow him, or simply force him to drop the purse, I canna say. It didn't really matter in the end. Whatever he did it wasn't quick enough, and the young sharper's will broke the drawing. Sent it back to Brenn tenfold.\"\n\nAngus closed his eyes. \"It was a long night. Brenn's face and chest were burned black. Black... . It was all I could do to end his pain.\" Angus breathed softly for a while, then opened his eyes and looked at Raif. \"That's one of the reasons I wouldn't let you target the sept.\"\n\n\"But I've targeted men before now without being harmed.\"\n\n\"That's part of your gift What you do happens in less than an instant. Your mind enters another's body, joins with the heart, then leaves within an eyeblink. You don't damage or interfere with the heart in any way, you mark it. It all happens so fast that the victim doesn't have chance to respond. And even if they did, your arrow hits them a second later and then they're dead.\n\n\"You use sorcery as your accomplice, not your weapon. It's a subtle difference at best, but that, and the sheer speed of what you do, saves you from any backlash.\"\n\nRaif tilted his head back and looked up through the clouds to the stars. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. What Angus had said disturbed him deeply; he'd described exactly what happened when Raif drew his bow, right down to marking the heart. \"How do you know so much?\" he asked.\n\n\"I know a man with nearly the same gift as yours\u2014\"\n\n\"Mors Stormyielder. The Sull.\"\n\nIf Angus was surprised at Raif's guess, he did not show it, merely ran a hand over the rough stubble on his jaw. \"Aye. He's the one. Can kill any animal he sets his sights on.\"\n\n\"And it's the same for him as well?\"\n\nAngus nodded. \"Close enough. Animals have wills to survive just as you and I do. They cannot be interfered with lightly. Mors knows that. I never knew him to spend a moment longer than necessary in any beast.\"\n\n\"Yet he couldn't target people?\"\n\n\"No.\" Angus looked at Raif only an instant before looking away.\n\nRaif waited, but the silence between them only deepened, and Raif guessed he had touched upon yet another subject that Angus had no liking for. Having little liking for it himself, Raif let it go. Perhaps his uncle was right: Some things were no better for the knowing.\n\nShifting himself against Ash's body, he said, \"I still don't understand what this has to do with Sarga Veys. If I can target people as quickly as you say, where's the danger?\"\n\nAngus seemed relieved at the question. During the silence he had taken to looking longingly at the empty flask. \"It's simple. You should never set your sights on any sorcerer. Ever. They'll know the moment you enter them, and if they're quick enough and clever enough, they'll send your sorcery back home with a vengeance. It doesn't matter that what you do is little more than a sighting, a bowman taking aim on his target. The act of severing is where the power comes from. By severing the thread between you, a sorcerer can take a small insignificant drawing and whiplash it into a force.\"\n\nAngus still wasn't finished. Now that he had decided to speak, he seemed determined to say the worst and have done with it. \"From the night we left Spire Vanis I knew we were being tracked by a magic user, yet until I saw Sarga Veys on the ridge I couldn't be sure who it was. If it had been another man, I might not have taken the bow from you. As long as you'd targeted the other sept members, chances are you would have been safe. But Sarga Veys isn't like most sorcerers. Sorcery lives within him like the future lives within prophets and hell lives within the insane. He can do things that no one else can, clever things, subtle things, things that people say canna be done. As soon as he realized you had a man's heart in your sights, he could have slid his power in beside yours and sent your drawing snapping back like hellfire.\"\n\nAngus showed his teeth. \"And such a small thing like that, a little snapping motion, wouldn't even weary him to the point where he needed a ghostmeal.\"\n\nRaif held his body still, determined to show Angus nothing of the fear that lived within him. Suddenly he longed for Drey and Effie and clan. \"If Veys has so much power, why didn't he strike sooner, from afar?\"\n\n\"Sarga Veys knows his limits. More than likely he was saving his strength for when he caught up with us, in case you used your trick with the bow, or Ash did something that sent everyone running. No matter what happened, he would have left the killing and capture to the sept. Sorcery is useful in many ways\u2014you heard what happened on the lake, how he pushed the mist aside so the Knife could follow Ash\u2014but if you've a mind to kill someone, you're safer using an arrow or a sword.\"\n\nSeveral things struck Raif about what Angus had just said, and he was silent for a while as he thought. Or Ash did something that sent everyone running. The words had been spoken lightly enough, but the idea behind them was hard to comprehend. What could Ash do that would make a full sept, half a dozen dogs, and a sorcerer run away? Raif pressed Ash's body against his. She was breathing steadily, no longer shivering, relaxed in a deep dreamless sleep. Penthero Iss' almost-daughter. As soon as she had told him that, he had assumed they were being hunted because the Surlord of Spire Vanis wanted his daughter back. Now it seemed there was more.\n\nRaif glanced at his uncle. With Angus there was always more.\n\nThen there was the other thing that struck Raif. Twice now Angus had said that sorcery was no good for killing. Yet he, Raif Sevrance, could kill with it. Oh, Angus would say that the arrow killed, not the drawing. But Angus was wrong. Vaingate had proven that. At some point while he'd stood shooting men through the grating, Raif had realized that as soon as a heart was within his sights the man whom it beat for was as good as dead. The arrow was just the medium, like wine carrying poison; the act of killing had already been made.\n\nSo what did that make him? Raif shook his head slowly, forbidding the answer to come to him. Inigar Stoop knew; perhaps even Angus knew: It was better left at that.\n\nAngus touched Raif's shoulder. \"You should get some rest. I'll be waking you at dawn.\"\n\nRaif nodded. Suddenly he wanted very much to sleep.\n\n\"I canna tell you what business brought me to Spire Vanis,\" Angus said, adjusting the elk coat around Raif and Ash so it let in no drafts. \"That city is alive with secrets, it was built on them, and you shouldna blame your old uncle for holding a few of them back.\"\n\n\"And Ille Glaive?\" Raif asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.\n\n\"Aye. The City of Tears. A man lives there whom I must visit. He's a tower-trained scholar and as stingy as a goat, but, he does have a talent for finding truths. I remember once when I was coursing for gray foxes along the Chaddiway...\"\n\nRaif drifted into sleep. Perfect darkness folded around him, creating a secure place where no dreams or thoughts could enter. Time passed. Sounds began to niggle at the back of his mind, and he turned restlessly from them. Still they pursued him, louder now, dream voices, egging for something he did not have and could not give. Irritated, he turned from them once more. Couldn't they see that he slept? At last they went, leaving him to a deep stupor that lasted through the night.\n\nWhen he awoke at first light it was pain, not voices, that stirred him. He was lying on his stomach, and something cold and sharp pressed against his chest. Thinking it was a stone, he reached beneath himself to push it away. As soon as his fingers touched the surface of the object, he knew it was his lore. Ash...\n\nHis eyes shot open and his hand reached upward, but already he knew it was too late. She was cold, motionless, lost to the world of voices.\n\nHe called Angus, and together they tried to wake her, but her eyes would not open and her body lay heavy and unresponsive, and finally Angus lifted her onto the bay, strapped her against his back, and set a grim pace for Ille Glaive.\nTHIRTY\n\nFrostbite\n\nSARGA VEYS OPENED HIS EYES. Unlike other men who needed time to come around, put the dreamworld behind them and recall the day ahead, Sarga Veys knew all instantly the moment he awoke. He never dreamed. That was one human weakness he was free from.\n\nThe timbers above him were black and furry with mold, and the entire ceiling bowed under the weight of accumulated snow. The trout guddler's cabin had not been lived in for at least two seasons, yet the stench of fish and old men remained. Ancient oilcloths, now brittle and dusty, hung from the walls along with snowshoes, rotten nets, and racks for drying fish. The oak floor was crusted with salt. In the far corner, hiding behind cords of rotten firewood and split crates, lay a small basswood shrine to the Maker. Sarga Veys' lip curled to see it. Fishermen, whether they manned trawlers on the Wrecking Sea or sat upon a lakeshore fishing with their hands, were always superstitious about God.\n\nGathering his strength to him, Sarga Veys raised his shoulders from the floor. Naked beneath the buckskins he had found folded in a pile near the saltpit, his entire body shuddered and worked against him as he moved. Sour liquid rose in his gullet, and he fought it by forcing his lips against his teeth. He would not vomit. Such foulness would not pass from his stomach to his mouth.\n\nAfter a few seconds the sickness lifted, leaving him feeling little better for it. His head throbbed, and his legs felt swollen and full of water. The smell of his own body disgusted him, the drowned-man's stench of fish oil and algae and fear.\n\nVeys exhaled softly. He very nearly had drowned out there, in that greasy body of water so rightly named the Black Spill. The first shock of the cold had been breathtaking. He remembered freezing water seizing his throat and his groin, and utter darkness robbing his thoughts. It had been a kind of hell. Cold hell. The screams, the cracking ice, the horses... Veys shuddered. It had made animals of four grown men.\n\nBut, he thought. But. It had been a trial of ice and darkness that he had passed. Surely now he must be stronger? He, Sarga Veys, son of no man willing to claim him and a mother who had taken her own life by slashing her stomach a dozen times with a jeweler's knife, had swum in the Black Spill in midwinter and survived.\n\nHe should not have been able to do it. Only minutes before the ice cracked he had spent everything within him opening a corridor in the mist. Such drawings never came cheap. Sarga Veys could do a hundred things more showy and more impressive: little tricks with fire and smoke guaranteed to make children and goodwives fear him. Yet parting mist, which impressed no one, most especially not the Knife, had a cost far above such japery. For five long and excruciating minutes, Sarga Veys had set his will against nature.\n\nIt had left him barely enough strength to breathe and think. When the ice cracked and day turned into night and black water rose to take him, he had been as limp and powerless as a man made of straw. Yet fear of death had woken something in him. A tiny spark of hidden strength had ignited close to his heart. It wasn't much, but he was Sarga Veys, the most brilliant sorcerer born in half a century, and he could turn not much into quite a lot.\n\nThe horse was close to death when he had taken it. Bereft of strength of will, it could do little to fight the drawing. As its insides had kindled and horseflesh had cauterized then cooked, the carcass had floated upward toward the light. Sarga Veys had ridden it to the surface like a wraith riding his ghost horse from hell. The heat from its flesh had warmed him, and the buoyancy of its gas-filled body had been more than sufficient to float his own. Clinging to the black, stinking flesh, he had paddled with his legs and feet toward the nearest ledge.\n\nRaped of power and strength, he had hauled himself onto firm ice. How he had crawled across the lake and up the bank to shelter was an ordeal he would sooner forget. The skin on his elbows and knees would grow back. Chilblains and frost sores would fade. The burns on his hands were another matter, but he had read the secret histories of all the brilliant sorcerers, and such scars and deformities were common among them. All who were born to greatness were marked in some way.\n\nOnly when he had found the trout guddler's cabin and stripped the stiff, icy clothing from his back had he given himself over to exhaustion. Judging from the light slicing under the door, he had slept for close to a day.\n\nOvercome with thirst and the sudden need to relieve himself, Veys tested his strength by extending his leg across the salt-encrusted floor. Weakness made him cringe like a child. Hate for Penthero Iss filled him. How dare that man send him north again! His talents were wasted here on the east shore of Black Spill, chasing the Surlord's errant daughter and the Phage's trusty sheepdog Angus Lok.\n\nAnger succeeded in rousing Veys sufficiently to the point where he could stand, and he gathered the coarse hide around himself and stumbled toward the door. Of course, the very fact that Iss had sent him north in a sept with Marafice Eye told of just how important the task of returning Asarhia March was. She was dangerous, that girl. Veys had felt the truth of it the night Iss had summoned him to the Red Forge and bade him travel from the city to find her. Power had been drawn that night. Dark and unfamiliar, it had switched against his skin like a draft of air from a mineshaft or the deepest, driest well. It had come from Iss' almost-daughter, and it excited him in ways he hardly understood.\n\nHe had been following its aftermath ever since. It wetted his tongue even now. She was moving north again. He knew it without even probing outside himself, so strong was the trail she left behind.\n\nReaching the door, Veys steadied himself against the jamb, taking a moment to regain his strength. He cursed the loss of his saddlebags. Drugs, waxed bandages, oil of cloves, blood of the poppy, eyebright, handknives, coiled wire, combs, wax candles, flints, honey, sweetened milk, spare clothes, and clean linen had all been lost. All things except food he could do without, yet he had little liking for making do. A childhood spent living in the filth and glossy mud of Dirtlake had seen to that.\n\nGlancing back at the frozen, greasy heap that was his clothes, he shuddered. The action pulled muscles in his chest and groin. He needed a ghostmeal badly. He craved warm milk thickened with honey and the soothing sap of eyebright dropped from a hollow needle into his eyes. His eyes were not troubling him now, but they would soon enough. Weak eyes prone to redness and infection were his curse. \"It is their color,\" a man in Ille Glaive had once said. \"So unusual... startling, even. In a woman they would be celebrated, painted. In a man they are considered ill luck. Either way you will have much trouble with them. Purple is the color of the gods.\"\n\nNot displeased by the memory, Veys unhooked the latch and stepped outside.\n\nCold air blasted his face, and the sharp tang of snow filled his nose and his mouth. A white landscape presented itself to his watering eyes. He saw the lake down below him, cloaked in mist, saw tall spruces and white oaks glittering with hoarfrost, and his own bloody trail stamped into the snow. He had not come as far as he'd thought. The trout guddler's cabin was a mere forty paces from the water, set in a crown of man-high birches above the bank. Veys shrugged tightly. He told himself the distance hardly mattered; it did not detract from his feat.\n\nOut of the corner of his eye he caught a movement. Instinctively he stepped back, into the shadows provided by the door. Shifting his gaze to the left, he saw the movement again. There, down by the shore, something gray moved. Sarga Veys licked dry lips. It was a man... no, two men. One lying down on the shore ice, another kneeling, tending him. Veys' stomach twisted into a knot. The kneeling man's outer cloak wasn't gray... it was black leather crusted with snow. The Rive Watch. He had thought he was rid of them.\n\nA long moment passed where Veys contemplated the shore-fast ice, speculated how thick it was and whether there would be sufficient water underneath to drown two men. Yet ice was a mystery he knew little of, and he set aside the idea of murder before it was fully formed.\n\n\"Halfman! Over here!\"\n\nStartled, Veys focused his gaze upon the kneeling man. He had his hand raised over his head, and Veys saw immediately that something wasn't right with it. Two bloody stumps waggled where fingers should have been. Perceiving the weakness made Veys' heart beat more calmly, and he stepped from the shadows into the light.\n\nThe man's name came to him as he treaded through the snow toward the bank. Hood. A filthy guardsman with dirt under his nails and shredded food between his teeth, who claimed kinship to Lord of the Straw Granges and as proof wore a grangelord insignia\u2014arms set in a cruciform\u2014at his chest. Veys detested him. He was Marafice Eye's creature\u2014all the sept were\u2014but he more so than the rest. He could not open his mouth without speaking filth.\n\n\"Help me get him to the cabin. His foot is hard froze.\"\n\nVeys paid little heed to Hood's words as he picked his way across the rutted and frozen mud along the shore. He now had a better view of the second man, and his heart had started beating wildly once more. The huge head, the fine light brown hair, and the shoulders the size of sheep: It was Marafice Eye. Sarga Veys' skin paled. He had thought the Knife dead, lost to the black waters of the Spill.\n\n\"Aye, Halfman. You left me to the devil, and the devil spat me back.\" A small eye, perfectly blue, regarded Sarga Veys with something akin to satisfaction. The Knife was lying on his side, half on the bank, half on the ice. The skin on his face was yellow and waxy, his cheeks and nose split by tissue expanding as it froze. Strips of flesh hung from his small mouth, flapping as he breathed and spoke. One eye was frozen shut. One hand was curled like a bird's claw, yellow and scaly and twitching. The frozen foot was still booted, resting on the ice like a shovel.\n\nMarafice Eye smiled, a terrible sight to see on a frozen face. \"You may well look frightened, Halfman. I saw you with Stagro's horse. I clawed after you in the water, watched as you pulled yourself onto the ice.\"\n\n\"I looked for you, but the ice was churning. It was impossible to see\u2014\"\n\n\"Save your lies for those who need them, Halfman.\"\n\nMarafice Eye winced as Hood began to cut the boot free of the frozen foot. \"The only thing that matters to me is whether you acted from cowardice or spite. Did you wish me dead, eh? Or were you so involved with saving your own skin that you didn't give me or my men a second thought?\"\n\nVeys shifted ground. He saw Hood slow down with the sheath knife, awaiting his reply. Marafice Eye breathed steadily, good hand clenched to control the pain. Two men, both injured but still dangerous. Veys swallowed bile then spoke. \"I do not wish you dead, Knife. You cannot doubt that. The ice was not under my control. It was the girl's fault it broke... she led us too far. Her horse was more lightly burdened, and it knew how to dance. When I fell into the water I had no mind but to get to safety. I was hardly thinking... . Stagro's horse was close... I did what I had to. By the time I crawled from the water I had no strength for anything else.\"\n\n\"Yet you made it to the cabin,\" said the Knife.\n\n\"And stripped the frozen clothes from your back,\" added Hood.\n\n\"I did these things without thinking. I\u2014\"\n\n\"Hush, man. You bother me like jiggers at my crotch. You claim to be a coward, not a murderer. Then you must prove that by using your foul magics, upon me. I will not lose my foot and my hand. I will not. You will save them for me.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\nThe Knife slammed his good hand onto the ice. \"I saw how you were with the horse. You took its flesh and warmed it. Now you must do the same for me, only gently, without scorching. Hood will stand by. He will see you do no harm.\"\n\nHood smiled pleasantly, displaying filaments of trail meat packed between his teeth. \"Devil help you if you hurt him, Halfman.\"\n\nVeys actually took a step back. To perform a healing\u2014on the Knife. The idea was horrifying to him. He was not a physician, he had not been trained in the ways of blood and organs as some sorcerers were. Sickness and disease were abhorrent to him. Marafice Eye's yellow swollen flesh repulsed him as surely as the sight of maggots at a corpse. And then there was the loss of strength. How could he be expected to draw power after all that had happened yesterday? He needed to rest, sleep.\n\n\"Come. You must help Hood carry me to the cabin.\"\n\n\"I cannot heal you. It's impossible. Impossible.\"\n\nMarafice Eye shook his head. The strain cost him dearly, pulling tissue and ligaments that should not have been pulled. \"Nay, Halfman, I'm not giving you a choice. Four of my best men have died. One with an arrow in his liver, another with a blade-sized hole in his heart. The other two died here\"\u2014he punched the lake ice with his fist\u2014\"in the Spill. And if you'd had the balls, you could have saved them. Mind me well, Sarga Veys, for I know the blackness in your heart. You meant to walk free from this place, travel back to Spire Vanis and your master Penthero Iss, spin a tale with you as the hero and me and my men as victims of the lake. That will never happen. Hood may have lost two fingers, but he's still a better man with eight than you are with ten. He'd kill you now on my say, and do not think I'm not tempted. Your only use to me now is as a healer. So heal me, and perhaps Hood will forget the loss of his sworn brothers and let you live.\"\n\nVeys looked into the Knife's open eye. Even lying prostrate on the ice, he was a dangerous beast. Veys believed him capable of any sort of violence, and he was just the sort of man to survive if abandoned in this frozen waste. He pulled himself free of the lake! That act alone told of the strength of his will.\n\n\"Ready to weep, Halfman?\"\n\nVeys glared at Hood and had the satisfaction of forcing the thick-necked badger of a man to look away. This was not the first time one of the sept had passed comment on his red and stinging eyes. Savagely he wiped away the tears. \"Let's get him to the cabin.\"\n\nThe Knife said nothing as they carried him up the bank. Hood took most of the weight, and Veys was left to haul the legs and feet. It was a difficult journey and Marafice Eye must have suffered much in the handling, yet he did not cry out or curse or show any but the briefest signs of pain. Veys supposed some men would call such stoicism bravery, but he had little care for it. Dread of the task that lay ahead weighed like lead upon his chest.\n\nWhen finally they arrived at the trout guddler's cabin, Veys became aware of a new pressure pushing against his mind with the steady throb of a sore tooth. \"Take him inside,\" he said to Hood, \"and strip him. Pry up the floorboards for firewood. We will need a quick fire.\"\n\n\"Don't settle yourself by the door, Halfman. You're coming with us.\" Hood dragged Marafice Eye across the threshold. The Knife himself did not speak. Perhaps delirium had set in. Veys hardly cared.\n\n\"My master calls me. I must speak with him.\"\n\nThe words had a profound effect on Hood, who like all the barbarians in the Rive Watch feared sorcery like the Skinned One himself. His hand rose to touch the grangelord insignia at his breast, and he muttered the Maker's given name under his breath.\n\n\"Go,\" hissed Veys, pleased by the man's superstitious dread and well aware that it would do him no harm to play to it. \"You would not want to risk standing here when his fetch appears before me.\"\n\nHood worked the latch quickly for a man with eight fingers. In his haste he trapped his cloak tails in the door, and Veys heard a tearing sound come from the other side as the man decided it was better to lose a fistful of leather than reopen the door and risk seeing a fetch.\n\nVeys smiled with spite. Fetches, wraiths, scantlings: They were always good for scaring children and witless men.\n\nThe smile faded as quickly as it came as Veys steadied himself against the cabin's exterior wall and laid himself open to the one who called him.\n\nShock and pain took his breath. Penthero Iss was there, suddenly inside him like a new heart. Every hair on Veys' body bristled, every pore opened and exuded sweat. How could he do such a thing? The power it took to perform such a drawing from such a distance was unthinkable. This wasn't simply far-speaking, this was the breaching of another's flesh. And then there was the threat of the backlash. True, he had invited Iss in, but the mind and the body did not always work together in matters of sorcery, and the instinct to protect oneself was greater than any given thought. What if the drawing snapped?\n\nCalm yourself, Sarga Veys. Did I not tell you that I would speak with you along the way?\n\nVeys shuddered so deeply bones cracked in his spine. Fear burned with a pure and fierce flame, like alcohol igniting on his skin. What do you ask of me?\n\nIs Asarhia with you?\n\nNo. She travels north to Ille Glaive. The Knife tried to take her yesterday on the lake, but the ice broke beneath us and she escaped.\n\nAnd the sept?\n\nThe sept is gone. The Knife suffers from frostbite; Hood has lost fingers on his swordhand The rest are dead. It did not occur to Veys to lie. Iss was inside him; what else could he do?\n\nI will send another sept to you. Make your way to Ille Glaive and await them there.\n\nBut we must return to Spire Vanis. The Knife needs\u2014\n\nSee to him, Sarga Veys. That is why you are there. Asarhia must be followed north. She must be brought back. Angus Lok's family lives near Ille Glaive; he will not pass that close without seeing them. Find them for me also.\n\nVeys knew he could not argue. Penthero Iss seemed so much more than he was. His power was potent, foreign. It tasted of another world.\n\nDo not fail me. The words stretched southward across a continent as Iss withdrew to Spire Vanis and the craven warmth of his flesh.\n\nVeys slumped against the cabin wall, his shoulders scraping the skin of rime ice from the timbers. The vestiges of Iss' drawing had left a gritty film in his mouth, but he did not like to spit, so he swallowed it instead. How did Iss get the power? He was a weakling; Veys had known that from the day they'd first met, when a discreet and gentle probing had told him all he needed to know. Now this.\n\nRunning a hand across his jaw, Veys worked to calm himself. A day's growth of beard made his mouth shrink in distaste.\n\n\"Get in here, Halfman!\"\n\nHood's call made Veys flinch. Taking a series of fast, shallow breaths, he pushed himself off from the wall and made his way inside the cabin. Marafice Eye waited there, his foot made yellow by frozen bile, the chilblained skin on his face shedding in strips as wet and slippery as vegetable scrapings. Veys gathered power to himself, fear leaving him as quickly as fear did leave a man who was angry and eager to prove himself to those who considered themselves his betters. So Hood would kill him if he failed, eh? Well, who was to say that one day Hood wouldn't wake to find his remaining eight fingers gone the way of the other two? And who was to say that one day Penthero Iss wouldn't wake to find his own body invaded and the secret source of power he tapped into taken over by a better man than himself?\n\nSuch thoughts stayed in Veys' mind only long enough to calm him. He had a job to do, and although he hated Marafice Eye with bright malice, his pride demanded that he perform no drawing that wasn't equal to his best.\n\nSuppressing a shudder of revulsion, Veys entered the frozen canals of the Knife's frostbitten flesh.\nTHIRTY-ONE\n\nIlle Glaive\n\nRAIF RECOGNIZED THE DHOONESMEN at five hundred paces. War dressed in the blue and copper of Dhoone, mounted on fully laden shire horses, spears so highly polished they shone like glass, they rode south along the Glaive Road, forcing farmers and cart boys from their path. Two men only, there were, yet they had a power to them that drew the eyes as surely as a mountain made of steel. They sat high in their saddles, backs straight, eyes forward, left hands on the shafts of their couched spears, blue tattoos pulsing like veins beneath their Dhoonehelms.\n\nAngus said something, perhaps a warning to keep eyes down as the Dhoonesmen approached, but Raif had no mind for it.\n\nClansmen, here in the Glaivehold. Without thinking, Raif reached behind his neck to the leather strip that held his hair. The Blackhail silver was long gone. Even the black thread on his elkskin coat now lay concealed beneath a layer of muck. All he had left to tell of his clan was the silver cap that sealed his measure of guidestone in his tine, and the bit of silver wire around the grip of Tem's sword. Soon even his hair would outgrow his clan. Hailsmen kept their hair shortest of all clans, scorning the intricate plaitings, braidings, oilings, and part shavings that were as much a part of the clanholds as the white heather that bloomed on the fellfields each spring.\n\n\"Raif. Ease to the side of the road and let them pass.\"\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, Raif was aware of Angus pulling the bay's reins and setting the Sull horse on a path to lead its riders from the road. So even Angus makes way for Dhoonesmen. The thought made something ache in Raif's chest.\n\nThe heavy-shod hooves of the shire horses set the packed-earth road ringing. The late afternoon sun shone directly onto the Dhoonesmen's faces as they rode toward Raif at a trot. Raif saw their eyes flick to him, then just as quickly flick away. Even though Raif held the center of the road, they made no motion to alter their path and continued to head straight for him as if he were nothing more than a speck of dust.\n\nAbruptly Raif kicked Moose into a turn and headed off the road. Even before horse and rider gained the ditch, the Dhoonesmen claimed the space they'd left behind. Heads held high, never once looking back, the Dhoonesmen continued south.\n\nMinutes passed. Flecks of gray snow kicked up by the Dhoonesmen floated back down to earth. Raif could feel Angus' gaze upon him, yet he did not turn to look at him, even when his uncle spoke. \"Let's head back onto the road. I want to reach the Glaive before dark.\"\n\nRaif breathed and breathed, and after a while he nodded. After turning Moose out of the ditch, he took the road ahead of Angus, deliberately setting a pace that would keep him well ahead of the twice laden bay.\n\nHe had been less than nothing to the Dhoonesmen.\n\nRaif bound Moose's reins around his fist as he rode the winding curves and humpbacks of the Glaive Road. The Spill lay below him, its oily surface turned the color of bird blood by the first real sun to shine in days. Farms, mills, smokehouses, stoveshouses, broken watch towers and fortifications, and crannogs extending out over the lake on stilts, all lay within a short distance of the road. Other people traveled the road, mostly carters, drovers, and market traders, but occasionally a fine lady dressed in scarlet velvet and sables, accompanied by her men-at-arms, or a pair of Forsworn knights, wearing iron scale gleaming with bone oil, cloth-of-skin cloaks, and the thorned collars known as the Penance, would pass by or overtake them.\n\nRaif paid them little heed. Angus shouted ahead, informing him that the city itself would likely come into view any moment, yet Raif made no effort to search for it. The blank, disinterested gazes of the Dhoonesmen filled his sights. He wasn't one of them now. Somehow, though his clothes hadn't changed and his hair had barely grown, the weeks spent with Angus had changed him. A month ago the Dhoonesmen would have hailed him, asked what news he had of Dhoone yearmen fostered at Blackhail, what lakes had frozen on the Hailhold, what he was doing so far from home, did he need help or food or company. They would have seen him as one of their own. Instead they had seen nothing but a man on a horse who had no status or due respect in their world.\n\nRaif breathed heavily. With an effort he loosened his grip on Moose's reins and set his mind elsewhere. Lowering himself in the saddle, he concentrated on guiding the gelding up the steep slope to the headlands that lay high above the lake.\n\nThe surface of the road was especially bad on the incline, and mud broke away in frozen clumps as Moose searched for hoof holds in the ice. Five hours' worth of sunlight had melted parts of the surface, and Raif's gaze had settled upon a particularly treacherous-looking ditch filled with loose stones and wet ice, when Angus whistled softly at his back. Straightaway Raif looked up.\n\nIlle Glaive rose before him like a cliff of golden light. He saw stone walls and slate rooftops and needle-thin towers, all transformed in the sunset to gleaming metal things. A thousand tear-shaped windows collected shadows the color of dark amber, and a network of bridges, ledges, and battlements glinted like human spines dipped into gold. At the foot of the southern wall, the lake reffected a smaller, smoky version of the city, a mirror image seen through old glass.\n\nAs Moose topped the slope, Raif studied the lakeshore, wondering how many men it took to break and clear the ice. Then he noticed the steam and bubbling water forming a stewpot along the bank.\n\n\"Natural springs,\" Angus said, pulling alongside him. \"Ille Glaive was built on them. They feed the lake year-round.\"\n\nRaif nodded. Following his trip to Spire Vanis he had no love of cities, yet he couldn't help but admire Ille Glaive's golden sandstone walls. Savagely he scratched the scars on his chest. The skin was fully healed now, but the ghosts of the Bluddsmen's swords would not leave him. Two mornings ago he'd awoken to find dried blood driven deep beneath his fingernails and the scars scratched raw and peeling.\n\n\"I think we'll take the beggar's entrance,\" Angus said, squinting ahead. \"We should be safe going through the market at this hour.\" Making a small movement to indicate Ash, who was riding at his back, he added, \"The sooner we get our wee lassie here to Heritas Cant, the better.\"\n\nRaif made no reply. Cities were Angus' affair. It was up to him to say how they entered and where they stayed. As long as Ash was seen to quickly, little else mattered to him.\n\nGlancing over, he saw she was still the same. She sat, slumped against Angus' back, her eyes closed, her eyelids pale and unmoving, her hair pressed flat where it rested against Angus' shoulders, and her small pink mouth open just enough to let in air. She had not spoken since the night by the white oaks. Both Raif and Angus had tried to wake her many times in the past four days, yet although her body seemed to respond, sometimes cringing or pulling away from a harsh or unpleasant touch, her eyes seldom opened. Angus had taken great pains to force her to drink, holding her jaw apart and pouring clear broth or water down her throat. Yet he could not make her eat.\n\nSometimes, as this morning before they'd broken camp, she became agitated and her arms would slowly rise from her sides. Whenever that happened, Angus would force her wrists behind her back and bind them together with sheepskin, hobbling her as if she were a dangerous horse. Sometimes he wadded shammies in his fist and thrust them so deeply into her mouth that they rested against the back of her throat. Raif hated to see it. What within her was so terrible that she had to be bound and gagged?\n\nRunning a hand over his week-old beard, Raif frowned. Even now, when he wasn't looking at her and they were separated by twelve paces of air, he was aware of her presence pushing against him. Always he felt her in his lore. Somehow she pushed herself into his mind, claiming space that belonged to Drey and Effie and Tem.\n\nWith a violent shake of his head, Raif stopped his thoughts from moving farther past that point. Last night, when he had taken a damp cloth from the fire and cleaned the road grime from Ash's face, Angus had said, \"You treat her as gently as if she were Effie.\" Raif had had to stop what he was doing and walk into the shadows beyond the fire. Asarhia March was no Effie, and he hated Angus for putting them in the same sentence and linking them. He looked after Ash because that was what he and Angus had done since the moment they had saved her at Vaingate. It was a necessary thing, like brushing down the horses and lighting a drying fire for their clothes each night. Ash was not kin. She would never replace Effie or Drey in his heart.\n\nYet she had told him the truth. While Angus had danced around the truth like a clan guide around the Gods Night fires, she had told him who she was. That he valued. That was an action worthy of a clanswoman.\n\n\"Hold the reins a nonce, Raif, while I see to our drunken lassie here.\" Copper eyes twinkling, Angus handed the bay's reins to Raif and then busied himself with other things. Yesterday morning he had made Raif wait with Ash in the cover of a grove of sister aspens while he'd visited a farmhouse set a quarter league off the road. An hour later he had returned bearing fresh food, new waterskins, an ancient and crusty leather saddlebag, a pail of fresh milk, and a newly fattened rabbit flask, filled to the cork with the sort of stinging birch alcohol that Angus had a taste for. He took the rabbit flask from his buckskins now, bit the cork free, and began anointing Ash's head and shoulders with droplets of clear alcohol.\n\n\"If anyone asks, she had a skinful at nooning.\"\n\nRaif nodded. Ash's breaths were very shallow now, and her lack of response to the icy drops of liquid worried him. Glancing ahead, he judged the time it would take them to reach the city. \"Will this man we're going to see be able to help her?\"\n\nAngus thumped the cork on the flask, then motioned for Raif to hand back the reins. \"Heritas Cant knows many things: storm lore, the true names of all the gods, how to read the secret language of prophecies and speak the Old Tongue of the Trappers and the Sull. He can bind hawks to fly on his bidding, recite lists of battles from the Time of Shadows, heal sicknesses of blood and mind, and find patterns in the stars. If anyone can help her, he can.\"\n\n\"Is he a magic user?\"\n\nAngus sucked in breath with a small hiss. \"He will do whatever he must.\"\n\nUnable to decide what sort of answer that was and in no mood to dance lies and truth with Angus, Raif let the matter drop. Fixing his gaze firmly ahead, he set his mind to contemplating Ille Glaive. The city was set at the head of a narrow plain. Furrow lines in the snow, tarred-log farmhouses, and trails of blue woodsmoke told that the surrounding land was used mostly for crops. A sparse forest, heavily logged, reached westward around the farmland, and the low craggy peaks of the Bitter Hills stretched northeast into the Bannen, Ganmiddich, and Croser clanholds.\n\nNow that the brilliant light of sunset had faded, Ille Glaive looked older, smaller, and less glorious than it had when Raif had first seen it. Where Spire Vanis had the hard lines, white mortar, and precision-cut stones of a young city built by a single generation of masons, Ille Glaive had the layered, worn, disorderly look of something built over centuries by many different hands. Unlike Spire Vanis, Ille Glaive did not live solely within its walls, and pothouses, stables, barracks, covered markets, pieces of freestanding stonework, broken arches, and lightning-cracked towers spilled from the split skin of its east wall.\n\nAngus guided the bay from the road and headed toward the clutter of buildings and markets. Raif smelled woodsmoke and scorched fat, and then the faintly sulfurous odor of hot springs. The wind carried broken bits of sound: a baby crying, meat sizzling on a grill, a pair of dogs scrapping, and the hiss and clang of water forced through pipes. As they approached the first line of buildings, Angus motioned for Raif to dismount. Angus had scraped the oil and wax from his face with the blunt edge of his knife and now began to unravel the leather jesses around his ears.\n\nSnow was light on the ground, and Raif found walking a relief. He understood why Angus wanted him on foot: Two armed men on horseback drew looks. Discreetly he slid the scabbard containing Tem's sword along his belt, tucking it into the shadows of his coat. He didn't need Angus to tell him to avoid everyone's eyes, and he saw little save the boot leather of the first few people he passed.\n\nAngus led them through the market, tracing a fox's path of quick turns and sudden stops. Timber stalls, roofed with hide or woven spruce branches, reminded Raif of the clan markets held on the Dhoonehold each spring. Many of the same items were for sale: handknives with carved boxwood handles, dried fishskins for bow backing, grouse feathers already bound and cut for fletchings, archers' thumb rings, horn bracelets set with Blackhail silver, pots of beeswax, neat's-foot oil and bright yellow tung oil imported in birds' craniums all the way from the Far South, lynx pelts and sea otter pelts, brilliantly colored leathers from a city called Leiss, amber beads threaded on caribou sinew, shimmering purple silks from Hanatta, blue mussels, dried mushrooms, green seal meat, pickled sweetbreads, whole eider ducks, wheels of marbled yellow cheese, warm beer thickened with eggs, hot sausages stuffed with unknowable meats, and fat white onions roasted until they were black.\n\nRaif's mouth watered. Food had been sparse and cold for the last three days. Angus showed only passing interest in the food and continued weaving through the aisles in the manner of a man strolling idly through a market. \"Here they come,\" Angus said under his breath. \"Don't look up. I'll do the talking.\"\n\nRaif, who had been looking longingly at a roasted leg of lamb crusted with white pepper and thyme, had no idea who they were. Slowing down to match Angus' pace, he found something of interest to stare at on the toe of his boot.\n\nFootsteps, two pairs of them, pounded against the hard-froze mud. Raif heard the dull ring of metal, thinly couched, then watched as the tip of a knotted willow stick was jabbed at the bay's coffin bone.\n\n\"What 'ave we here, Fat Bollick?\" came a low, rasping voice.\n\n\"Newcomers, Nouse. Poor if ye look to their clothes, rich if ye ken their horses.\"\n\nRaif glanced up. Two men wearing the white of Ille Glaive with the black, red, and steel tears at their breast stood at the bay's head. Nouse, the man with the stick, had the small eyes and shiny black head of a magpie. Fat Bollick had the plumped-up wrinkly look of fingertips soaked too long in water.\n\nAngus addressed himself to Nouse. \"Good eve to you, gentlemen. If the Master cares for tribute, then he'll gladly let us pass.\" Somehow, despite both his hands resting on the reins in plain view, Angus managed to generate the sound of coins clicking together as he spoke.\n\n\"The Master don't need no tribute,\" Fat Bollick said. \"He takes it simply because he can.\"\n\nInclining his head, Angus once again addressed his words to Nouse. \"Naturally I didn't mean to imply that the Master has need of funds. I just want it to be known that my purse is overheavy, and I would count a favor in its lightening.\"\n\nNouse's eyes narrowed as he stroked the oily plumage of his beard. \"What d'you ken, Fat Bollick?\"\n\nFat Bollick shrugged. \"The man speaks with respect, and I'd be inclined to lighten his purse and let him pass. Though I must say the girl at his back worries me. We wouldn't want no foreign fevers brought into the Glaive.\"\n\nAngus glanced over his shoulder at Ash. \"Her? Fevered? I wish it were so. She's as soaked as a brewer's rag... and Maker help me if my lady wife ever hears about it, for she's handy with her skinning knife and well inclined to use it.\"\n\nNouse prodded Ash sharply with his stick. \"Potted, you say?\"\n\n\"Aye.\" Angus' voice was level, but Raif saw how his knuckles whitened around the reins.\n\n\"She smells like it,\" Fat Bollick said. \"I say we take the Master's tribute and let 'em pass.\"\n\nNouse's sharp little eyes narrowed as he looked at Angus. \"I've seen you here afore.\"\n\n\"Aye, and you'll likely see me again. And each time you do, you and the Master will end up a wee bit richer for it.\" Angus peeled his hand from the reins and reached inside his coat for his purse. It was the size of a sheep's bladder and bunched full with coins. He threw it, not gently, at Nouse, who caught it like a punch to his chest. \"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a daughter in need of sobering, an apprentice in need of a wenching, and my own handsome face in need of a good shave and some wifely fussing.\" With that Angus kicked the bay's flanks and started forward. \"Kindly give my regards to the Master.\"\n\nThe willow stick twitched in Nouse's left hand as he weighed the purse with his right. Fat Bollick made eye signals to him. Nouse's gaze dropped to the purse. Finally he cracked his stick on the bay's flank. \"Aye, go on then. Pass. Me and Fat Bollick will be watching ye. Piss too high against a wall and we'll know it.\"\n\nRaif led Moose past the two men-at-arms, his gaze carefully avoiding Nouse. He didn't know what to make of the exchange among the three men. The Master of Ille Glaive ruled the cityhold from the Lake Keep, and Angus said he was more a king than the Surlord of Spire Vanis, as the title of Master was passed from father to son. Threavish Cutler likes to call himself the King on the Lake, Angus had said just that morning as the trail they traveled joined the Glaive Road. And his sons and sworn men call themselves thanelords. Mark my words, one of these days old Threavish is going to take all the gold he's collected in tributes, melt it in a pot, and forge himself a crown. A big one, mind, one large enough to cover his swollen head.\n\n\"That was easy enough,\" Angus said once they were out of earshot of Nouse and Fat Bollick. \"Cost me my purse and saddle last time.\"\n\nAnnoyed at Angus' humor, Raif said, \"I wouldn't have given them anything.\"\n\nAngus sighed, not heavily. \"Lad, you have a lot to learn. Those two practitioners were playing a well-turned tune. They knew we wanted to slip into the city unnoticed; we'd have gone the way of Shallow Gate otherwise. They simply made us pay for the privilege.\"\n\nRaif made no reply. He was pretty sure the tune would have changed in an instant if Nouse had prodded Ash a fraction harder with his stick. \"Let's get Ash somewhere safe.\"\n\nAngus gave him a hard look. \"You're going to have to get used to the way things are done in cities, Raif, like it or not. Stove laws, rights of passage, due respect: They all vanish quicker than snow on a grate the minute you leave the clanholds. Don't think those two Dhoonesmen who forced us from the road did any different. Their tribute alone will have been enough to keep Fat Bollick in beer and sausage for a week.\"\n\nHeat came to Raif's face. \"They would have taken the gate.\"\n\n\"Would they now? Two clansmen armed to the jaws?\" Angus shook his head for a long time. \"No gatekeeper worth his rations would let a pair of war-dressed Dhoonesmen in the city, not the way the clanholds are at the moment. Nay, laddie. Nouse and Fat Bollick would have taken them for a grand sum.\"\n\nRaif pulled far ahead of Angus, not wanting to hear any more. All the earlier shame he had felt from being overlooked by the Dhoonesmen came back, causing hard knots in his chest. He was so close to the clanholds... a day's hard ride would take him into Ganmiddich territory. It was said that Crab Ganmiddich, the Ganmiddich chief, could row out to his island in the Wolf River that was known as the Inch, climb the watch tower there, and see the lights of Ille Glaive at night. Raif raised his chin and looked north. The sky above the Bitter Hills was already black and full of stars.\n\n\"Through the arch, Raif.\"\n\nAcknowledging Angus' direction with a curt nod, Raif led Moose through a timber-supported cleft in the wall and entered the city of Ille Glaive. The light level dropped immediately, turning late sunset into darkest night. Raif paid scant attention to his surroundings, heeding only the directions Angus gave at irregular intervals regarding turns and crossings and places to be avoided. Ille Glaive was old, old. It smelled of passing centuries, mildew, butchered carcasses, and slowly rotting things. Roads were cobbled and seldom straight. Sandstone buildings were worn, crumbling, propped up by massive bloodwood stangs, and leaking smoke and lamplight from a thousand cracks and chinks. Mazes of hog-backed bridges connected battlements to ring towers and stone barracks, and far to the west the leadcapped domes of the Lake Keep caught the last of the sun's red light.\n\nRaif had little mind for any of it. The only thing that drew his attention was the figure hunched at Angus' back. Ash's breathing grew heavier as they made their way along streets no wider than two pigs. When Raif drew close he heard air scraping through her throat. After a time Angus halted and hobbled her arms with rope. He said nothing to Raif, but his face was grave and his movements were hard on himself and the bay. When they started up again, Ash's wrists strained against the sheepskin tethers, sawing back and forth until the skin began to redden and break. Raif quickened his pace.\n\n\"Here. Through the iron gate.\"\n\nThe sound of Angus' voice pulled Raif's mind only so far away from Ash. He barely noticed the stone wall and the gated archway they had arrived at, and he dealt clumsily with the heavy bolt and chain on the gate, making much noise. A dimly lit courtyard lay beyond. A narrow three-storied manse, its stonework hidden by the hard clay of five hundred years of bird droppings and a rack of dead vines, commanded the fourth wall. The manse's windows were tightly shuttered, and its door was banded with cords of iron that were, Raif noticed, the only thing in sight that looked to be well tended. Angus bade Raif go forward and knock on the door while he dismounted and saw to Ash.\n\nRaif held his raven lore in his fist as he thumped the wood. He didn't like the enclosed space of the courtyard.\n\nThe door opened silently, gliding on well-oiled hinges. Momentarily dazzled by the sour light of a goose-fat lantern, Raif took a step back, his hand dropping automatically to Tem's sword. A moment later he made out the slight, bow-shouldered form of a very old woman. Robed in dark blue wool with a cap of coarse netting pinned against her scalp, she reminded Raif of the clan dowagers who always dressed plainly when washing the dead. Her cataract-stained gaze traveled from Raif's face to the hilt of his sword. Immediately feeling foolish, Raif snapped his hand away.\n\n\"Cloistress Gannet.\" Angus pushed past Raif and nodded curtly to the old woman. Ash was pressed close against his chest.\n\n\"It's been forty years since I last rendered souls in a cloister, Angus Lok. I have no claim to any title you give me.\" The old woman's voice was dry and hard. The hand that held the lamp did not shake. \"Come, enter. I see you have brought a sick birdie for the master.\"\n\nThe cloistress led them along a dark corridor toward the back of the house, then showed them into a room where a fire burned with tired red flames. Angus laid Ash on a rug near the fire. Raif knelt by the hearth and warmed his hands before he touched her. He did not hear the cloistress leave.\n\n\"What is this? What is this?\" A twisted creature with misshapen legs and too many bones in his chest walked into the room with the aid of two sticks. Click, click, click. Sharp green eyes assessed Raif in less then an instant, then moved swiftly to Angus and Ash. A bone grown high in the man's shoulder twitched. \"I am not in the business of receiving visitors after dark. Warm yourselves, then begone. You shall get no more fire out of me.\"\n\n\"Heritas, this is my nephew Raif Sevrance.\" Angus spoke in a voice Raif had never heard before, stilted and full of emphasis.\n\nLevering his body around, Heritas Cant adjusted the curve of his neck and fixed Raif with a hard stare. Uncomfortable, Raif looked away. His gaze rested on Heritas Cant's pale, bone-filled hand. The knuckles were out of alignment. Two had twisted around completely and now faced downward along with his palm.\n\nAs he straightened up, Raif caught the end of a look passed between Angus and Heritas Cant, a message-filled look, where the crippled man looked grim and Angus appealed to him like a puppy who had dug up some piece of nastiness from the garden and brought it into the house.\n\n\"I suppose you'll be wanting supper?\" Cant said, each word a little stab with a knife. \"And this late, too. You won't get anything hot, mind. I won't have the oven fired for a ranger, a clansman, and a sick bit of a girl. You'll have to make do with cold mutton, thinly sliced, and such crusts as I could not eat myself. Woman!\"\n\nThe cloistress appeared in the doorway.\n\n\"Supper for these people. Light no extra tallow and serve them only with the third best bowls.\"\n\nThe cloistress said nothing, merely inclined her head.\n\n\"And watch your own trips as you go, woman. Come here but once to bring the food, then not again. I will not have the carpet worn by undue steppings.\" Heritas Cant turned to Raif. \"Nor will I have the heat from the fire hogged by just one man.\"\n\nRaif pressed his lips to a line and moved a few paces from the fire. He didn't like this petty little man.\n\nCant clicked his sticks on the plank floor as soon as the cloistress was gone. \"So you've brought me something sick to look at, Angus Lok. I trust she is not fevered, for I'll have no catching sickness in my house.\" As he spoke, he labored across the room, making his way toward Ash. His movements reminded Raif of an aging black bear that Drey had shot at distance one summer in the Oldwood. Drey's arrow had found the bear's lower spine, and the creature had lurched into the undergrowth before either he or Drey had chance to kill it.\n\nTo cover up the awkwardness of Heritas bending to tend to Ash, Angus spoke. \"Heritas is treasurer of all monies levered from the Old Sull Gate.\"\n\nHeritas blasted air through his nostrils. \"And they give me nothing but a copper on the crow-weight for my troubles. More gold rubs off in the gatekeepers' pockets in a single afternoon than I see in a whole month of counting coin.\" Heritas Cant's good hand traveled along Ash's body as he spoke, pressing the base of her throat, the hollows beneath her eyes, her stomach, and the muscles in her shoulders and sides.\n\nRaif feigned interest in the topic of conversation, though in truth all he was concerned with was watching Heritas Cant's hands on Ash. \"Why is it called the Old Sull Gate?\"\n\n\"Because that's what it's always been known as.\" Heritas Cant slipped something between Ash's lips, something dark and brittle like a dried leaf. \"Master Threavish Cutler would have it otherwise; he's tried calling it King's Gate, Lake Gate, and even Heron Gate, after his damn fool of a brother who died in waist-deep snow battling a dozen Crosermen on disputed ground. Cutler's aim, besides appeasing his own undeniable grief, was to make everyone forget that this city once belonged to the Sull.\"\n\n\"But I thought\u2014\"\n\n\"You thought what?\" Heritas Cant sent Raif a withering look and then answered his own question. \"That Ille Glaive has always counted itself one of the Mountain Cities? That the Sull have always lived in their forests in the east and never built anything more ambitious than a stone redoubt and a ring of cairns? No. The Sull were the first to cross the Ranges and settle the Northern Territories. Before the clans and the driven ranks marched north, the Sull came here, to the shores of the Black Spill, and built a fine city around the springs. That city still stands today if one cares to look. It exists at the base of old buildings, beneath thickly worked plaster and hastily laid tiles. Aboveground there is nothing\u2014the towers, statues, and earthwork have all gone, systematically wrecked by a long line of Threavish Cutler's ilk\u2014but belowground, at the heart of Ille Glaive, lie Sull foundations, Sull tunnels, and Sull stone.\"\n\nRaif didn't care for Heritas Cant's tone of voice. If the man hadn't been a cripple, he would have dearly liked to hit him. For Ash's sake, he made an effort. \"So the lords of Ille Glaive forced the Sull from the city?\"\n\nHeritas Cant took his left hand from Ash's stomach and massaged the misshapen hump of bones that was his right wrist. \"Yes and no. A siege took place, many battles were fought, but in the end the thanelords of Ille Glaive earned their tears' worth of Sull blood cheaply. The Sull have demons that are not of man's making. They fought for this city and would have held it if they hadn't had older, more pressing battles to win. They as good as gave this city to the thanelords and their leader, Dunness Fey... and it wasn't the first time such a gain has been made at the Sull's expense. Yet we should all pray that it be the last.\"\n\nRaif felt his face burn as Heritas spoke. He was angry, but there was something more here. Almost against his will, Raif's hand moved to touch his raven lore. Heritas Cant's sharp green eyes caught the action even as Raif stopped himself short.\n\n\"What is your lore?\"\n\nIt was a rude question, and Heritas Cant knew it. When a clansman met someone from another clan, he would never ask him outright about his lore. That sort of knowledge always came secondhand. Raif considered not answering. Heritas Cant was something unknown; just because Angus trusted him didn't mean that he should. Yet something else struck him about the small, broken man: He had known Raif was a clansman. Angus had not introduced him as such, and Raif knew his clothes and ornaments no longer proclaimed him as clan\u2014the Dhoonesmen's indifference on the Glaive Road had told him that. So, did Heritas Cant know him as clan because he'd seized upon something subtle like his accent or his manner, or had Angus discussed his sister's family in this house once before? Either way Raif found little reassurance. He glanced at Cant. The man's shrewd, painsculpted face glowed like polished wood in the firelight.\n\n\"I am raven born,\" Raif said.\n\n\"Watcher of the Dead.\" Cant clicked his sticks. \"'Tis a hard lore. It will drive you fierce and use your flesh and leave you little but loss in payment.\"\n\nRaif did not move; he neither blinked nor breathed nor trembled. The words felt like a sentence, and it seemed all he could do was stand and accept them. The same nameless fear he'd felt moments earlier when Cant spoke about the Sull filled his chest.\n\nAngus shifted his weight, causing a board to creak beneath him. \"Come now, Heritas. You need not be so bleak. Ravens are clever beasties. They're the only birds who can live out a full winter in the Want. Strong, they are, with wings like knives and voices to match. True, they're not the prettiest creatures, but if the clan guide gave out lores on looks alone, we'd all be kittens and doe-eyed... does.\"\n\nHeritas Cant had stretched his dead hand upon Ash's forehead as Angus spoke. Now he arranged the twisted fingers with his good hand, spreading them wide, into her hair, over the bridge of her nose, and across her eyebrows. \"True enough,\" he said as he worked. \"The raven is a clever bird. It favors shadows and waits upon death.\"\n\nWith those words Cant changed, becoming for a moment something else, as if a heavy substance, like molten rock, had been poured into his body and then flashhardened in an instant. The dead hand that could only be moved with another's help gripped Ash's flesh. Cant's mouth opened, and he uttered something that was not speech.\n\nAsh's entire body moved toward him. Her head rose from the floor. Her mouth gasped open, revealing the dead leaf on her tongue. Raif saw the tendons on her neck and wrists working, straining. The stench of smelted metal was suddenly there in the room, so strong it could be tasted as well as smelled. Pinpoints of spittle frothed from Heritas Cant's lips. His sticks clattered to the floor. All was still for the briefest moment, then Cant swayed and nearly fell and Ash slumped back onto the rug.\n\nAngus rushed to Cant's side, supporting him, helping him rise, leading him to a chair.\n\nRaif paid them no heed. He crossed to where Ash lay and knelt in the warm space Cant had just vacated. Even as he reached out to touch her, her eyes opened.\n\nRelief flooded over him, leaving him feeling drunk and breathless and so stupidly pleased, he could have laid down Tem's sword and danced above the blade. All talk of ravens and death was forgotten. Swiftly he gave thanks to the Stone Gods; they were jealous and demanding and might take something back if not appeased. Ash was awake. Her large gray eyes, first shown to him weeks ago by the guidestone, looked and saw and recognized.\n\n\"You're safe,\" Raif said. \"We're in a friend's house.\" He hesitated, knowing their peculiar relationship demanded that he always tell her how long she had been asleep. He didn't want to upset her with the truth, yet he would not lie to her, either. \"You've been asleep for four days.\"\n\nAsh's eyes looked into his. Her lips trembled.\n\nWhat had she been through? He found he did not like the thought of her suffering. Slowly, deliberately, he bent down and gathered her up, pulling her fast against his chest. She was so cold it frightened him.\n\n\"Easy, Raif.\" Angus put a hand on his shoulder. \"Let her be.\"\n\nRaif shook his head. \"I will not let them take her again.\"\n\nCrouching, Angus brought his face close to Raif's. He studied whatever was showing there for a long moment and then said in a weary voice, \"And so it begins.\"\n\nA quarter passed before Raif could finally be persuaded to let her go.\nTHIRTY-TWO\n\nNamed Beasts\n\n\"I HAVE PUT WHAT WARDINGS I can between Ash and that which calls her. Later, I shall do more. Yet know this: The Bound Men and Beasts of the Blind will not be held off indefinitely. They know what Ash is, and they will not let her rest until she gives them what they crave.\"\n\nHeritas Cant's wheel-broken body rested in a chair of hard black wood. An hour had passed since Ash had awakened. A light supper of watered beer, bread, and roasted mutton had been eaten by all, during which Cant had complained heatedly about the number of guests, the amount of food eaten, the crumbs wasted, the gristle spat, the strain on the dying fire, and the wear on his rugs, chairs, wooden bowls, and spoons. After supper he had called the cloistress to him and informed her that he was taking his guests \"to the warren\" to show them his collection of foreign coins. The cloistress had bobbed her head sharply, like a sparrow plucking insects from air, yet even as her face and chin pointed downward her milky gaze had followed them from the room.\n\nThe warren was located at the far edge of the plot of land that lay at the rear of Heritas Cant's house. Constructed entirely underground, it reminded Raif of the rendering pits in the badlands, dug so that thirty head of elk could be sweated at one time. Its mud walls were braced with crossing timbers as big as a full-grown man, and its ceiling was formed from whole basswood logs mounted on brackets. Things grew in the spaces between the logs: silvery weeds that moved with every breath Raif took. The floor was good firm stone, blue slate, and much worn. The air above it smelled of wet soil and old age.\n\nHeritas said it had been built half a century earlier by the last owner of the house, an eccentric man who had been convinced that one day headless demons would walk the earth and only those living beneath it would be saved. Raif had laughed. Angus had suggested that the man's real motive may well have been to get some peace from his wife. Heritas Cant had greeted both reactions with ill humor.\n\nHe was ill humored now, sitting awkwardly in his chair at the head of a broad oak table laid with chained books, rolled hides, and copper tablets as thin as blades. Mud glistened on the walls behind his back, oozing softly as the goose-fat lantern warmed the chamber.\n\n\"I don't understand,\" Ash said. \"What is the Blind?\"\n\nHeritas Cant and Angus exchanged a glance. Raif watched his uncle's face carefully, trying to see beyond Angus' guard of good humor. Angus and Ash were sitting close, sharing a bench across the table from Cant. Raif sat with his back against the far wall, glad of his place in the background in the dim low-ceilinged space.\n\n\"The Blind is a place of darkness,\" Heritas said. \"Some would call it the underworld, others would say it is the boundary where hell and earth meet. More learned men will tell you that it is a place of holding, a prison if you like, where beings that should never have been brought into existence are walled in by the bricks and mortar of ancient spells.\" A pause followed, where Heritas settled his crippled legs into a more comfortable position against the chair. When he resumed speaking his voice was sharp with pain, but as he continued, everything\u2014the chamber, the mud walls, the light from the lantern, and even his own pain\u2014fell away.\n\n\"The Blind is home to those who should be dead. Things live there who crave the light and the warmth of the world we inhabit. Hunger is all they know. Need is all they feel. For a thousand years none amongst them have reached the light, but still they do not forget or stop craving. Desire only deepens with time. The Blind is as cold and empty as eternity; it is fed by the dark rivers of hell, held in place by spells so terrible and lasting that closeness to its boundaries can kill.\"\n\n\"The creatures who wait there are chained in blood. They hate living men with all the substance of their souls. Once they were human. Once they walked our world as men, yet dark times came and some would say the world cracked open and through the breach rode the Endlords. They have many names, these lords: Lords of Shadow and Lords of Night, the Unleashed, the Condemned, the Shadow Warriors, and the Takers of Men. One touch is all it takes for an Endlord to claim a man's body and soul. Their flesh bleeds darkness. Cut them open and the black substance of evil leaks out. In the Time of Shadows they massed great warhosts that stretched from sea to sea. They were terrible to behold, human yet not human, wearing the faces of men and women they had claimed, stinking of death, their eyes burning black and red, their bodies shifting shadows beneath them. The Endlords rode at the head of their armies, great beastmen on black horses, with weapons forged from voided steel that reflected no light.\n\n\"It is said that they were birthed at the same time as the gods, and if it is the gods' purpose to make life, then it is the Endlords' purpose to destroy it. Make no mistake, the world will end, perhaps not for a thousand thousand years, but when it does it will be the Endlords who will dance upon the wreckage.\n\n\"They ride the earth every thousand years to claim more men for their armies. When a man or woman is touched by them, they become Unmade. Not dead, never dead, but something different, cold and craving. The shadows enter them, snuffing the light from their eyes and the warmth from their hearts. Everything is lost. Their memories leave them first, seeping from them like blood from skinned flesh. The ability to think and understand comes next and with it all emotion except need. Blood and skin and bone is lost, changed into something the Sull call maer dan: shadow-flesh.\n\n\"These men and women are known as Shadow Wearers, the Bound Men, Wralls, and the Taken. The Endlords have taken others, too, beasts from forgotten ages, things that are half man and half monster, giants, bloodwraiths... things that no longer walk this earth.\n\n\"All have but one memory left: the knowledge they were once counted amongst the living. This is the core of their existence. It is what drives them to battle... and to hate.\"\n\n\"There was a time when the Shadow Wearers and their masters rode unchecked in our world. Their numbers massed and their power cumulated and the long night of darkness began. Terrible wars were fought. Wars so ancient and devastating that only scraps of their history remain. Wars of Blood and Shadow, the Ruinwars, Wars of the Blind. Hundreds of thousands of lives were lost Generations of sorcerer-warriors were massacred. Losses became so great that those fighting could see no end, only the complete and utter silence of destruction. That's when the Hearth of Ten came together to bring an end to the wars and banish the Shadow Wearers and the lords who had made them, exile them to a place where their powers were rendered futile and they could no longer walk the earth.\"\n\n\"I do not know if the Hearth of Ten created the Blind or found it. Some say the Blind is where the Endlords first came from, that they originated in a place beyond the boundaries of our world and that the Hearth of Ten did nothing but drive them back. Others will tell you that the Blind is wholly the creation of man, that it is as artificial as a glass eye and as monstrous as a cage riven with inward-pointing spikes.\"\n\n\"One thing is certain, though: The Hearth of Ten sealed the Blind. The ten greatest bloodlines of sorcerer-warriors came together and worked upon the sealing for ten generations. Spells and dark sorceries, heavy with kin-blood, thick with time's passage, shared sacrifices and loss, were woven over the course of three hundred years. The Hearth of Ten created new sorceries as they worked, inventing new methods of seeing, new ways of combining their powers, and massing them over time.\n\n\"By such methods they built a wall around the Blind, such a wall as had never been seen or imagined, one that could never again be duplicated, whose secrets died with the generations of sorcerer-warriors who had created it, their blood, bones, ashes, and souls ground into the substance of the wall.\n\n\"And so the Blind was sealed and remains sealed, and those beings that feed on men abide there, remembering, waiting, living quarter-lives in an absence of light. The Blind is their prison and may one day be their tomb, and no man, woman, or sorcerer may go there. No one except a Reach.\"\n\nAt some point while he spoke, Heritas Cant had stopped being a crippled man with stunted, misshapen legs and a listing spine and become a powerful sorcerer instead. Now, finished, he set his green eyes upon Ash and watched to see what she would do. He shrank as he waited. The distance between his shoulder blades contracted, his chest sagged, and the skin on his hands settled, revealing white ridges of bone.\n\nHe is two people, Raif thought, one broken and twisted like his body, and one powerful and in pain and not often shown.\n\nNo one spoke. Ash sat and suffered Heritas Cant's gaze as if it were a necessary torture. Since she had been wakened an hour earlier she had said little and seemed glad to sit and listen. Now all eyes were upon her as she readied herself to speak.\n\nRaif kept his face still, as he had done all through Cant's speech. He would not show his fear to this man... or Ash. Especially not Ash.\n\nFinally she moved, rocking forward on the bench so that her face caught the light. Angus' hand came up to touch her wrist, but she shook it away as if it were a moth or a bit of dust. Gray eyes met and held Cant's gaze, and then she spoke a command. \"Tell me what I am.\"\n\nHeritas' good hand came up to support his drooping jaw. A thin line of drool slid along his chin. \"To know what a Reach is you must understand where the Blind lies in relation to our world. The two exist alongside each other and within each other, yet remain wholly separate places. They are divided by a gray plain, a no-man's-land known as the borderlands or the Gray Marches.\"\n\n\"The Gray Marches,\" Ash repeated, showing her teeth.\n\n\"Yes. March is an old word meaning the boundary between lands.\" Heritas Cant's smile was knowing. Angus had not told him who Ash was, yet it was obvious he had already worked it out. With a little click of his sticks, he carried on. \"These borderlands hold the Blind apart from our world. Powerful sorcerers can enter them, some may even catch a glimpse of the Blindwall, but no one but a Reach can know them truly. And no one but a Reach can lay her hands upon the wall and breach it.\"\n\nAsh flinched at the word breach. Angus muttered something to whatever gods he believed in. Raif concentrated on the mud walls behind Heritas Cant's back, watching them ooze and drip and deteriorate as he imagined putting his fist into Cant's face. The cripple was taking pleasure in this. His green eyes glinted as he took another breath and spoke.\n\n\"A Reach is born every thousand years, a man or woman who can enter the dead space of the borderlands, approach the Blindwall, and free the creatures who lie beyond it.\"\n\nWhen he was sure the anger had left his eyes, Raif turned to look at Ash. Almost she didn't shake. Her hands were clenched on the table before her, the tendons on her wrists pulsing. Slowly her gaze rose to meet his. A question filled her large gray eyes, and even before he fully understood what it was she asked, Raif answered with a swift jab of his jaw.\n\nAcknowledging his reply with a smile not quite cool enough to hide her relief, she turned back to Heritas Cant and said, \"So you think me a Reach?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you think I was born to free the creatures in the Blind?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And if I tell you that for the past six months I have dreamed of creatures calling me, begging me to reach out and help them, then you will tell me I have been listening to the creatures of the Blind?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nA muscle at the corner of Ash's lips began to quiver. She worked quickly to stop it, white teeth jabbing at lipflesh. \"Answer me this, then, Heritas Cant. If I am not the first Reach to be born, why is the Blindwall still intact?\"\n\nAngus and Heritas Cant exchanged a glance. Heritas shifted in his chair, his good hand dealing awkwardly with his legs. When he spoke his voice was peevish. \"The wall is still in place for several reasons. First of all, breaks can be sealed if swift action is taken and certain conditions are met. Second, not all Reaches have lived to an age where they could cause a breach. And third, a place exists where a Reach can discharge the power that builds within her without threatening the integrity of the wall.\"\n\nRaif frowned. Compared with Cant's other answers, this one was short and evasive. Raif thought of asking why it was that some Reaches didn't live long enough to cause a breach, then decided against it. All possible answers worried him.\n\nAsh did not reply straightaway. Her fingers traced along the table's edge, fingernails collecting wax. Finally she said, \"Do I have no choice but to discharge this... power that is building inside of me?\"\n\nHeritas Cant nodded. \"You are the Reach and you have newly come into womanhood and by all rights you should have caused the breach by now. Great power masses within you; I felt it when I laid my hands upon your skin. It pushes with cold force, displacing organs, feeding upon your blood, forcing the air from your lungs. It must be released or it will destroy you.\"\n\n\"But she has fought it so far,\" Angus cried.\n\n\"Yes, and look what it has done to her. She is being eaten from inside. Her body is skin and bone, her skin is yellowing with jaundice, her breathing is shallow. And you cannot see what I have felt: the punctured kidney, the compressed chest organs, the poisons cumulating in her liver, the rapid beat of her heart. Soon her mouth will run dry, her gums will turn gray and crack, her eyes will sink into their sockets, her hair and fingernails will\u2014\"\n\n\"Enough!\" Raif stood. In his anger, he sent his chair cracking against the wall. Angus and Ash turned to look at him. Heritas Cant regarded him with interest, as if he were seeing some new species of insect for the very first time. Raif sent a look to wipe all fascination from his face. \"Tell us what we must do.\"\n\nAgain, a certain unspoken communication passed between Angus and Cant. Raif hardly cared. Will you help me in this? Ash had asked him across the room moments earlier. Yes, he had replied in an instant.\n\nCrossing the room, Raif was aware of the size and health of his own body compared with the wheel-broken shell that was Heritas Cant. He saw envy and even the cold sparkle of fear in the man's green eyes, and he could not say he was sorry for it. Drawing himself up to his full height, he sent a hand down for his sword.\n\nHeritas Cant shrank back.\n\n\"Raif,\" Angus warned.\n\n\"Stay out of this, Angus,\" Raif said without looking around. \"If I were to harm anyone over this matter, it would be you. You knew it all from the start, from that very first moment outside Vaingate. That's why you saved her: to bring her here to Cant.\"\n\n\"No.\" Angus rose. Raif heard the soft scrape of chair legs, saw Angus' growing shadow on the wall. \"I moved to save Ash for other reasons. I\u2014\"\n\n\"I know what you mean to say, Angus. You have your reasons yet cannot speak them.\" Raif turned to face his uncle. \"Don't think that just because you switch a subject or avoid it completely you can stop me from thinking on it. You are my uncle and my respect is your due, but I will not stand by and let you deliver Ash into this man's hands.\" Only as he spoke did he realize the truth of what he said: Heritas Cant did want Ash. With all his broken bones and misjointed limbs he suddenly looked like a spider to Raif.\n\nAngus shook his head softly, though his eyes were hard gold. \"No one wants Ash harmed here. No one. Heritas has told us of the dangers, and he does not lie. Now we must find a way to save her. You heard what he said\u2014she will die if we do not act.\"\n\nRaif waved his uncle's words away. He believed Heritas Cant had spoken the truth\u2014some of it\u2014but he also believed that Cant was more concerned about a possible breach to the Blindwall than he was about Ash. Turning to Cant, he said, \"What is the name of this place where she must go to release her power safely? I will take her there.\"\n\n\"There is not much time,\" Heritas Cant said, anger at being forced to cower in his chair making his voice shrill. \"You have seen her blackouts for yourself. These will only get worse. Her health will only get worse. As I said earlier, I can set wardings to keep the voices at bay, give drugs to steel her mind, but these measures will prove effective for only so long. This place lies several weeks to the north. It is not an easy journey at any time of year, but now, in winter...\" Cant clicked his sticks. \"Gods spare us all.\"\n\n\"Just tell us where it is.\" Ash sounded tired. Raif saw where she had scratched the varnish from the table with her nails.\n\n\"I'm not sure of the exact location of the Cavern of Black Ice... .\"\n\n\"Black ice?\" Ash said, paling visibly.\n\n\"Yes. The cavern lies beyond the Storm Margin in the west. I've heard tell that it sits beneath Mount Flood, in the crease where the mountain and the Hollow River meet, ten days south of Ice Trapper territory.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Angus asked Ash, ignoring what Cant was saying completely.\n\nAsh lowered her head. \"I've had nightmares about a cavern for as long as I can remember. Terrible dreams, where I'm trapped or crushed or lost.\"\n\n\"And were the walls of this cavern formed from black ice?\" Cant's green eyes glowed with interest. Ash nodded, and he made a little satisfied sound. \"Then your dreams have been showing you how to survive. This cavern is as old as the Blind, and may indeed be made from the same substance. I cannot be sure. What I do know is that it had been used by Reaches before you. It is said to absorb a Reach's power, hold it within its walls, and stop it from causing a crack in the Blindwall.\"\n\nAsh didn't look convinced. She glanced at Raif, but he could offer her no help. \"But the nightmares...\"\n\nCant made a calming gesture with his hand. When he spoke his voice was surprisingly soft. \"The creatures in the Blind can infiltrate your dreams; that is how they call to you. Every time you fall asleep you are vulnerable to them. Now that they sense you are close to releasing your power, they have grown bolder and have laid siege to your waking mind as well. Their weapon is fear. You have fought them so far, bravely, with such strength as I can hardly imagine.\" With a small shrug of his shoulders, Cant highlighted his own physical weakness. \"Do not let them stop you from doing what you must.\"\n\nRaif leaned against the table. Suddenly he didn't know what to make of Heritas Cant. Nothing was straightforward here. Secrets and traps lay behind every word. There was truth, but it was not the whole truth, and he wondered how much Cant was keeping to himself.\n\nSmoke from the lantern rose and shivered like a fifth presence in the room. Raif watched as Ash breathed it in as she spoke. \"If I go to this cavern, will it be the end of this... this thing that I'm part of?\"\n\nCant sighed heavily, the nostrils on his still fine nose flaring to two dark holes. \"Yes and no. The power that is building inside you has only one purpose, and once it is safely discharged you will never know its like again. Yet you will still be a Reach; that will not change. You will be able to walk the borderlands at will, hear and sense the creatures that live there, and your flesh will become rahkar dan, Reach-flesh, which is held sacred by the Sull. Why, I do not know. Why Reaches exist, I cannot tell you. Perhaps the sorcery that originally sealed the Blind was flawed. Perhaps it is impossible to build a prison without a key.\" Cant smiled briefly. \"Perhaps one day when you ask me that same question I may have an answer that suits us both. One thing I am sure of, though, is that if the Endlords and their Taken are freed from the Blind they will destroy us all. They walk in death, they are sustained by hate, and their memories last as long as the sun.\n\n\"Yes, Asarhia March. You do well to look afraid. I, who have spent a lifetime learning about these matters, am more afraid than you can see. I know the names of the beasts. I know what is in there, some of it, and even that small portion of knowledge burns like the fires of hell in my mind. So travel north along the Storm Margin with this young man who has broken one of my chairs and does not trust me, go and wade through waist-high snow, crawl over black ice, and release your power safely. And when you're done, come back to me, and then perhaps I'll tell you about the creatures of the Blind, recite a list of their names and their deeds. For if I told you now, I would only be unburdening myself at your expense. And although I am a sick man, with little but knowledge and counting to live for, I seldom act out of spite.\"\n\nGreen eyes made brilliant by speech and strong emotions glanced briefly, accusingly, at Raif. \"'Tis better that I know much and you know little. Let me worry and you act.\"\n\nRaif felt blood pumping up through his neck to his face. He didn't know if Cant's words were meant for him or Ash. Either way he felt frightened and stirred. He wanted to be gone, now, away from Cant and the spinning silk of his knowledge, away from Angus and his hidden motives, back to the wide-open spaces of the clanholds. He was boxed in by secrets. Getting at the truth seemed an impossible task; Cant was too clever, and Angus was too well practiced. Together they were bent on controlling Ash and probably him as well.\n\nThe door to the chamber looked inviting; one push and it would open, one short walk through the adjoining tunnel and he would be outside in the night. Punish Moose, and he'd be in the clanholds in less than a day. Blackhail would never have him back, but Dhoone might take him, or one of the lesser clans like Bannen or Orrl. Outcasts could find homes in other clans; Gat Murdock had been taken in by Ewan Blackhail after he'd fought with Wort Croser over a woman and her dowry of two poorly drained fields. Raif tried to think of others but failed. He looked from the door to Ash, and as soon as their eyes met he knew he would go nowhere, not tonight. She had asked him to stand by her, and he had agreed. And as a clansman he was bound by his word.\n\nA small sound, like half a breath, escaped his lips. Who was he to take refuge in a promise? He, who had broken faith with his brother and his clan? Raif closed his eyes for a moment, willed the pain not to come.\n\n\"I know the Storm Margin as well as any man,\" Angus said, breaking the silence that had possessed the chamber since Cant had finished speaking. Uncharacteristically, he seemed ill at ease and could find nothing to occupy his large hands. \"Let me take you and Raif as far as Mount Flood. You'll need someone to show you the ways of the ice. The Margin is beset by white winds in winter. It's easy to become lost or fall victim to cold sickness or the 'bite. I can teach you how to wait out storms, show you how to find food beneath the rime, and make shelter by burrowing into old snow. Packs of ice wolves range the Margin, and in dark seasons they become desperate enough to attack men. I know their signs and their trails and how best to avoid them. I'll see that you get to Mount Flood alive and unharmed and in good time.\"\n\nFinished, Angus looked from Ash to Raif. It was the closest thing to a plea Raif had ever seen his uncle make. Raif knew Angus possessed skills that he did not, yet every clansman worth his lore learned early about hard living in the white weather. Wolves and ice storms were part of clan life. Raif sucked in breath. Why, then, was it so important to Angus to come with them?\n\nAsh looked first to Raif, then to Angus. \"How soon do we leave?\"\n\nIt was all planning after that.\n\nHeritas Cant left them as they spoke of supplies and routes and clothing and horses. Rising gracelessly from his black wood chair, he muttered something about things that needed to be prepared. Watching him support his broken body with the aid of two sticks, Raif found himself admiring the strength of will that lay like an iron plate beneath Cant's skin. He did not trust him, yet he respected him, and it occurred to Raif that perhaps in the cityholds that was the most he could expect from another man.\n\nWith Cant gone, Angus took control of matters and began to plan a route that would involve only minimal time spent in the clanholds. Raif recognized his uncle's consideration and was grateful for it, and as the night wore on and he learned more about the Storm Margin and the bleak windcarved wastes that surrounded Mount Flood, he gave thanks to the Stone Gods that Angus would be with them.\n\nLater, much later, when the goose-fat lantern had all but dried and the flames chewed away at the last bit of rope, Cant returned to the chamber bearing two copper bowls and a knife of gray steel. Angus, who had been in the process of warning Ash about cold sickness, stopped speaking in midsentence and rose to help Cant. Angus' great red face was showing signs of strain, and his ready smile was missing as he greeted the broken man.\n\nIt had been a long day for all of them. Ash and Raif watched each other across the table as Angus and Cant arranged things at the other end of the room. Raif suddenly wished they were alone. There were things he wanted to say to her, small things that no one else had asked or said. He wanted to know if she felt strong enough for the journey north, if she was afraid, how much she believed of what Heritas Cant had said.\n\nAsh smiled gently, rubbing eyes that were nearly red. \"You wouldn't let anyone near me earlier.\"\n\nRaif felt heat come to his cheeks. \"I didn't want you to fall asleep again,\" he said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded gruff.\n\n\"I'm glad you're coming with me.\"\n\nWith those words the night changed one last time. Cant came forward, bearing the first of the copper bowls. His eyes glittered like two pieces of seaglass as he said to Ash, \"Lie down on the bench. I must place what wardings as I can upon you.\"\n\nAsh's eyes flicked to Raif. Her mouth made a small grimace of fear.\n\n\"I will not harm you,\" Cant said. \"The cost is only to myself.\"\n\n\"But...\"\n\n\"But what? Would you rather I did nothing and allow the creatures of the Blind free rein to take you? Your mind was last held by them for four days; would you wish to let them seize it again?\" , Ash shook her head.\n\n\"Lie down then, and let me do what I must.\"\n\nAfter a moment's hesitation, Ash brought her feet off the floor and lowered her back onto the bench. She was shaking, Raif noticed. So was Cant.\n\n\"Angus. If this young man is to stay and watch, you must take him in hand. I will not have him throwing his fine clansman's body around, raging about things he does not understand.\"\n\n\"Aye, Heritas.\" Angus beckoned Raif to his side. \"The lad will stay by me, I'll see to that.\"\n\nRaif did not like being spoken of as if he were a child, and he suspected Heritas Cant had done so to punish him one last time for breaking the chair. Still, he crossed to where Angus stood at the head of the table and settled himself in place against the edge.\n\nCant's spine had too many vertebrae. As he bent to loosen the ties at Ash's throat, they poked through the thin fabric of his robe like fishbones. Who broke him? Raif wondered. What crime bears the sentence of the wheel?\n\n\"Place this upon your tongue.\" Cant held out a dried leaf for Ash to take. \"Bite through it when I say so.\" Ash did as she was told. Raif was watching her so intently, he didn't see Cant draw the knife.\n\n\"Easy, lad,\" Angus said under his breath, reacting to the tension that shot through Raif's body like lightning.\n\nEasing back to reassure Angus, Raif watched as Cant drew the knife to his wrist. The blade rested there, above a vein as thin and insubstantial as a curl of smoke, while Cant's lips spoke words that Raif could not hear.\n\nThe room dimmed. Air became thicker, colder, harder to expel from the lungs. The stench of copper and blood rose in the room like mist rising from a field at battle's end. Raif's mouth watered. Sickened, he swallowed hard.\n\nAsh's face shone with sweat. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, and the skin Cant had bared at her throat flushed pink. Cant stood above her, joined to her by the substance pouring from his mouth. Raif saw it as thick shadow, a mixture of words and air and something else he had no name for. Light ran along the knifeblade as Cant sliced into his skin.\n\nBlood welled in a perfectly straight line, so bright and hearty it was shocking to see it pump from such pale, misshapen flesh. Following the line of the blade, it dripped into the hammered copper bowl, pattering like a child's footsteps on tile.\n\n\"Bite the leaf,\" Cant said.\n\nAsh's mouth closed. Her jaw worked once and then was still. Cant dropped the knife and placed his good hand on the tissue of Ash's throat. The air in the room shifted, as if moved by an opening door. Raif felt the raven lore grow hot against his skin. Cant's presence became somehow less than it was, wavering as if seen through the heat from a fire. Pulse racing, Raif became acutely aware of the danger. Ash was a Reach; it meant old skills and old knowledge and power beyond anything he knew. If she fought against Cant, she could kill him.\n\nRaif glanced at Angus and saw the same knowledge reflected in his uncle's eyes.\n\nAsh and Cant were as one now, joined as surely as two stags with antlers racked. Raif shivered as the image came to him. Three summers ago he and Drey had come across a pair of elk carcasses at the foot of the balds: bodies head to head, torsos picked clean, antlers locked together so surely that neither animal had been able to free itself from the other's hold. They had died that way, struggling to pull apart over countless days and nights. Rut deaths, Tem had called them. He said it only happened when two beasts of equal strength were matched.\n\nBlood smoke rose between Ash and Cant as the contents of the copper bowl began steaming. Cant's face was gray with strain. His mouth worked furiously, speaking a clotted mix of words and sorcery.\n\nUnable to watch any longer, Raif turned away. His eyes settled on the shadows cast on the wall, and after a while he couldn't even look at them. Sorcery had never seemed so wrong and unnatural, and for the second time that night he found himself staring longingly at the door.\n\nThe clanholds lay one day's ride to the north, yet they might as well have stood in the frozen heart of the Want. Raif had never felt farther from all that he knew as he did waiting for Heritas Cant to be done.\nTHIRTY-THREE\n\nShankshounds\n\nEFFIE'S LORE PUSHED HER AWAKE. She'd been having such a strange dream about Raif, about how he was trapped underground with no way out, when her rock lore pressed so hard against her chest, it hurt. Effie opened her eyes immediately. The quality of darkness in her cell told her it was still properly and completely night. Frowning, she reached beneath the neckline of her wool nightdress and took her lore in hand.\n\nPush.\n\nQuick as if she'd picked up a hot coal from the fire, Effie let the stone drop.\n\nShe had to go, leave her cell right now.\n\nThe idea didn't come to her in words; it wasn't really an idea at all. It was just something she knew, like the time of day or whether the air she breathed was cold or warm or damp.\n\nSitting up, she swung her feet onto the floor. Boots or slippers? Boots are warmer, said a little voice. Slippers are quieter, said another. Effie poked her feet into the darkness until her toes brushed against the shaggy softness of her squirrel fur slippers. That done, she pulled the rug from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn't have time for a shawl.\n\nHer legs didn't help much as she stood. They felt like rain-soaked twigs that had nothing to do with the rest of her body and no intention of carrying her weight. Effie felt her bottom lip start to tremble as she shuffled to the nearest wall.\n\nPush.\n\n\"Stop,\" she whispered, glad of the chance to give her treacherous bottom lip something to do. \"I know.\"\n\nThinking about what Inigar Stoop would likely say to her if he knew that she spoke to her lore made Effie feel better. Rufus Pole had been the laughingstock of the roundhouse last summer just for speaking to his sheep. Effie had seen Rufus' sheep\u2014they were clean and healthy and fat as rain clouds\u2014and she'd very nearly giggled out loud when he'd said he'd rather speak to them than a good quarter of the people in the clan.\n\nSheep thoughts helped, and Effie felt her legs harden beneath her, ready for flight. Clutching the bed rug around her throat, she moved toward the door.\n\nIt was closed, of course\u2014open doors were the next worst thing to open spaces\u2014but both Raina and Drey had warned her about bolting herself in. Fingers sliding over the bolt, Effie considered drawing it and simply hiding from whatever danger was on its way. She knew straightaway that was foolish, though. Doors could be easily broken. Taking a shallow breath, she pushed against the wood and stepped into the new darkness waiting on the other side.\n\nThe roundhouse at night was icy cold, peopled by strange drafts and grinding noises. Effie knew it well. The noises came from stone blocks in the walls moving against each other as the timbers separating them cooled and the drafts blew from secret rotting holes in the peat-and-graystone roof. Longhead said swallows nested there in spring, and Effie thought about that for a bit as she walked along the tunnel leading from her cell. She was just wondering what swallows found to eat up there when she heard footsteps pounding on the stone steps directly ahead. A halo of light descended from above. Someone, a man, coughed with a hard hacking sound that produced something worthy of spitting. Effie, still standing in the darkness close to the wall, felt for the nearest door.\n\nHer hand found the splintery roughness of wood as the man's booted feet came into view. Thanking all the Stone Gods\u2014even Bethathmus, who always gave her a chill and few except hammermen ever named\u2014she pushed open the door and stepped into someone else's cell. Doors were never locked in the roundhouse, and Effie found herself glad of that fact for the first time in her eight-year life.\n\nMore darkness occupied the cell\u2014so much, in fact, that she couldn't even see the hand she used to close the door. A series of soft snoring sounds rose from somewhere close by. People sleeping. At one time Effie would have known the names and faces of everyone who occupied the cells close to her own, but now she couldn't be sure who slept where. The roundhouse was swollen with tied clansmen and their families, all come to seek protection from the Dog Lord. Most slept wherever they could. Some had caused fights. Just last week Anwyn Bird had beaten a tied clanwife with a wooden spoon for daring to spend the night in her kitchen. By all accounts the woman had gotten off lightly, and the bruises were said to be nothing that a few weeks of bed rest couldn't cure.\n\nSniffing slightly, Effie peered through the shadows in the room. After a few moments her eyes began to pick out shapes: a box pallet with several hunched forms lying upon it, a bloodwood stang propping up the ceiling, and a line of fat grain sacks hanging from the rafters to keep their contents dry. Effie listened to the sound of breathing and snoring rising from the pallet, assuring herself that those who lay there were fast asleep. Then, just as she felt safe enough to think about what to do next, a sliver of light shone under the door. The man on the stairs was walking this way!\n\nEffie stilled herself. Footsteps tapped close... the light brightened... and then receded as the man on the stairs walked past the door. Suddenly realizing she had been holding her breath, Effie exhaled in a great gasp of relief. As she did so, she heard the familiar whine of hinges so badly rusted by damp that no amount of calf oil could silence them. Her cell door. Effie breathed in, snatching back her relief. Her lore beat against her chest like a second, smaller, heart.\n\nPressing her forehead against the door, she listened for more sounds from the man on the stairs. Nothing. What was he doing in there? Effie imagined his boots; the leather was greenish, moldy, the toes ringed with watermarks, and the soles caked with muddy bits of hay. Not a full clansman's boots. Effie shook her head. Not even a yearman.\n\nThe whining noise came again, pushing all boot thoughts from her mind. Effie tensed. Suddenly she couldn't breathe. Her throat felt as if someone had their hands around it.\n\nFootsteps again. Slap, slap, slap. They were so close, Effie could feel their vibration on the part of her head that was touching the door. They slowed. Stopped. Effie imagined monsters. She knew what the man's boots looked like, but what about his face, his teeth? Tiny, hard contractions punched at her belly. Should she wake the other people in the cell? Might they be monsters, too?\n\nThen, abruptly, the footsteps started up once more, receding with a slowness that was another torture in itself. Effie waited. Even after the footsteps had long faded and night sounds took over again, she waited, forehead pushed against the bloodwood door, body held so still that dust settled upon her back.\n\nThe soft crunch of a body rolling over dried grass broke the waiting spell. Effie lifted her head from the door and glanced over her shoulder. A tiny crack high in the roof let in a trickle of dawn light. The box pallet was clearly visible now. Three bodies vied for space upon its grass-filled mattress: a thin crofter with a silvery beard, a woman with dark hair and a pale back, and a young dark-haired child. It took Effie a moment to realize that the child was awake. His eyes were wide open, and he was looking at her in the interested way children looked at things that might, or might not, be dangerous.\n\nPressing a finger to her lips, Effie warned him not to cry out. He was small and skinny and a good deal younger than she, and even though Effie wouldn't normally deign to notice such a boy, she knew they were made of the same child substance. The boy knew it, too, and acknowledged her sign with a similar one of his own. Effie was careful not to let her relief show. They might both be children, but she was the elder, and even after favors were granted she had a certain superiority to maintain.\n\nThey held their places for a good long time, watching each other in the growing light, neither friendly nor unfriendly, waiting. When the child's mother stirred, sending out a hand to feel for her son, Effie knew it was time to go. Part of her didn't much like the idea of venturing outside, but the sensible, thinking part knew that dawn was properly here now and no one would dare harm her in the good light of day.\n\nRaising her hand, she thanked the boy with a seriousness befitting his deed, then let herself out the door.\n\nThe corridor was no longer dark. Sounds of clattering metal pots, thudding footsteps, and sharply spoken orders filtered down from the floors above. Anwyn was in her kitchen, stoking the fires and warming last night's broth and bannock. Effie glanced toward her cell.\n\nPush.\n\nNo, better not go back there yet.\n\nMassaging the part of her forehead that she had ground into the wood of the cell door, Effie thought about what to do. Drey would be in the Great Hearth, sleeping close around the fire like all the other yearmen. He was becoming important these days. Rory Cleet, the Shank brothers, Bullhammer, Craw Bannering: All the yearmen looked to him to lead raids, settle disputes, and talk with Mace Blackhail on their behalf. He was often away from the roundhouse: riding the borders, scouting as far as Gnash, carrying messages between Blackhail and exiled Dhoone. Last week he had ridden with Mace Blackhail and a host of two hundred full clansmen to defend Bannen against the Dog Lord's forces.\n\nDrey said the Dog Lord was working to take over all the Dhoone-sworn clans and fortify his position in the Dhoone-hold. Already he'd taken over Clan Withy, whose funny little roundhouse with its mineshafts and mole holes lay two days south of Dhoone. Even with the combined forces of Dhoone, Blackhail, and Bannen working to defend the Banhold, the battle had not gone easy. Drey said the Bluddsmen had fought like men possessed, and the Dog Lord himself had ridden at the head of their line.\n\n\"You should have seen him, Effie,\" Drey had confided upon his return. \"He rode an ugly black horse and carried the plainest of weapons, yet no clansman who matched hammers with him lived to tell of it.\" After that Drey had shivered in a funny way, and Effie had asked him what was wrong. \"He was screaming at us, Effie. Screaming for Blackhail blood.\"\n\nThat had made Effie shiver, too. According to Drey, the battle lasted well into the night, and even though Bludd was outmanned they managed to break through the Dhoone lines and take more lives than they gave.\n\nDrey had been injured in the Bludd retreat. Mace Blackhail had sent him and two dozen other hammermen after the Dog Lord and his sons. Ten of the hammermen had died. Drey had been unseated by a blow from a spiked and lead-weighted Bluddhammer. The spikes had pierced his plate in two places, and he'd taken a bad landing upon stony ground.\n\nEffie sucked in her cheeks. Raina said that once the swelling and bruising had gone down it wouldn't be that bad. He'd only broken two ribs.\n\nWith a small shake of her head, Effie made the decision not to go and seek out Drey. She knew he would see her no matter how busy he was\u2014hers was the first face he looked for whenever he returned home from a raid and the last name he spoke in his words to the Stone Gods each night\u2014yet she didn't want to be a burden to him. He had too many worries already.\n\nRaif's leaving still hurt him. He never spoke of it, and Effie had seen him stiffen in anger when anyone in his presence dared to mention Raif's name. Yet these days it was hard not to hear talk of Raif Sevrance around the Great Hearth at night. All the clanholds were in uproar about what happened at Duff's Stovehouse. Three Bluddsmen had died by Raif's hand. Three. Effie shivered. It was unthinkable. Watcher of the Dead, they called him now.\n\nEffie climbed the steps to the entrance chamber. She wished Raif were here now. She couldn't tell Drey about the man on the stairs; he'd go straight to Mace Blackhail, and this time they might actually fight. Effie shook her head. That couldn't happen. Mace was a bad man. Drey was stronger and a better fighter, but somehow Effie knew that wasn't enough. Mace hurt people in different ways. He had hurt Raina, changed her. He might send Drey from the clan, or worse.\n\nBy the time she had walked through the entrance chamber and past the kitchen, her mind was set. She told herself that she didn't really know whether or not Mace Blackhail had any connection with the man on the stairs, couldn't even be sure if the man had meant her harm. Fearing a push from her rock lore, Effie knocked it impatiently with her fist. Suddenly she very much wanted to go to a place where she knew she'd be safe.\n\nReaching up on her tiptoes, she worked the latch on the side door that led out onto the court. Cold air blasted her face as the door opened. Snow was swirling in heavy gray flakes, and the wind was hard and from the north. Another storm, Effie thought as she stepped outside. The third one in as many days.\n\nThe big stable door had been shut and barred against the wind, and she concentrated on its shape and thereness as she made her way across the court. The open space of the graze, the distant rise of the Wedge, and the far line of the horizon were blurred by the storm, yet Effie knew better than to look at them even now. Just the fact of their presence made her heart race. Not far to the little dog cote, she told herself. Not far now.\n\nJebb Onnacre, one of the Shanks by marriage and caretaker of all their horses and dogs, passed within a few paces of Effie on his way back from the stables. Seeing her, he smiled and raised his hand in greeting. Effie liked Jebb; he was quiet and good with animals and never said anything to anyone whenever he found her in the dog cote. Normally she always waved back, yet today she put her head down and ignored him. His boots were caked in mud, she noticed. He might have sat and taken breakfast with the man on the stairs.\n\nDisturbed by that thought, she broke into a run, heading north along the stable wall and into roughs beyond. By the time she arrived at the dog cotes her squirrel slippers were stiff with ice. Clutching the bed rug close about her chest, she picked her way around the largest of the two cotes and made for the small stone structure that lay behind them, its round walls sunk deep into the snow like a miniature version of the roundhouse. The little dog cote. Effie's chest tightened to see it.\n\nDog smells and dog noises defied the bluster of the storm. Already one of the shankshounds had gotten wind of her scent and was howling like a mad thing through the roof. Effie grinned. That was Darknose, by the sound of it; he was always howling about something. Crouching down by the little dog-size door, she worked the latch and then jiggled the hinges as necessary. By the time she had forced the door open, a wall of dogs was waiting for her on the other side.\n\nEffie's heart filled with joy. \"Stop that! Easy now. No chewing on my slippers. Give me that rug back! Bad dogs. Bad dogs.\" The dogs accompanied her into their warm, dark lair, tails wagging, tongues licking, amber eyes bright with interest and affection.\n\nMost people in the clan held that the shankshounds were the nastiest, evilest, most foul-tempered beasts that had ever fetched a stick on the Hailhold. Hell-bred, Anwyn called them. Bears with tails, said someone else. Of course, since one of them had found the crofter's baby buried alive in the snow, a sort of legend had grown up around them. Due respect was given... but always from a safe distance. Anwyn had taken to sending Mog Wiley out to the cotes with kitchen scraps, and Jenna Walker, who now acted as foster mother to the rescued child, would not hear a bad word said against them. Orwin Shank, who everyone held was the wealthiest man in the clan, had even sent one of his best breeding ewes in payment to Paille Trotter for making up a song about them. Effie had heard the song. It wasn't very good, containing in her opinion far too many words that rhymed with dog, but even she had to admit it was a jaunty tune.\n\nWith Effie the shankshounds were as soft and playful as kittens. Sometimes they didn't realize their own strength, and once or twice she had returned to the roundhouse with nips and bruises from where they had scrambled and jumped all over her in their eagerness to greet her. That never bothered Effie much. The bruises hardly ever hurt at all.\n\nPerhaps sensing some vestige of her earlier fear, the dogs were especially gentle with her as she settled herself back against the closed door. Darknose probed her face with his handsome wet nose, sniffing and concerned. Lady Bee came and sat close, pushing her warm body against Effie's, giving her heat to the scrawny little thing that had come in from the cold. Effie stroked her fine black-and-orange neck. She had long ago worked out that Lady Bee thought she was one of her pups. Old Scratch simply laid his great old head on her lap and promptly fell asleep. Cally and Teeth worried at her slippers, making small breathy noises as they nipped around her toes. Cat came and sat at a dignified distance from everyone, waiting for a sign from Effie before she deigned to come close.\n\nSitting on the hard-packed earth of the cote with all the shankshounds around her, Effie finally felt safe. Her lore was quiet now, sleeping. The thought of the man on the stairs no longer frightened her, and she began to wonder if she'd made too much of a fuss over nothing. Already she felt bad about ignoring Jebb Onnacre on the court.\n\nDarknose watched her with his clever dog's eyes as the other shankshounds settled down in readiness to sleep, each one determined to use some part of her body as a pillow. Effie loved the feeling of their heavy heads and paws on her skin. Even aloof and dignified Cat came to her in the end, tempted by a hand stretched her way and the soft click of Effie's tongue.\n\nEffie loved the shankshounds. They were good dogs. They smelled a bit, but Jebb Onnacre had once told her that she probably smelled just as bad to them as they did to her.\n\nSnuggling down beneath her blanket of dogs, Effie began to drift off to sleep. She was ever so glad she hadn't gone running to Drey. The shankshounds would protect her.\n\nDreams of dogs followed her to sleep.\n\nGrrrrrr.\n\nEffie's sleeping brain first responded to the sound of a dog growling by making it part of her dream. Yet the growling went on and on, and soon other dogs joined in and the noise became too loud to ignore.\n\nEffie blinked awake. Strips of light from the dirt hole at the back of the cote took a moment to get used to. Even before she could fully see, she became aware of six dogs standing in a half-circle around her, hackles raised, heads lowered, tails flat against their docks. There was a moment where all she could really see was yellow fangs and burning eyes, when she suddenly understood all the bad things people had ever said about the shankshounds. They could kill a man and not regret it.\n\nThen, even as she raised a hand to calm them, she heard voices from outside. Two of them. A man and woman, shouting to be heard above the storm.\n\n\"She's witched, that girl. Witched. Cutty swore she disappeared right afore his eyes. Reckons she knew he was after her the moment he darkened the roundhouse door. It's that lore of hers. If you ask me...\"\n\nEffie strained to hear more above the howling of the wind and the snarling of the dogs. Pushing her palms through the air, she worked to silence the dogs without speaking. She had recognized the speaker instantly. That deep mannish voice belonged to the luntwoman Nellie Moss. Cutty Moss was her son. He was about Drey's age yet had never made yearman. Last summer he had been caught stealing chickens from Merritt Ganlow's coop, and the winter before that there had been some incident involving the Tanner girls that Effie had only vague ideas about. She hardly knew Cutty Moss at all and was quite sure he didn't live in the roundhouse most of the year. The only thing. Effie could remember vividly about him was that one of his eyes was hazel and the other one was blue.\n\n\"Hush, woman!\" cried a hard male voice, cutting the last of Nellie Moss' words clean away. \"I'll listen to no more of your superstitious chaffing. The Sevrance girl is no more witched than you or I. If she did slip away, then it was likely because she heard that worthless son of yours coming.\"\n\nAll the dog-given heat left Effie's face. The second speaker was Mace Blackhail, she was sure of it. His voice penetrated the stone walls of the dog cote like icy drops of rain.\n\n\"Cutty's no fool,\" snapped Nellie Moss. \"He did as he was told.\"\n\n\"Then he'll have to do it again, for I won't have that little bitch sneaking around the roundhouse, telling tales and watching me with her father's dead eyes.\"\n\nHounds from the larger cotes yipped and howled as Mace spoke, yet all he had to do to silence them was whip a piece of leather through the air. The soft jingle of metal followed, and Effie guessed that Mace had brought leashes to the cotes meaning to save his best dogs from the storm.\n\n\"Making ye feel guilty, is she?\" Nellie Moss sounded pleased.\n\n\"Just do as we arranged.\"\n\n\"'Twould be easier for everyone if she could be caught outside by a cowlman's arrow... like Shor Gormalin.\"\n\nA quick series of sounds followed. Boots thudded snow, fabric rustled, and then Nellie Moss issued a low throaty wail.\n\n\"You'll not speak of Shor Gormalin again, woman. Is that clear?\" A moment passed where all Effie could hear was the wind and the soft persistent growling of Darknose, then, \"I said, is that clear?\"\n\nA breath was taken sharply. \"Aye. 'Tis clear. No one will hear the truth of it from me.\"\n\n\"Good.\" A sound, like many knuckles snapping, accompanied the word.\n\nEffie sank back amid the shankshounds, deeply shaken. Lady Bee began licking Effie's ears as she would with a sick pup. Old Scratch, Cally, and Teeth were still intent upon the people outside, spines lowered, snouts bunched and quivering. Darknose and Cat, whom Effie always thought of as the leaders of the pack, were alert, trotting to and fro in front of the door, listening, ready. All of the dogs except Lady Bee continued to growl.\n\nShankshounds. That had been Shor Gormalin's name for them. Effie remembered smiling when he'd first called them by it. Now she knew it was their real name. The only one that suited.\n\nA space opened in Effie's chest. Shor Gormalin had known about dogs. He had known about her, too. He was the only person who understood why she had to run and hide sometimes. He'd even said he did it himself. That meant something to Effie. It helped cancel out some of the bad things Letty Shank and the others always said. She couldn't be that different. Not when the best swordsman in the clan told her she reminded him of himself when he was growing up.\n\nNow something terrible had happened. Nellie Moss had spoken as if Shor Gormalin wasn't really killed by a cowlman at all, that somehow Mace Blackhail had arranged it.\n\nEffie began to rock back and forth on her haunches. She felt violently sick, as if she'd eaten a meal of dirt and grease. When Lady Bee licked her ear again, she pushed the dog away. Shor Gormalin. Mace Blackhail had killed Shor Gormalin. He had hurt Raina and... Effie stopped rocking as a thought smashed through the others like a rock breaking ice.\n\nMace had killed Shor because of Raina. Shor loved Raina. He would have protected her, stopped her from marrying Mace. Effie had seen how Shor was around Raina, how gently he'd tended her when she'd first heard about Dagro's death. Anything he could do for her he had. He'd taken over her duties with the tied clansmen, seen to the stores of grain and oil... he'd even ridden out to the Oldwood to check on Raina's traps.\n\nEffie's stomach turned to liquid. Shor had been working on Raina's behalf the day he had found her here, in the little dog cote. Sickness flooded Effie's head and chest, and she turned away from the dogs to vomit. Even as she ran her fist over her mouth to clean it, Lady Bee began lapping away at what had been produced.\n\n\"What was that?\" Mace Blackhail's voice suddenly sounded close.\n\n\"Shanks dogs. With any luck a fever'll take 'em.\"\n\nMace Blackhail grunted. \"Be off with you, woman. And don't follow me here again. People will mark our meeting.\" The leashes he held jingled. \"Do your business.\"\n\n\"Cutty'll bide his time. He'll wait till things settle and the girl has long forgotten him, and then he'll take her in such a place as she canna get away.\"\n\nA disgusted breath was almost lost to the wind. \"I want her gone, and quickly.\"\n\n\"My Cutty won't be rushed. Not now he knows she's witched.\"\n\nMace Blackhail said something, but the wind drove the words away.\n\n\"Me and Cutty need no lessons in trespass from you.\"\n\n\"And I need no lessons in man-craft from a woman who lights torches for her supper. Go.\" The word was spoken in a whisper, but it carried better than anything else Mace Blackhail had said. So strong was its compulsion that Effie found herself obeying it, edging farther away from the door. Even the shankshounds quieted.\n\nFootsteps receded toward the roundhouse. All was silent for a long moment, then Mace called to his dogs. A door creaked open, dogs shrieked and howled and dashed through the snow. A wet nose probed the door to the little dog cote. And then a command was spoken and Mace Blackhail led his killers away.\n\nDeep inside the cote, Effie hugged her knees. The shankshounds formed a barrier of dogs around her, yet for the first time in all the months she had been coming here she no longer felt safe.\nTHIRTY-FOUR\n\nMen Buying Clothes for a Girl\n\n\"HOW DO YOU FEEL?\" Raif's face was grave as he asked the question. A scarred hand smoothed the edge of the blanket that covered her.\n\n\"Well... I thinks.\" Ash rubbed her eyes. \"I feel a bit knotted inside, as if Heritas Cant had bound all my organs with string.\" Raif didn't like Heritas Cant; Ash could tell that from the brief twitch of muscles around his mouth as she mentioned his name.\n\n\"Are you well enough to ride?\"\n\n\"Do I have a choice?\"\n\nRaif made no answer. He looked at her with dark eyes then turned away.\n\nThey were sitting in the room Heritas Cant had first greeted them in last night. Judging from the bands of gray light that shone beneath the shutters, it was sometime after midday. Ash had slept on a padded bench close to the fire. She had no memory of being brought here, didn't even know if she had walked on her own two feet or been carried inside. The last thing she remembered before waking and finding herself snug and well wrapped by the fire was the sound of Heritas Cant's blood dripping into a bowl. Ash shivered. She could still taste the fear in her mouth.\n\n\"I'll leave you for now,\" Raif said. \"Eat your breakfast.\" He frowned. \"Angus and I went to the market this morning. We bought you some new clothes. They're in the basket by the table.\" He opened the door. \"And there's a pony outside, too.\"\n\nAsh raised herself up from the bench. \"A pony?\"\n\n\"Yes. She's mountain bred. Gray as a storm cloud.\"\n\n\"You picked her?\"\n\nRaif nodded. Their eyes met.\n\nA moment passed. Then Ash said, \"I won't hold you to any promise you made last night. It was all so...\" She shook her head. \"I had no right to ask for your help.\"\n\nAn expression that Ash didn't understand glowed with cold light in Raif's eyes. For a moment he looked older, harder, like someone she might cross the street to avoid. \"I'll take back no promise, spoken or unspoken. I owe loyalty to my uncle and will say no word against him that is not to his face. Nor will I speak ill of Heritas Cant, for I respect his strength of mind and am grateful for all he has done. Yet know this. My reasons for helping you are not the same as theirs. I have no interest in the Reach.\"\n\n\"I know. That's why I turned to you last night. That's why I told you the truth by the Spill.\"\n\nRaif looked at her and did not speak. After a moment he turned to leave.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said, halting him.\n\n\"For what?\"\n\nAsh found herself struggling for words. He was giving her so much... quietly and with no fuss. \"For letting you touch me that day by Vaingate.\"\n\nRaif's hand rose to his throat, where it probed until it found the black bit of horn he called his lore. Surprisingly he smiled, and it was such a beautiful thing to see that Ash caught her breath. \"You are worthy of respect, Asarhia March.\"\n\nBefore Ash could decide what sort of answer he had given her, the door clicked closed and he was gone. Stupidly she stared at the space he had left behind.\n\nShe took her time getting ready after that, pausing to eat slices of cold fried bread and sour winter apples. Someone, probably Cloistress Gannet, had seen to it that she had everything she needed to take a bath. It seemed a long time since she'd last had the luxury of soap and water, and she stripped off her clothes and stood naked in the copper tub and let the hot steam soak her skin. After a time she scrubbed the grime from her body and worked her hair into a frothy lather that smelled of oats and winter mint. The water beneath her soon turned gray, and for the briefest moment she considered calling to Katia to bring more.\n\nAsh stepped out of the tub. The water seemed suddenly cold, and she could not dry herself quickly enough. Katia was dead. Gone. Hung on the gallows for crows to pick at and all the world to see.\n\nAnd Penthero Iss had put her there. Ash dropped the wool towel into the tub and watched as it soaked up the dirty water. She understood more about her foster father now. Last night while Heritas Cant spoke of Reaches and the Blind and the creatures who lived there, Ash had thought of Iss. Everything he had ever done and said to her\u2014every kindness he had shown, every kiss he had given, every little attention he had paid her\u2014was a lie. She was a Reach, and he had known it. It was why he had come to her late at night, asking slyly worded questions about her dreams. It was why he had set Katia to watch her chamber, the Knife to guard her door, and Caydis Zerbina to steal away her things.\n\nPenthero Iss had wanted his own Reach.\n\nAsh stood in the center of the room and let that fact sink in. Gooseflesh pricked along her arms and chest, and after a while she began to shake uncontrollably. Her foster father had planned to lock her away in the Splinter and keep her for himself. Already he had something, someone, imprisoned there, and she was the next piece he meant to add to his collection.\n\nHow long had he known what she was? Always? Had it been the only reason he had saved her?\n\nAsh didn't know how long she stood there, shaking, didn't even know if she shook from anger, shock, or cold. Heritas Cant's words had remade her life. Her memories were now as dirty as the water in the tub.\n\nThe hard clack of wood hitting wood jolted her from her thoughts. \"Yes?\" she called, falling back into her old ways of command as easily as if she had never left Mask Fortress.\n\n\"It is Heritas Cant. I must speak with you before you leave.\"\n\n\"Wait a moment while I dress.\" Ash's voice was as cold as her body. She crossed to the table where the basket of new clothes lay and began sorting through them. Two men buying clothes for a girl! Ash smiled a crazy tear-filled smile as she looked on what they had bought. They meant to spoil her. They had thought of everything and nothing, buying red silk skirts and pretty embroidered blouses and the finest, softest woolen cloak she had ever felt or seen. Everything was dyed in bright and lovely colors: a waistcoat of peacock blue, ribbons as green as emeralds, and suede boots the color of rust.\n\nAsh found herself laughing and crying as she held up a needlepoint bodice as fine as anything she had ever seen on a grangelord's wife in Mask Fortress. There were slippers and wraps and fine woolly mittens, lace collars, bone buttons, and shoes: everything two men thought a girl needed. Everything they thought she'd love.\n\nShe did love them. She loved them so fiercely, she hugged them to her chest like living things. The thought of Angus and Raif walking around a market, choosing colors, feeling textures, guessing sizes, and talking trim made her giggle like a child. On the other side of the door, she heard Heritas Cant wheezing. One of his sticks tapped impatiently against the floor.\n\nTime she was dressed. Only she could find neither wool stockings nor small linens in the basket. Ash shrugged. Men couldn't be relied on to think of those. She'd have to make do with the ones she had.\n\nHaving picked out the plainest wool skirt, a white blouse embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots, and the peacock blue waistcoat, Ash began folding the other clothes away. As she picked up the red silk skirt, a small muslin bag fell from its folds. She scooped it up and untied the string. Underthings. The bag contained pretty ladies' underthings, all scented and fastened with bows. Angus, she thought immediately. Angus remembered to buy these.\n\nFive minutes later, dressed and ready, she opened the door to Heritas Cant.\n\nHe did not look well. The twin sticks he used to walk with shook with the force of his weight. Immediately feeling guilty about making him wait, Ash came forward to help him. He shook her away, and they both spent an awkward few minutes as he made his way toward the fire and then settled himself on a high-seated, high-backed chair that Ash guessed had been specially built for his use.\n\nHis first words to her were, \"Money wasted.\" And it took her a moment to realize he was talking about her new clothes.\n\nShe said nothing.\n\n\"Are you well?\" Cant's green eyes seemed to extract the answer from her before she spoke, and the nod she gave had the quality of an afterthought. \"Good. Good. The bloodwards I have set are in place, then. Can you feel them?\"\n\n\"I think so. My insides feel tight, almost as if they've been battened down.\"\n\n\"In some ways they are.\" Cant struggled to adjust his right leg, which rested in an odd way beneath him. \"Wardings do two things. First, they conceal you, making it difficult for magic users and the creatures of the Blind to track you down. Now this doesn't mean they won't or can't find you, for if you draw upon your Reach power, you might as well light a beacon on the highest hill, put a horn to your lips, and blow. No. The wardings are just a trick to fool those who don't look too close.\"\n\nAsh made herself nod.\n\n\"Second, wardings protect you. The restraint you feel is part of the barrier I have erected. Your body is bound by cords of sorcery. They wrap around your heart, your liver, your brain, and your womb, shielding them from harm or interference. They are strong now, yet time will wear them. I pray they will last until you make it to the Cavern of Black Ice, but in truth I cannot be certain. You can help by making yourself strong. Eat well and often, sleep for as long as you can, do not drive yourself hard, and never put yourself in a position where fear might lead you to draw sorcery.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure I understand.\"\n\n\"As a Reach you were born for one thing: to make a rift in the Blindwall. The power is here\"\u2014he poked a finger at his chest\u2014\"inside you. And nothing of flesh and blood can stand against it when you draw it forth and reach.\" Cant's eyes were suddenly hard, green jewels in a face so pale it could have belonged to a corpse. \"You think I mean to scare you, Asarhia March. Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps I myself am scared. This is an old land we live in, and old myths and old powers sustain it. Before the clans and the city men came here, before even the Sull settled in their cities of icewood and stone, there were others, not men, not as we would name them, yet they had eyes and mouths like men, and built great halls of earth and timber in the heart of the Want. I cannot tell you how many centuries they lived for, but I do know they died out within a hundred years, slaughtered or taken by the creatures in the Blind. The Sull call it Ben Horo, the Time Before. They hold the knowledge of these others close, pass it down from generation to generation, even though they share neither blood nor kinship with them. This they do to honor the memories of the Old Ones as they named them, and to keep fear of the Endlords alive.\"\n\n\"Why tell me this now?\"\n\n\"Because you must know what is at stake. Any magic user who is untrained is dangerous. Anger, terror, fear: Any strong emotion can concentrate power. You must guard yourself against such things. Lash out in anger, and sorcery may be released with the blow. You cannot afford to lose control of your emotions. More than your own life depends on it.\"\n\nAsh decided she would say nothing... and not be afraid.\n\n\"If there were more time, I could show you what the Sull call Saer Rahl, the Way of the Flame, which teaches men and women how to master their emotions and never act out of anger or fear.\" Cant smiled thinly. \"I never took to it myself, but then I was born on the slopes of the Shattered Mountains, and no flames I knew burned cold.\"\n\nCant clicked his sticks against the floor. \"So I must send you north with nothing but bloodwards to protect you. And perhaps we should both pray that next time we meet your Reach power will be gone and you'll have no need of lessons in self-control from an old man such as me. Just know this: Any kind of sorcery you draw before you reach the cavern will blast through my constraints.\" Spittle shot from Cant's lips. \"Is that clear?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The wardings will not withstand Reach power.\" A pause followed, and then he murmured, \"Little can.\"\n\nAsh held herself tall. She would show no reaction to this man.\n\nCant watched her for a moment, then shrugged. \"Well, that's all I mean to say.\" He began the long process of rising to his feet, and Ash turned away to give him privacy to position his legs and sticks. His breaths sounded like discharged arrows at her back.\n\nWhen finally he had moved himself close to the door, she turned and said, \"How did my foster father know I was a Reach?\"\n\n\"Do you really mean how or when?\"\n\nSurprised by his cleverness, Ash confessed the truth. \"Yes, when?\"\n\nAn expression looking much like sympathy charged the slack muscles of Cant's face. \"Prophecies that foretell the coming of the next Reach have been passed from mouth to mouth ever since the last Reach died ten centuries ago. I have read or heard many of them myself. Some are obvious fakes, written by the sort of men and women who take pleasure in hoaxes and tricks. Others are food for scholars, filled with so many archaic references and metaphors that no two people can agree on their meaning. Others still are written in dead languages that once translated lose their subtlety and sense. A few, just a few, have the ring of truth about them. One such prophecy is a child's verse. It has been known and spoken in the North for many years.\" Cant hesitated.\n\n\"Say it.\"\n\nCant nodded. He adjusted his sticks to better bear his weight and then spoke in the soft voice of secrets and confessions.\n\nFirst to breathe upon a mountain\n\nFirst to gaze upon a barren gate\n\nFirst to Reach in the hands of her captors\n\nLast to learn her fate.\n\nSilence filled the room like cold water. Ash breathed and thought and did not move. Cant waited. The air surrounding them was thick and dark, filled with the scent of old things. Ash met Cant's gaze and held it until he looked away. She had no desire to discuss the verse with him. Its meaning was clear. She had been left on the north face of Mount Slain, five paces away from Vaingate, the barren gate, and Penthero Iss, Angus Lok, and this man standing before her had all known who she was before she had known herself.\n\nYes, Cant had answered her question, the real one she had not asked. Her foster father had known all along. Scores of children were abandoned each year in Spire Vanis, left in doorways of grand manses, on the steps of the Bone Temple, or at the foot of Theron Pengaron's statue in the Square of Four Prayers. Hundreds of children must have passed through Iss' hands, yet he'd chosen to keep just one. A baby girl left outside Vaingate to die.\n\nAsh closed her eyes, told herself she must be strong. \"Go now,\" she said to Cant. \"Tell Angus I am ready.\"\n\nCant's mouth worked upon a word but did not speak it. Like a servant obeying orders, he bowed his head and left.\n\nOnly when the door had closed behind him and she heard the click of the latch did she reach over and grab the table for support. She had thought her father loved her.\n\nMinutes later when Angus entered the room, she was composed, her face cleared of all emotion. She was surprised at the wave of relief she felt upon seeing his big red face. He looked well and had taken the trouble to shave his beard and trim his hair.\n\n\"You look beautiful,\" he said, his gaze missing no detail of her hair, clothes, or feet. \"Blue suits you. I thought it might.\"\n\nShe had forgotten about her new clothes, forgotten even that she was wearing them. She went to reply, but for some reason it was hard to speak. Smiling instead, she made a litle twirl to show off her dress. As the wool skirt whipped against her ankles, it occurred to her that she had performed this little ceremony countless times for Penthero Iss.\n\nAngus looked at her without smiling. Suddenly he didn't seem much in the mood for talking, either.\n\n\"I want to thank you,\" Ash began, \"for all the lovely things\u2014\"\n\n\"Hush,\" Angus said, not gently. \"It was nothing. Nothing.\" His voice had a roughness to it that she didn't understand. \"Well, we'd better be on our way. Raif's waiting outside with the horses.\" With that he scooped up the basket containing the remainder of her clothes. and made his way from the room.\n\nAsh put on her new cloak and gloves, then followed him. In the darkness of the hall she met gazes with Cloistress Gannet. The tiny black-clad woman gave no greeting, save to pinch her dry little mouth into an even drier line.\n\nAngus held open the door against the wind. A storm was picking up, and snowflakes sailed through the doorway, coming to land on the red-and-cream rug that covered the floor. Cant won't like that one bit, Ash thought, fastening her cloak ties in haste.\n\nHer new boots sank deep into the snow as she walked across the courtyard toward Raif. He was standing by a black iron gate, holding Moose, the bay, and a full-grown pony with thick legs and a strong neck. The creature-was gray, like Moose, but darker and more blotchy, not so elegantly turned, as Master Haysticks would say. She had a large head and three white socks and wasn't a bit like a grand horse at all.\n\nRaif grinned as she approached. The storm suited him. He didn't shiver or stamp his feet as most people did in foul weather. Tilting his head toward the pony, he said, \"She's a beauty, isn't she?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Ash stopped short of the creature so as not to alarm her on their first meeting. \"What's her name?\"\n\n\"Snowshoe.\" Raif continued to grin.\n\nAsh grinned madly back. \"It's a perfect name. Perfect.\" Stripping off her new gloves, she moved wide of the pony so she could approach her from the side. \"Snowshoe,\" she said softly, to get her attention. Arms down at her side, Ash stepped closer, presenting herself for sniffing. Master Haysticks had always been particular about that. Let a new horse sniff you before you touch it, he'd said. Else it's like a total stranger coming up to you and poking you in the neck. Ash very much wanted Snowshoe to like her. It was suddenly the most important thing.\n\nSnowshoe sniffed and looked, then made a rolling motion with her head. Ash glanced at Raif, who nodded. Leaning in toward the pony, Ash raised her hand and stroked the bottom of the creature's neck. Snowshoe's huge brown eye watched her closely. By the time Ash had worked her hand down to the withers, Snowshoe was moving her chest forward to meet each stroke. Ash's heart tightened with joy. When Raif held out his hand, presenting her with a small green apple to give to the pony, she thought she might cry.\n\n\"Take it,\" he said. \"The last owner said they were her favorites.\"\n\nThe apple was offered and taken. Snowshoe allowed her mane and back to be stroked while she crunched it.\n\n\"Aye, you've made a friend there,\" Angus said, approaching with the last of the packs. Ash smiled at him as he loaded the horses. The hound bites on the bay's flanks were no longer bandaged, and she was relieved to see they were closed and dry. When she raised her gaze from the gelding's flank, she noticed Heritas Cant standing in the doorway, watching her.\n\n\"Here, give me your wee footie.\" Angus bent at the waist, ready to help her mount.\n\nA little unnerved by Cant's presence, Ash placed her left foot in Angus' cupped hands and levered herself onto Snowshoe's back. The saddle fit perfectly, and Raif moved quickly to adjust the stirrups to her leg. Snowshoe held herself steady all the while, as calm as if she met new riders every day in a storm.\n\nWhen everyone was mounted and ready, Cant called out from the doorway. \"The north road should be clear. Follow it until dark and then turn west when you pass the twin stormbarns of Clan's Reach.\"\n\nAngus nodded. \"Aye, Heritas. We'll do just that. I thank you for the warmth of your hearth and the knowledge you have given. Gods willing, we'll meet again afore winter's end.\"\n\nCant made no reply, save to click his sticks against the stone step.\n\n\"I owe you a debt, Heritas Cant,\" Raif said, his voice rising to compete with the storm. \"When we meet again I'll repay it.\"\n\nCant shook his head. \"I will not add to your burdens, Clansman, by claiming a debt against you.\"\n\nAsh watched Raif's face as he listened to the reply. A muscle high on his cheek pulsed, and then he bowed his head and looked away. Ash stroked Snowshoe's neck, searching for warmth. Turning the pony into the street, she nodded her farewell to Heritas Cant.\n\nIlle Glaive was differently made from Spire Vanis. As Ash trotted the pony down the street, past crumbling stonework, slate-roofed mansions, sealed-up sewers, and lead pipes venting steam, she began to see layers in the stone. The lower cellar levels that were only partially visible from the street were built from finely hewn stone that was black with soot and age. Ash saw moons and stars carved into the risers of cellar steps and the undersides of arches. Aboveground the stone was newer, lighter, the walls constructed from softer, more workable sandstone. Everything seemed to be heaped upon everything else, and buildings creaked and listed under the weight of added stories, ring towers, and timber bridges. In the distance the five lead-capped domes of the Lake Keep could clearly be seen rising high above the great curtain wall of ironstone that surrounded them. The Three Tears of Ille Glaive\u2014the Black Tear of the Spill, the Red Tear of Sull blood, and the Steel Tear of Dunness Fey's sword\u2014new on stiff white banners from their hoardings. Ash remembered her foster father telling her that the Lake Keep was built around a pool of black water known as the Eye of the Spill. The pool was said to be deeper than the lake itself, and strange blind fishes were said to swim there.\n\nThe nearer they drew to Ille Glaive's north wall, the more squalid the city became. Many buildings were little more than occupied ruins. Ash studied the caved roofs, boarded windows, and iced-up drains with eyes that had seen such things before. She knew what it felt like to be out on the streets, cold and hungry and alone. A journey north along the Storm Margin was nothing compared with that.\n\nQuickly, before her mind turned to the subject of Heritas Cant and all that he had said, Ash began patting Snowshoe's neck and saying horsey things out loud. She couldn't think about being a Reach. Not now. Not yet.\n\nThe storm darkened as they approached the Old Sull Gate. Mounds of brown snow had been piled to either side of the gateposts, and rows of icicles hung from the gate and its rigging, wet and dripping like monster's teeth. Angus dismounted but indicated that Ash should keep her seat. He appeared calm, yet Ash saw the way his gaze flickered from the gate tower to the guards in white mail shirts to the bowmen walking the wall.\n\nThe north gate of Ille Glaive was old and beautifully carved from honey-colored stone. It matched neither the color nor the style of the wall in which it was set. Unlike the gates in Spire Vanis, it had not been designed to impress anyone with its size and grandeur and existed simply as a thing of beauty, like an entrance to a holy place. A landscape of gently sloping hills, valleys, thick forests, and gorges alive with crashing water was carved across its posts and arch.\n\n\"The clanholds,\" murmured Raif.\n\nAsh turned to look at him. Snow swirled around his face, switching this way and that with every change of the wind. He held Moose's reins at tension, and Ash was reminded of what he looked like when he was drawing a bow.\n\n\"Aye,\" Angus said. \"There's parts of Dhoone and Blackhail arid Bludd up there. The stone was cut and carved by Sull masons. All their gates tell stories of the lands that lie beyond.\"\n\nRaif did not acknowledge what he said. Ash watched him as they joined the thin line of people waiting to take leave of the city. His gaze never returned to the gate.\n\nA woman farmer with a dog and cart and an old trapper dressed in rabbit furs that stank like all the hells stood ahead of them in line. Two guards wearing the Three Tears at their breasts gave them little trouble as they passed. Ash expected Angus to be relieved when they took the gate unchallenged, yet no part of his body relaxed. What is he afraid of? she wondered as she caught him looking over his shoulder one last time.\n\nBeyond the city walls the storm raged. Ash's eyes and mouth filled with snow the moment the pony cleared the gate, and she was forced to pull her fox hood so close that she looked at the world through a filter of gray fur. The north road stretched out ahead of her, straight as an arrow and wide as four carts. The cityhold of Ille Glaive, with its sprawling farms, stout outwalls, and tight little villages where every building shared walls with another, spread across the horizon like a land made of snow. Everything was white, even the sky. The only dark patches were chimney stacks and smoke holes on the roofs of a thousand farms.\n\nAngus mounted and set a brisk pace north.\n\nSnow drove into the horses' faces all the way. Darkness came early, moving south through the cityhold like a second storm. The wind died along with the light, and the sudden drop in temperature bred frost. Ash huddled in her oilskins, aware of every gapehole, eyelet, and poorly stitched seam. Cold settled in her chest like a disease. Every breath she exhaled caught in her hood and turned to blue ice. Lights from roadside taverns began to look tempting, yet Angus showed little interest in stopping. Smoke smelling of roast meat and onions burned black blew across the road, making Ash's mouth fill with saliva and her stomach growl. Hours passed, yet Angus still refused to call a halt.\n\nAsh sank into the misery of aching thighs, numb fingers, cracked lips, and a full bladder. She took to looking at the starless sky and wondering how long it would be before dawn. She had already decided that Angus meant to ride through the night.\n\nFinally Raif spoke up, saying something to Angus that Ash couldn't hear. Whispers passed between the two. Angus shook his head. Raif's voice dropped dangerously low... Ash heard him speak her name. Angus' shoulders stiffened for an instant, yet on his very next breath he relented. Glancing over at Ash, he said, \"Aye. A short stop will do no harm.\"\n\nAsh tried not to let the relief show on her face.\n\nThey rode a while longer, until they were free from the light of nearby villages and Angus was satisfied with the density of trees along the road. Ash smelled the sharp vinegary scent of resin as they headed for a stand of blackstone pines. Snowshoe was delighted to be off the road and found much to sniff at beneath the snow. Ash looked over the tops of the pines as she waited for the pony to raise her head. The northern horizon was dominated by a row of jagged peaks, dark shadows against a nearly black sky.\n\n\"The Bitter Hills,\" Angus said as his boots thudded into the snow. \"The clanholds stand beyond them. Ganmiddich, Bannen, and Croser lie that way.\"\n\nHearing Angus speak, Ash knew she had been watched. Did he always mind her so closely that he could tell where her eyes focused? She dismounted Snowshoe in silence, unwilling to draw Angus out on the subject of clans. Something inside her knew that Raif would not welcome it.\n\n\"On certain days if you look northeast, you can see a light above the hills. Ganmiddich has a tower, though I can't say as they built it, and they light fires in the topmost chamber so the blaze can be seen throughout the North.\"\n\nAsh glanced at Raif. He was down from Moose, busy tending to the gelding's nose and mouth. He gave no indication of having heard what Angus said, yet sound traveled well in the makeshift hall of pines.\n\nAngus began filling snufflebags with oats. \"Last time I saw the tower lit was when the old chief Ork Ganmiddich died. They doused the timbers with milk of magna to make the flames burn white.\"\n\nOut of the corner of her eye, Ash saw Raif's hand come down to touch the silver-capped horn he wore at his belt. He's showing his respect, she thought.\n\nPerhaps Angus noticed the gesture too, for he didn't speak anymore about the tower or the clans, simply walked among the horses, bringing snowmelt and grain.\n\nAsh worked the cramps from her legs by stamping her feet in the snow. After a while Raif came over bearing food. There was square-cut oatbread that Raif called bannock, crumbly white cheese, cold black bacon, hard apples, and flat beer. They ate it sitting on a storm-felled pine, and it tasted like a feast. Angus joined them halfway, consuming everything with gusto except the beer. \"I canna do it,\" he cried, slapping a hand upon his heart. \"I'll drink warm beer, cold beer, beer thickened with oats, iron filings, and eggs, but I canna drink a flat brew. A man must draw the line somewhere.\"\n\nIt was good to laugh. Angus passed around his rabbit flask, insisting that both Ash and Raif take a mouthful of some \"real warmth\" instead. Ash drank, though the contents tasted like lamp fuel and smelled of dead trees. \"That's the birch,\" Angus explained as Ash's eyes watered. \"There's a curl of bark in the bottom of the flask. It'll make you grow as tall as a tree... or is it as thick as one? I canna remember which.\"\n\nAsh grinned. It was impossible not to like Angus Lok. Handing back the flask, she stood and brushed the snow from her skirt. \"Just going to stretch my legs a bit.\"\n\n\"I'll come with you,\" Raif said, making to stand.\n\nAngus put a hand on his arm. \"I think our wee lassie of the ice needs a spot of privacy.\"\n\nRaif look puzzled for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face. Quickly he settled himself back on the log.\n\nAngus' copper eyes twinkled as he turned to Ash and said, \"Go ahead. We'll be here if you need us.\"\n\nUnable to decide if she was embarrassed or amused, Ash walked away. Angus Lok knew a lot about girls.\n\nFinding a sprawling tangle of dogwoods, she relieved herself in the cover they created. The fastenings on her new clothes caused her much irritation, and her fingers were half-frozen and nearly useless. By the time she arrived back in the clearing, both Raif and Angus were mounted and ready to move on. Snufflebags and pigskin water buckets had been packed away, and all that was left of the meal they had eaten was a handful of brown apple cores in the snow.\n\nSnowshoe showed no signs of weariness and held herself still while Ash mounted. Determined not to let her own exhaustion show, Ash made a point of sitting high in the saddle as Angus took them north through the pines. Eventually they came upon a game trail that led west, and Angus seemed content to follow where it led. They rode for some time through the dark hours of night, passing abandoned farm buildings, frozen streams, and forests steaming with mist, then Angus surprised everyone by signaling a halt.\n\nTurning due east, he stood high in his stirrups and looked back along the path they'd just traveled. Shaking his head, he said, \"It's not the finest ghost trail I've ever set, but it'll just have to do.\" He kicked the bay forward. \"As it's high time we turned for home.\"\nTHIRTY-FIVE\n\nFinding Lost Things\n\nMEEDA LONGWALKER'S DOGS found the raven's frozen corpse beneath two feet of glaciated snow. She was minking in the mew-fallen snow nineteen leagues east of the Heart, when her team of terriers began excavation on a new set. Meeda had been minking on the high plateau known as Old Man's Rib for fifty years, and she knew the moment her dogs started digging that there was nothing but hard rock beneath the snow.\n\nShe nearly called them off. Across the empty streambed, on the thickly wooded bank where ten thousand years of willow and spruce growth had broken down the bedrock into fine powdery soil, had been her intended destination: soft land where she knew a mother and her three cubs lived. Yet the dogs were excited about something, and there was always a chance of a carcass. Meeda had known bitches to tear limbs and genitals from male minks in a frenzy of protective mothering, then leave the males for dead. A frozen and bloody mink pelt was no good for a cloak or a coat, but it could be washed and used as lining for gloves, game bags, and hoods. It was worth the time and effort of pursuit. Barely.\n\nSlipping a strip of inner birch bark between loose lips long drained of pigment by age, Meeda stood back and waited for her dogs to finish digging. Her terriers, much maligned by male hunters for their small size, small brains, and small muzzles, shredded the snow with claws so sharp and strong that even now after fifty years of living with their breed, Meeda feared to let them close to her face. The male hunters were right: They did have small brains. But Meeda Longwalker had long realized that a small brain acutely focused was often more effective than a large one split by many thoughts.\n\nWhen she caught her first glimpse of the dark form beneath the snow, Meeda spat out the birch bark and issued a few choice curses to the Lord of Creatures Hunted. Dark was not what she wanted. Dark was not what Slygo Toothripper had promised to trade her for a pair of good new boots and a metal spearhead. Slygo wanted white. Dark mink pelts were worth double their weight in arrowheads. White pelts were worth ten times that and more.\n\n\"Mashi!\" Meeda cried to the terriers, halting them instantly. She would waste no more time digging a dark and bloody carcass from the snow.\n\nThe terriers feared Meeda even more than they loved to dig flesh, and to a dog all stepped aside from the excavation, allowing their mistress space to inspect their work. Meeda prided herself on being the greatest living minker in the Racklands. Fifty years of experience, eleven generations of dogs, five thousand leagues walked and another ten thousand ridden, and only twenty-eight days lost to childbirth, grief, and sickness. What man could boast such a record? As always before she had bagged her first catch of the day, Meeda was impatient with herself and her dogs, but she knew that certain rituals had to be maintained.\n\nTerriers were like children: When they went to the trouble of excavating a den, a freshly killed carcass, or even a set of old bones, they needed to be praised for their efforts. Meeda looked down at four sets of dark eager eyes, and although she didn't much feel like it she drew her icewood stick from her belt.\n\n\"What have we here?\" she said, prodding at the topsnow covering the dark, mink-size carcass. Two sons she had birthed, yet their names had been spoken less than those four words.\n\nMuscles in the terriers' necks strained. One, a young pun barely eight months old, sprayed the snow with urine in his excitement. Meeda frowned. She would have to beat that out of him: What if a perfect white mink had lain dead instead of\u2014\n\nA raven.\n\nMeeda Longwalker's face cooled beneath her lynx hood as she upturned a clod of snow to reveal the blue gleam of a raven's bill. Ill tidings. The thought came so swiftly, it was as if a stranger had leaned over her bent back and whispered the words in her ear. Meeda had half a mind to walk away, call her dogs to heel, and walk as fast as her knee joints would permit toward the empty streambed and the wooded bank. She was a minker, nothing more. It was not her place to deal in messages and omens. Yet even as she puffed herself up with excuses, she knew that it was her fate to find the raven and her duty to bring it home.\n\nThere would be no mink trapped today.\n\nSpeaking more harshly than was her wont to the terriers, she kept them at a distance while she finished the excavation with her own gloved hands. The raven had been killed by a pair of hawks. Its eyes had been plucked out, and the soft black down on its throat was stiff with the shiny substance of dried blood. The hawks had attacked it in midflight, and the impact of the fall had severed its left wing and sent its rib cage smashing into its heart. Meeda clucked softly as she scraped away the snow. Hawks had little love for any predatory birds entering their territory, but seldom had she witnessed the result of such a violent attack. Never had she known them to take down a raven.\n\nAs she freed its lower body from the snow, Meeda noticed something silver and scaled, like fishskin, flash as it caught the winter light. Meeda Longwalker knew then that an ill omen was not the only thing the raven had brought to the Racklands. It had brought a message as well.\n\nStripping off her thick horseskin work gloves to reveal hands crossed with the scars of dozens of sharp mink teeth, Meeda dropped to her knees in the snow. Her knife was in her hand before she knew it. A package the size of a child's little finger was bound to the raven's left leg. The silver material was pikeskin\u2014her hunter's eyes could not help but pick out that one detail even as her mind was intent on something else. Should she open the package, read it?\n\nThe raven had come from a long way away, Meeda knew that. No one in the Racklands used pikeskin to bind messages to birds, and only two men in the Northern Territories used ravens to send them. The first man she knew little about; he was one of the Far Family and lived upon a distant western shore, where he feasted on the fat of the great whales in summer and sat deep within the ground, chewing sealskin, through the long winter nights. The second man was her son.\n\nThis message was for him, could only be for him. And judging from the desiccation of the raven's corpse, it was already eleven days late.\n\nMeeda Longwalker cut the message free. The dry, freezing winds had long robbed the bird of all its fluids, yet even now she did not forsake her minker's caution: Never break the skin. It was foolishness, she knew, but there it was. She was too old to change her ways now.\n\nToo old also to wait upon her son's hands and eyes to open and read the message. It was for him\u2014she could not and would not pretend otherwise\u2014but her dogs had dug it from the snow. The find was hers. And in Meeda Longwalker's adopted world of hunters, coursers, minkers, ferreters, badgerers, and trappers, that meant she could do with it what she wished.\n\nWith hands that were deceptively agile despite their age and scarring, Meeda slit the pikeskin package down the center where it had been fixed with fish glue. A piece of white bark, not dissimilar to the strip she had spat into the snow earlier, fell into her palm. It was soft, excellently worked with both saliva and some kind of animal fat she did not recognize. The message was burned into the wood.\n\nMeeda read it slowly over minutes, though in truth it was barely two sentences long. Her father had been a learned man who believed in tutoring both his sons and his daughters in letters, lore, and history, but for as long as she could remember Meeda had valued freedom of her body more highly than freedom of her mind. As a child she had run from her lessons, even in full winter when her father and his High Speaker swore that the temperature outside was cold enough to kill a soft-skinned girl within minutes. Meeda had proven them all wrong, though now, in her old age, she felt a portion of shame for having mocked and disobeyed her father so completely and with such terrible joy. The High Speaker, unlike her father, still lived. He was the oldest man in the Racklands, second in power only to her son. He had no eyes, yet that did not stop Meeda from avoiding his blind gaze even now.\n\nShivering, she folded the message and slipped it into her game belt. The terriers, thinking she was reaching for her treat bag, began to snap and jostle for position. Meeda shook her head. No treats. Not today.\n\n\"Mis!\" she told them. Home.\n\nIt was nineteen leagues back to the Heart of the Sull. Meeda Longwalker walked them no more quickly or slowly than normal, yet they cost her more and wore her more than any other leagues in her life. As the path rose from the valley floor and the white chalk cliffs of High Ground became visible above the Heart Fires, she spotted two mounted figures in the distance.\n\nArk Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer.\n\nFar Riders, returning from whatever journey her son had sent them on at Spring's End. Meeda dropped her hand to the belt, felt the message carried there. The two men did not know it, but they would barely have time to bleed their horses and blacken their hands in the ashes of the Heart Fires. They would need to travel north now. Meeda Longwalker, Daughter of the Sull, had listened to her father's teaching long enough to know that Far Riders responded to the silent summons of the gods.\n\nTHEY RODE EAST THROUGH the night and much of the next day. A new dawn brought more snow and the kind of low, gusting winds that came from all directions and were impossible to guard against The farther they traveled from Ille Glaive, the emptier the landscape became. Villages were rare occurrences, and the land became peopled with backbreaking rocks, frozen mudholes, and forests of tall, silent trees. Raif called it taiga. He said that much of the clanholds was like this.\n\nThey rested during the evening of the second day, making a cold camp some distance from a tiny village that boasted an alehouse, a dry forge, and an ancient retaining wall built to prevent snow and mud from sliding down the Bitter Hills and overrunning livestock and farms. A pair of ewes and their yearlings penned on a nearby slope were their only company as they slept through the night.\n\nAsh was woken by Angus. It was still dark, but a blush of light on the southeast horizon told of imminent dawn. Ash had slept on a mattress of piled snow, wrapped in two layers of oilskins and wearing a mask of greased linen over her face. Frostbite was a real and constant danger, and at various points in the night she had been aware of hands touching her nose and cheeks through the cloth. Angus insisted on checking her now, his rough fingers feeling for any stiff or frozen skin. Raif saw to the horses, then laid out a breakfast of cold store. The bannock, which one night earlier had been soft and toasty, now had ice crystals at its heart.\n\nWhile Ash and Raif filled the waterskins with snow, Angus hiked onto high ground and surveyed the surrounding land. Now, finally, Ash knew the reason behind his constant watchfulness: He didn't want any uninvited guests following him home.\n\nHe hadn't trusted Heritas Cant, not fully. Ash clearly remembered him telling Cant that they would travel north and then west. Only he'd never had any intention of doing such a thing. As soon as he'd judged it safe he had turned east instead. \"Just a wee visit,\" he had said last night. \"It'll only slow us down by three days\u2014a day there, a day back, and one in the middle for some decent rest under a safe roof and a spot of scolding from my wife.\"\n\nAsh had accepted his decision without question. She could not stop Angus and Raif from visiting their family. How could she argue against the wish of two men to see their kin\u2014she, who knew nothing of fathers and daughters and cousins and aunts? Cant's wardings would stretch the extra days. They had to.\n\nThe tail end of the storm had passed in the night, and the snow underfoot was still finding its level. The going was hard, but sunlight broke through the clouds at midmorning, creating a world of sparkling blue frost. Everyone's spirits lifted. Angus hummed a selection of tunes as he rode; Ash recognized one of them as \"Badger in the Hole.\" Raif remained silent, but his hands were lighter on the reins and he often leaned forward to scratch Moose's neck and say some bit of nonsense to the horse. Watching the men's obvious excitement about the homecoming, Ash felt herself growing nervous. The thought of Angus' daughters knotted her stomach.\n\n\"Raif,\" Angus said as the snowbound roofs of a small village appeared on the horizon, \"what say you take out that borrowed bow of yours and bring down something fitting for Darra's pot. She'd have my hamstrings for slingshots if I brought her two extra guests and no extra food.\"\n\nCords rose in Raif's neck as his uncle spoke, and Ash thought he might refuse. Yet after a moment he reached back over Moose's quarters and unfastened the bow from its case. The bow was one of the few things that had not been lost by the lake. It was a thing of beauty, horn and wood fitted together and then worked to a high sheen. Raif stripped down to bare hands to brace it. He worked quickly, tying knots, warming the wax-coated string, kneading the belly of the bow as he curved it. The bowcase now boasted a dozen straight, well-tilled arrows, and Raif drew one at random and put its head to the bow.\n\nSomething in his face changed as he scanned the surrounding territory for game. Ash saw nothing, only blackstone pines, hemlocks, bladdergrass, and snow, yet Raif's gaze focused on the spaces between things, and his eyes flickered as if they were tracking invisible beasts. Minutes passed. Angus busied himself by scraping the dirt from his fingernails with the tip of his belt knife. Ash could not take her eyes from Raif. He became something else when he had a bow in his hands, something she tried but could find no name for.\n\nThuc! The bow thwacked back, rattling as Raif's hand absorbed the recoil. Ash followed Raif's gaze but could see nothing. No creature cried out in pain or shock. A smell, like sulfur or copper, filled her nose and mouth. By the time she swallowed it was gone.\n\nAngus, who Ash guessed hadn't really been interested in cleaning his nails at all, turned the bay toward the shot. Even as the bay's hooves sent snow flying, Raif released a second arrow.\n\n\"A pair of ptarmigan should be enough,\" he said softly, after a moment.\n\nAsh did not know how to reply. She nodded quickly.\n\nHe turned to look at her. His drawhand was free of the bow, and she could see the pink, herringbone flesh of a recently healed injury on his palm. \"You look frightened.\"\n\nShe tried a smile but failed. \"I've seen you shoot things before.\"\n\n\"That's no answer.\"\n\nIt wasn't, and she knew it. Looking into his eyes, she saw how dark they were, even with the sun full upon them. She tried a second smile and said, \"Are you afraid of me?\"\n\nRaif's own smile was slow in coming, but when it did it warmed her heart. \"Not yet.\"\n\nThe moment between them lasted only as long as it took Angus to return with the ptarmigan, yet it was enough. They pulled their horses apart as Angus held the two fat white birds above his head and cried, \"I'll be sleeping in the big bed tonight!\"\n\nBoth Ash and Raif laughed.\n\nThe journey went quickly after that. They talked and rode and swapped stories. Ash was surprised to learn that Raif had never visited Angus' farm before or met any of Angus' daughters. She thought it strange that Angus had never brought his daughters north to Blackhail to meet their cousins, but Angus made a joke of it, saying he'd already lost one sister to a clansman and had no intention of losing his three girls as well. Ash laughed along with Raif, yet she was beginning to wonder what Angus feared. Why was it so important to hide his family from the rest of the world?\n\nAs midday approached they neared the village that had first appeared on the horizon. The ground was hard here, good for nothing save stone walls and sheep. The Bitter Hills rose to the north, sending winds whistling through tough gray grasses that somehow kept their heads above the snow. Sheep farms dotted the slopes. The air smelled of woodsmoke and manure and damp wool. A necklace of frozen ponds strung across the hills told of glaciers long gone.\n\nThe village itself consisted of two streets of stone-built houses sealed with tar. Ash saw signs of pride in ownership in the cleared ground surrounding each building and the well-maintained shutters and doors. Like the bay, the village had a name, yet Angus preferred not to give it.\n\nAngus also preferred not to approach the village too closely, and he took them along a series of low roads, sheep runs, and dry creekbeds, changing course at least three times. By the time they arrived at the bank of a green-water river Ash had lost all sense of direction and couldn't have pointed the way back to the village if her entire life had depended on it. They followed the river downstream for an hour or so until it ran through a forest of ancient hardwoods. Towering elms, basswoods, and black oaks rose like an army around them. The wind was quiet here, and the only sound came from the horses' hooves snapping forest litter with every step.\n\nAsh was the last to see the farmhouse. The forest did not thin: It stopped. One moment they were walking through deep green shade cast by hundred-year oaks, then suddenly there were no more trees. Sunlight dazzled Ash's eyes. Raif took a hard breath. Angus said a single word: \"Mis.\"\n\nThe rear of the Lok farm lay a quarter league ahead, set into a stretch of softly worked farmland and framed by a white elm as tall and stately as a tower. The roof of the house was blue gray slate, and the walls were pale yellow stone. A low door, carved from honey-colored oak and gleaming with newly applied resin, formed the center of the main building, and all paths, partition walls, lean-to's, and outbuildings were built in an arc around it.\n\nAs Ash looked on the door opened. A woman... no, a girl... stepped onto the path. She was wearing a blue wool dress with a white collar and sturdy work boots. Her auburn hair reached past her waist \"Mother! Beth!\" she called, her voice high and excited.\n\nAngus made a sound deep in his throat and jumped down from his horse. Ash glanced at Raif, thinking that he would do likewise, but something must have been showing in her face, for he sent her a look that said, I'll stay here with you. Ash was surprised by her own relief.\n\nTwo other figures appeared in the doorway, a woman with dark gold hair and a girl of six or seven, dressed in the same plain wool as her older sister. The woman held something in her arms, and it took Ash a moment to realize it was a young child. The two girls raced down the path, shouting, \"Father! Father!\" The woman waited in the doorway, watching. Ash noticed her eyes flick to Raif and then to her. A small chill took Ash as she sat upon her pony and received the woman's attention.\n\nAngus ran onto the path to meet his daughters. Catching them in a bear hug, he lifted them clean off the ground and swung them in a great circle, all the while calling them \"his best girls.\"\n\nAsh had to look away.\n\nRaif, who had taken control of the bay's reins, clicked his tongue, encouraging all three horses to step forward. Snowshoe moved without Ash's consent. Ash wanted to stop her, considered stopping her, yet in the end she didn't. It's just Angus' family, she told herself. I'm making a fuss over nothing.\n\nShe just wished he had sons. Not daughters.\n\nAngus put his daughters down, and both girls stepped away from him, allowing him a clear view of their mother at the door. Angus stripped off his gloves, pulled down his hood, and stood and looked at his wife. His eyes were dark as he waited for her to beckon him. With half a smile she called him forward, and the space separating them contracted to nothing at all as Angus moved toward the door.\n\nAsh knew then that Angus had lied about his wife. All the threats she supposedly issued, all the rules she supposedly made, were nothing more than thin air.\n\nTurning away from them, Ash met eyes with the eldest of the two girls. She was beautiful, Ash realized that straightaway, with hazel eyes and skin that glowed with good health. As the girl looked at Ash, her hand moved up from her side and was taken immediately by her younger sister. Such a little thing, yet neither girl even glanced at the other as they touched.\n\n\"Darra, I have brought visitors.\" Angus' voice broke the moment. Holding his wife's hand, he pulled her down from the step and onto the path. \"Raif's come all this way to see you. He's brought a fine pair of ptarmigan.\"\n\nHearing Raif dismount at her side, Ash did likewise. Her eyes never left Angus' wife.\n\nDarra Lok was dressed in a plain wool dress without jewelry or trim of any sort. Her fair hair was piled on her head in a style that Ash knew took only minutes each morning to fix. As her dark blue eyes met Raif's, she let the child she had been carrying at her hip slide to the ground. The little blond-haired girl headed straight for Angus, crawling fiercely through the snow and calling, \"Papa!\" loudly. Angus snatched her up and threw her into the air like a sack of grain. The child loved it. Giggling madly, she demanded, \"More! More!\"\n\nWith both arms empty, Darra looked to Raif.\n\n\"Da's gone,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"I know,\" she murmured. \"I know.\" Ash could see that she wanted to take hold of Raif and hug him, yet he stood apart from her and all she could do was touch his sleeve. \"Tem was a good, good man. I never met anyone more honest and more fair.\"\n\nRaif nodded.\n\nDarra smiled. \"And he could dance... my, how he could dance... .\"\n\nNo longer nodding, Raif turned away.\n\nDarra's hand moved in the air after him.\n\n\"Cassy, Beth!\" Angus said. \"Run and open the barn.\" He held out his youngest daughter. \"And take Little Moo with you. Hurry now.\"\n\nThe middle daughter pouted. \"But Father, we want to meet the lady with silver hair\u2014\"\n\n\"Later.\"\n\nThe girls heard something in their father's voice that made their backs straighten. The eldest came and took Little Moo from her father's arms, and the three sisters headed for the side of the house. Ash watched them disappear, envy stabbing softly at her chest. When she glanced up, she saw Darra Lok watching her.\n\nAngus gripped his wife by the wrist as he led her toward Ash. \"daffy, this is Ash. She's from Spire Vanis. We're taking her north with us.\"\n\nDarra's face was as pale and smooth as wax. She was shaking in a strange way, as if she were either very cold or very afraid.\n\nAsh didn't understand what was happening. Darra's large eyes were filled with so much emotion, they frightened her. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked for Raif, but he was some distance behind her now, tending to the horses.\n\n\"Ash.\" Darra seemed to test the word as she spoke it. \"Welcome to our house.\"\n\nAsh didn't know what to do. This was no time for smiles. Darra Lok looked distraught. Her welcome seemed almost to hurt her as she spoke it. \"Thank you,\" Ash said. \"I'm glad to be here.\"\n\nDarra Lok made a nervous gesture with her hands, brushing imaginary dirt from her apron.\n\nAngus moved himself into a position between his wife and Ash, touching both of them on the shoulder. \"Well, ladies,\" he said. \"I think we should all go inside and have a little brose by the fire.\"\n\nAsh didn't know what brose was. Suddenly nothing made any sense. Did Darra Lok know she was the Reach? Was it fear she saw in the older woman's eyes or something else?\n\nAngus held on to both of them as they walked toward the house. Raif followed after, leading the horses. When the eldest daughter returned from the barn, carrying horse blankets and feedbags, he called her by name: Cassy. What the two said to each other, whether they touched, or hugged, or kissed, was something Ash never knew, as she stepped into the warm, firelit interior of the house, leaving Raif and Cassy to the snow.\n\nIn the short time it took to walk to the door, Darra Lok had composed herself, and when she turned to Ash and bade her strip off her cloak and take the seat closest to the fire, she looked and acted like a different woman. Smiling gently, she helped Ash with cloak ties, her fingers making quick work of the hooks and laces. Angus stood in the doorway, watching them, an unreadable look on his snowburned face.\n\n\"Well, don't just stand there, Angus Lok,\" said his wife. \"Stoke the fire and fetch me the heavy iron pot\u2014the one for heating bathwater. Oh, and you might as well fill it while you're on your way.\"\n\nAngus smiled at Ash. \"I told you what she was like.\" With that he went about his appointed task with all the grumbling and puffing of a man perfectly happy yet pretending not to be.\n\nAsh looked around the large farmhouse kitchen. Undressed stone walls glowed like old parchment in the firelight. The blue slate floor was covered in worn rugs of all shapes and sizes and thicknesses; the oldest one looked to be a balding fox pelt that lay like a faithful dog beside the hearth. The fireplace was as big as a shed, and cast-iron shelves, roasting racks, and gridirons were suspended at various heights above the flames. An armory of knives, graters, skewers, roasting forks, and nut-and-bone crackers hung above the hearth on meat hooks, and a great black warming stone sat in the middle of the flames.\n\nIt was a hard-used, well-cared-for place. The large birch table that sat in the center of the room had been scrubbed down to the raw wood, and every chair in sight boasted a slat, spindle, or leg that had been repaired with newer stock.\n\n\"Sit,\" Darra said, hanging Ash's cloak over the back of a chair to dry. \"I'll warm us some brose.\"\n\nAsh did as she was told, finding a stout little stool to her liking. She watched as Darra poured frothy amber beer into a pot, then thickened it with a hand of oatmeal. \"I'm sorry if my coming here has upset you.\"\n\nDarra did not stop what she was doing as she replied, \"No, Ash. It's me who should apologize to you. I offered a poor welcome. I... you...\" She struggled for words. \"It's not often Angus brings visitors to the house.\"\n\nShe had meant to say something else, Ash was sure of it, but before she had chance to question Darra further the door opened and Raif and all three of Angus' daughters burst into the room.\n\n\"Look, Mother!\" cried the middle daughter. \"Raif brought down two ptarmigan on the dog flats. He said they were flying as fast as eagles when he took them. And he's promised to teach me how to shoot.\"\n\nRaif's smile was tactful. He had probably said no such thing.\n\n\"Hush, child,\" said Darra. \"Raif, come and warm yourself by the hearth. We haven't got any black beer, I'm afraid, only brose.\"\n\n\"Brose will be good.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt it,\" Angus said, emerging from another door with a huge iron pot filled to the rim with water. \"Tem's black beer has doubtless ruined your palate for life.\"\n\n\"It was useful for keeping flies away in summer,\" Raif said.\n\n\"Aye, and women and maidens, too!\"\n\nEveryone laughed. Ash guessed that Tem's beer was famous for being bad. She smiled, then joined in the laughter. It was good to learn something small and homely about Raif's life back in the clan.\n\n\"Father.\" The middle daughter turned the word into a reprimand. Her large gray blue eyes rolled in the direction of Ash. \"We haven't met the lady yet.\"\n\nAsh felt her cheeks color. Cassy sent her a sympathetic Sorry my sister's acting like a fool look.\n\nAngus frowned. He fitted the iron pot onto the warming stone, where its height and breadth halved the light in the room. That done, he turned and surveyed his three girls, who were lined up from smallest to tallest by the door. After a moment he growled at them, sounding just like an aging and much-put-upon wolf. Little Moo growled right back, mimicking him perfectly. The two elder girls tried but did not succeed in keeping straight faces.\n\n\"Daughters!\" Angus complained to no one in particular. \"Who would have them?\"\n\n\"Grrrrrr.\" Little Moo growled again. She was really very good at it.\n\n\"All right! All right! You've worn me down!\" Shaking his head, Angus turned to Ash. \"Ash, these are my daughters: Casilyn, the eldest, and close to you and Raif in age. Beth\"\u2014Angus glowered theatrically at his middle daughter\u2014\"the talker of the family. And Maribel the\u2014\"\n\n\"Growler,\" said Beth, quick as only a child could.\n\nAngus very nearly gave himself away by laughing. \"The baby.\"\n\n\"Moo! Moo!\" said Little Moo.\n\n\"Aye,\" Angus said. \"My youngest child, for reasons known only to herself, refuses to answer to any name other than Little Moo.\"\n\n\"Moo! Moo!\" repeated Little Moo, eminently satisfied that her name situation had been explained.\n\nAsh smiled shyly at the three girls. Cassy smiled back; Beth curtsied in an elaborate manner, losing her footing on the knee bend and knocking into the door; and Little Moo giggled, growled, and said, \"Moo! Moo!\" a few more times for good measure.\n\n\"Girls,\" Angus said, \"this is Ash. She's traveling with me and Raif for a while. And tonight she's our special guest and must be treated so by all of you. Understand?\" All three girls nodded. \"Good.\"\n\n\"Father, can Ash sleep with me and Beth tonight?\" Cassy raised her bright hazel eyes to meet Ash's. \"If you'd like to?\"\n\nAsh nodded. Cassy was almost as tall as she, but better filled out, with proper breasts and hips. Her hair was glorious, sometimes red, sometimes golden, thick and wavy and full of light. Ash thought for a brief moment of Katia, of her dark beautiful hair that no amount of pins could tame, then shut the memory away.\n\n\"Cassy, why don't you take Ash to your room?\" Darra poured hot cloudy liquid into a set of wooden cups as she spoke. \"Help her bathe and change if she'd like to. She's had a hard journey and may want to rest before supper.\"\n\nAsh sent a look of thanks to Darra. Meeting Angus' family had left her shaken and exhausted.\n\n\"Can I come, too?\" Eagerness lit up Beth's small pink face. \"I'll help with her clothes and hair.\"\n\n\"No,\" Darra said. \"Just Cassy.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"I said no. You can go up later, once she's rested.\"\n\nBeth closed her mouth. Her bottom lip trembled.\n\nA moment passed. The kitchen was so quiet Ash could hear the impurities in the firewood sizzle as they burned.\n\nThen Raif stood and extended his arm toward Beth. \"What say you and I go outside and shred some wood? I'll have you hitting bull's eyes by sundown.\"\n\nAsh loved him for that. It was the act of someone who knew what it was to have sisters and brothers of his own.\n\nIssuing a high, excited scream, Beth ran to Raif's side and hugged him fiercely. Together they left the house, Beth hitting Raif with a barrage of questions about bows, arrows, ptarmigan, the lady with the silvery hair.\n\nAngus and Darra exchanged a glance, then Angus slipped on two thick sheepskin mitts and picked the now hot iron basin from the hearth. \"Follow me,\" he said to Cassy and Ash.\n\nHe led them up a flight of stairs and into a tiny, odd-shaped room. Once he'd placed the iron tub on the floor, he lit an oil lamp and left. Ash noticed how his hand came up to touch his daughter's cheek as he crossed toward the door.\n\n\"Would you like to wash now, or rest?\" Cassy gestured toward one of the two boxed pallets that lay against opposing walls. The room was sparsely furnished, with plain walls and a rug of woven rushes. The only item of furniture beside the pallets was a small table that had originally been built for carpentry work, as the many hammered nailheads, saw marks, and chisel gouges attested to.\n\n\"I'm sorry the room's a bit bare. Beth and I hardly spend any time here.\"\n\nAsh shook her head, thinking of her own silk-lined, thick-rugged, amber-warmed chamber in Mask Fortress. \"No. I like it very much. The bathwater looks tempting. I think I might wash first.\"\n\nCassy came forward to help her with the hooks and eyes of her skirt. Her hands were rough and callused, split in part by old scars, and Ash reminded herself that Cassy lived on a working farm.\n\n\"Father's away a lot some years,\" Cassy said, obviously noticing wherever Ash's gaze rested. \"Last spring Mother and I had to shear the lambs ourselves. They kicked a lot.\"\n\nAsh made no effort to hide her own street-worn hands.\n\n\"Usually Father tries to go away in the winter, when there isn't much to do except feed the chickens and milk the ewes. But sometimes the birds come in summer and spring and there's nothing he can do about it.\"\n\n\"Birds?\"\n\n\"Messages... from people.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Ash waited, but Cassy said no more. \"Can no one in the village help with the sheep?\"\n\nCassy shook her head, sending her auburn hair dancing.\n\n\"No. We never talk to anyone in the Three Villages. We keep to ourselves.\"\n\nAsh thought that strange yet didn't say so. Stepping out of her skirt and underskirt, she watched as Cassy tested the bath. What was Angus afraid of? What made him hide his family away?\n\n\"The water's not very hot, I'm afraid. Father still imagines that girls are like men: One quick dunk and we're done.\"\n\nAsh grinned. She liked Cassy very much.\n\n\"Your father's a kind man.\"\n\n\"Tell him that and he'd spend more time denying it than he would if you swore he was a rogue.\"\n\nBracing herself against the coolness of the water, Ash stepped into the iron basin. Cassy began making lather with a hard wedge of charcoal soap and a linen cloth. Ash guessed the cloth was Cassy's best, as it had little birds embroidered around the border.\n\nCassy began washing Ash's hair with the firm, capable movements of a girl who probably performed the same duty each week on her sisters. \"How long will you be gone?\" she asked as she poured rinse water over Ash's scalp. \"If it's all right to say.\"\n\n\"I don't know. Not long, I hope. A month, perhaps\" As she spoke, Ash imagined a map of the Northern Territories in her head. The Storm Margin lay far to the west, caught between the Coastal Ranges and the Wrecking Sea. She knew only bits of things about the Margin; about the chain of Floating Isles just off its coast that were surrounded by mist year-round and where the Sull King Lyan Summered was said to have died; and about the Ice Trappers in the Far North, who camped upon the sea ice in midwinter and chewed upon squares of frozen seal blood like clansmen chewed upon curd. Far to the south lay the Seahold, where the Trader Kings lived.\n\n\"I envy you.\"\n\nAsh looked up to see Cassy Lok watching her closely. It was in her mind to say something lighthearted and dismissive, something about trekking across thick snow in winter not being the sort of thing any sane person would envy, yet when she saw the expression on Cassy's face, Ash knew instantly that Angus' daughter meant what she said. Cassy Lok wasn't the sort of person to say anything lightly.\n\n\"I envy you,\" Ash replied, and meant it.\nTHIRTY-SIX\n\nA Moon Made of Blood\n\nBREAKFAST WAS EATEN IN SILENCE. Crusty bread, smoked bacon, and mushrooms drenched in butter were washed down with ewe's milk flavored with pine nuts. All the plates and cups were made of white oak, so even the business of cutting and spearing did little to break the hush.\n\nAngus ate as slowly as a condemned man, cutting his bacon into ever smaller bits until a substance resembling sawdust filled his plate. Raif sat by the kitchen's only window, a tub of wax floating in a bath of hot water by his side. Every now and then he'd scoop some of the wax with a cloth and work it into his bow. \"Weatherproofing,\" he had said earlier to Beth, who never stopped asking him questions. More often than not his gaze was on the dark gray sky outside the window.\n\nCassy sat beside Ash on the bench by the fire. They did not speak, but the silence between them was comfortable. Cassy had Little Moo on her lap, and the little blond-haired child was sucking on a rasher of bacon as stiff as a twig. Darra Lok sat at the table with her husband and her middle child. Every now and then Ash was aware of Darra's gaze upon her. She pretended not to notice, but it worried her. What had Angus said to his wife?\n\nAngus chose that moment to push his plate into the center of the table and stand. \"We'd best be on our way.\"\n\nEveryone, including Raif, stood up on hearing his words, and within seconds the Lok farmhouse became alive with activity. Cassy ran upstairs to fetch Ash's things, Beth ran to the stables to saddle the horses with Raif, Angus topped his rabbit flask from a keg by the door, and Darra began winding the remains of last night's ptarmigan in strips of waxed linen.\n\nAsh started the long process of wrapping, buckling, and caulking herself against the cold. She didn't know if she was sorry to leave or not. Angus' family were close to what she had always imagined a family should be, yet she had no place in it, and that knowledge left her strangely cold.\n\nShe was Ash March, Foundling, left outside Vaingate to die.\n\nThe words\u2014her words\u2014made her stronger, and she said her good-byes to Angus' family and went to join Raif outside.\n\nSaddlebags and bedrolls were buckled onto the horses, last words were spoken, and then the three travelers mounted and rode south through the forest of old trees.\n\nAngus did not look back. Ash did, and she saw Cassy Lok's hazel eyes filled with longing and Darra Lok's blue ones filled with fear.\n\nThey followed the green river west for many leagues, shoulders hunched against the wind, heads down, silent. Storm clouds formed troughs and swells in the sky, and it wasn't long before Ash felt rain spit against her face. Warm air driven south before the storm had caused a minor thaw, and the snow underfoot was wet, and not all pond ice could be trusted. Snowshoe was no dancer like the bay, but she was a wily pony and soon learned to follow Angus' gelding step for step. Gradually the old hardwoods gave way to open fells and stunted pines.\n\nAfter a noonday meal of cold salted ptarmigan, Angus turned northwest toward the Bitter Hills. Ash sat and suffered the wind and rain. She would have been grateful for any sort of conversation, but neither Angus nor Raif had a mind to do anything but ride.\n\nThe Bitter Hills changed color the nearer you drew to them. Ash had first thought they were gray, then blue. Now, as she and her two companions headed straight for the walls and cirques of the hills' southern approach, she saw veins of green copper, white shale, and red iron threaded through the rock. Ash remembered her foster father telling her that the Bitter Hills had once been named mountains by the people of Ille Glaive, but visiting clansmen had laughed at them, saying, \"These wee things? Why, they're naught but hills.\" With storm clouds massed at their throats like furs around a king, the Bitter Hills looked like mountains to Ash.\n\nAs darkness came and the rain cooled to sleet, Angus turned his party once more. Locating a path at the base of the hills that ran above an ice-sealed stream, he led them west along the border between Ille Glaive and the clanholds.\n\nThey traveled through much of the night. The hills acted as a barrier between the horses and the worst of the storm. As the hours wore on, Ash became increasingly aware of Cant's wardings. They dug into her chest like wire, painful sometimes when she moved too quickly or breathed too hard. She still didn't know what to make of Cant's claim that she was a Reach. Before Cant had spoken she had never heard that such a thing existed. And if a Reach had been born a thousand years ago, why did no one in Spire Vanis know it? Ash knew her history. Haldor Hews was the surlord then, and he had reigned for sixty years. During that time he had extended the reach of the cityhold to the southern tip of the Black Spill and brought so much wealth into the city that he became known as Haldor the Provider. Ash frowned. Yet a Reach had been born then; Cant had said so. And a thousand years earlier... Ash thought a moment as she checked her dates... Theron and Rangor Pengaron had ridden their warhost north and founded the city itself.\n\nPuzzled, Ash shook her head. It really didn't seem as if a Reach could bring all the horrors that Cant said.\n\nNot quite feeling relieved, Ash kicked her heels into ponyflesh and turned her mind to other things.\n\nNot much later Angus called a halt, and camp was made hard against the stream. Raif lit a fire, but no one had the inclination or energy for chopping and stripping wood, and it fizzled quickly after the ptarmigan fat had been rendered to make stock. Ash fell asleep with grease on her lips, bundled deep within a goosedown quilt that had been a gift from Darra Lok.\n\nA second, greater storm front moved south across the hills overnight, and Ash was woken by a pebble spray of hailstones on her back. Locks of her hair that had escaped her fox hood were stuck to the ground with frost. The temperature had dropped again, and when she crouched in the bushes to make water, she half expected her urine to freeze. It didn't. At least not in the time it took to straighten her stockings and skirt.\n\nNo one spoke as they broke camp. The wind howled through ridges and canyons, shifting pitch like a human voice. Raif and Angus rode to either side of Ash, buffering her against the storm. There was no true daylight to mark the day's passage. The farther west they traveled, the flatter and more rounded the hills became. Clouds boiled above them, sending sprays of ice and snow to sand already smooth slopes.\n\n\"Ganmiddich Tower should be in that bank ahead,\" Angus shouted as the stormlight began to fail, flinging his arm toward the clouds. \"If we turned north here, we'd be at the pass within an hour.\"\n\nAsh looked but could see nothing except hailstones and clouds.\n\nDarkness descended even as Angus returned his hand to the reins. Ash kept glancing north, hoping for a glimpse of the tower.\n\nAfter a while she became aware of a pale glow above the hilltops. Thick curtains of cloud hid its color and center, and at first she thought it was the rising moon or the north star. Then the wind gusted west, clearing a small portion of sky, and a ball of red fire was revealed.\n\nAsh felt something drop in her stomach. Reaching over, she touched Raif's arm. His gaze followed hers, and she watched as his eyes and face turned red with reflected light.\n\n\"Light in the tower,\" he said quietly. \"The red fire of Clan Bludd.\"\n\nThose were the last words she heard him speak that night.\n\nA flight of arrows skimmed the air, whirring as softly as a fisherman dropping a line. Something thwacked against Snowshoe's rump, making the pony rear and break with the other horses. Ash sawed at Snowshoe's mouth, but the pony was scared and determined to flee.\n\nSimilar impacts hit Moose and the bay. Raif fought his horse, pulling hard on the reins and wheeling the gelding through a half turn. As Ash looked on, he bit off one of his gloves and spat it into the snow. The bay stood his ground. Sull trained, Ash remembered, glimpsing twin flashes of steel as Angus drew both knife and sword.\n\nA second arrow hit the pony in the chest. This time Ash got a quick look at the head before it fell: a thumb of rounded wood capped with lead. A blunt. As she tried to make sense of what that meant, a troop of mounted clansmen descended the southern slope. Ash saw long oiled braids, sable cloaks, dull plate, and boiled leather dyed the color of blood.\n\nCrack! Ash's world flashed red and white as a blunt clipped her chin. Her teeth roots rang with pain. Working to steady herself in the seat, she pulled so hard on the reins that Snowshoe reared and screamed. Cool air whiffled past Ash's cheek as another blunt sailed wide. The arrows were coming from the east. To the north, the mounted clansmen spread wide as they reached level ground.\n\nOut of the corner of her eye, she saw the rising arc of Raif's bow. It was Raif's bow now; it had been Angus' once, but seeing it bend like a dancer's spine in Raif's hand, she knew Angus could never ask for it back.\n\nFear filled Ash's mouth the instant he released the string. She didn't need to look over her shoulder to know that the point would find a clansman's heart.\n\nColdness took her. It's so easy for him, she thought If he had enough arrows, he could kill them all.\n\nSuddenly Angus was beside her, wheeling the bay so tightly that clods of snow and frozen dirt spattered against her leg. \"Behind me,\" he said.\n\nThe bay's steady presence calmed Snowshoe, and she stopped fighting against the bit and allowed Ash to maneuver her against Angus' flank. A blunt skipped off the bay's neck, yet the great Sull horse held his ground. Ash looked into the gelding's brown liquid eye and felt a moment of pure reverence. We've danced together, you and I.\n\nA dozen clansmen bore down on them across the runoff plain at the base of the hill. There were more somewhere, hidden in the darkness to the east, shooting blunts. Ash watched as the warriors uncouched their steel points and lowered them as they rode. Spearheads set with back hooks to snag flesh reached ten paces beyond the horses' heads.\n\nRaif took one down, then another.\n\n\"Who are they?\" screamed Ash.\n\nAngus' weapons wept oil as he raised them. \"Bluddsmen. They've taken Ganmiddich and want the world to know it... that's why they lit a fire in the tower.\"\n\n\"Why bother with us?\" Ash was close to hysterical. The sight of Raif drawing his bow was terrible to her. She wanted Angus to stop him.\n\nPointing his knife at Raif, Ash, and then himself, Angus said, \"Take your pick. All three of us are prizes worth taking.\"\n\nAsh didn't know what he meant. What would clansmen want with her? And then: What had Raif done to warrant taking? Even as that thought burrowed deep in her thoughts, a storm of blunts hit Raif and his horse. Moose kicked and howled as his forelegs, ears, and snout were smacked. Raif was struck in the throat and the bowhand, causing him to lose his grip on the bow. Hands scrambling for the reins, he worked to control the thrashing horse.\n\nAsh let out a small cry. Raif's skin was gray, and something close to madness shone from behind his eyes. Without a thought, she kicked Snowshoe's flanks. She had to go to him.\n\nAngus' hand shot out, gripping her wrist so tightly that knuckles cracked. \"No!\"\n\nFurious, Ash fought him, lashing out with her free hand and driving Snowshoe into the bay. Her fingernails hooked Angus' cheek, and she scraped four strips of skin from his face. Still he would not release her.\n\nThe line of clansmen were closing on Raif. Their steel points shone as red as Rive Watch blades where they caught the tower's light. Calls passed between the clansmen, terse words roughly spoken. Their black armor had been tarnished so that it reflected no light, and their cloaks-of-fur rippled like living shadows at their backs.\n\nTo the east, the company of bowmen finally showed themselves, trotting wide on horses bred for the darkness of their coats.\n\n\"Calm yourself,\" Angus said, twisting Ash's arm to stop her fighting. \"They will not harm him.\"\n\nIt was then Ash realized they were going to be taken. She shot Angus an accusation of a glance.\n\n\"I will not endanger you by fighting against such odds.\" Blood rolled down Angus' cheek where she had scratched him, yet he heeded it not. His eyes were on Raif. Sobered, Ash let her arm go limp in Angus' grip.\n\nRaif now had Moose under control, and his halfsword was drawn and ready. He was facing the line of Bluddsmen, yet he glanced over his shoulder and met eyes with his uncle. An unspoken communication passed between the two, and Raif nodded imperceptibly. Turning to meet the Bluddsmen, he raised his sword over his head, skimming the cutting edge against his free hand to draw the blood that was needed as a sign of submission.\n\nFor her. Ash knew that in every cell of her being. If she had not been here, riding with these two men, the fight would still be waging. Perhaps Angus would have come up with some clever way to retreat, perhaps not. But Raif would have fought to the end. Ash had seen that madness in him... he was never far from death.\n\nThe Bluddsmen slowed but held their points. A leader emerged from the line, indistinguishable in every way from his companions except for the fact he pulled ahead. He wore no helm, and the shaved portions of his head had been painted with red clay. When he judged the distance sufficient, he raised a fist and stopped both warriors and bowmen dead.\n\nAsh had never seen a Bluddsman before, but like everyone else in the North, she believed them to be the most savage of the clans. It took all her will not to call to Raif, to have him turn and look at her one last time before he was taken.\n\n\"Do not speak his name,\" Angus warned, renewing his grip on her wrist.\n\nAll was quiet except for the wind. The red fire in the uppermost chamber of the Ganmiddich Tower shone like a moon made of blood. Two men stood twelve paces apart: one with his sword lifted high above his head and a line of dark blood snaking down his wrist, the other with his spear pointed straight at the first man's heart.\n\nWith his free hand, the Bluddsman lifted his lore from his chest and weighed it. Just like Raif, Ash thought, hairs on her arms rising.\n\nAfter a time the Bluddsman let the small token drop to his chest. Taking his spear in both hands, he broke the shaft in two. The crack sounded like nothing else Ash had ever heard, like a great stone split open or a tree falling to the earth. Bluddsmen signed to their gods. Some touched the hide pouches and horn vials that hung from their equipment belts along with blade grease, sheath knives, and dog hooks. A night heron took to the air, its wings curling upward as it crossed the light of the red moon. Somewhere far to the north a wolf howled to its pack members, telling of carrion found and waiting.\n\nAngus whispered two words under his breath. \"They know.\"\n\nHearing them, Ash was filled with dread. She wanted to ask what it was they knew, yet her throat had lost its power to form words.\n\nRaif's shoulders held firm. He had neither wavered nor flinched at the spear breaking, and Ash was filled with the certainty that he had been expecting such an action from the moment he had raised his sword.\n\n\"I am Cluff Drybannock of Clan Bludd,\" the leader said, speaking in a low voice, \"and I claim your heart for the Dog Lord, Raif Sevrance of Clan Blackhail, for wrongs done to our clan.\"\n\nA cold light shone in the Bluddsman's eyes for one long moment, then Cluff Drybannock turned his back on Raif. Addressing himself to no one particular in the line, he said, \"Strip him of his guidestone. One such as he deserves no protection from our gods.\"\n\nAsh glanced at Angus. For the first time since she had met him, Angus Lok looked afraid.\n\nMARAFICE EYE'S FOOT STANK. Blisters the size of eyeballs wept fluid onto the inn floor. Black and purple skin floated over a mass of swollen tissue. Beneath the shell of dead and shedding skin, the plump pinkness of proud flesh could just be seen. The proud flesh was a good sign: It meant the foot would survive intact.\n\nWell, nearly. The tip of the Knife's big toe had already come away, cast off in a jelly of red translucent flesh like something birthed in the deepest troughs of the sea. Sarga Veys shuddered at the memory. He hated sickness in any form.\n\n\"How much longer before I can put this damned foot in a stirrup, Halfman?\" Marafice Eye spoke from the largest chair, set closest to the fire, in the third finest inn in Ille Glaive.\n\nHood, sworn brother-in-the-watch and distant kinsman to the Lord of the Straw Granges, sat across from his general on a birchwood bench, working his way through a keg of black beer thickened with egg and a haunch of roasted elk as big as a child. Hood and Sarga Veys had ridden to the city while the Knife was carted in a one-horse wagon like a bale of hay. Hood's excellent horsemanship had not been affected in the slightest by the loss of two fingers on his right hand. Indeed, the man seemed determined to make the best of it. Veys thought him mad. Just last night Hood had stopped him in the corridor and waggled the stumps in his face. Make you sick, do they? he had said, his wet lips coming close to Veys' ear. You should see how they pleasure the wenches.\n\nVeys' face darkened at the memory. He hated being holed up with Marafice Eye and his thick-necked crony. Where was the sept Penthero Iss had promised? Veys wouldn't have put it past the Surlord to slow their sending just to torture him further. Everyone was intent on causing him harm. Letting his anger seep into his voice, Veys said to the Knife, \"The top layer of skin must shed before you can strap on a boot.\"\n\n\"And how long might that be?\"\n\n\"A week,\" Veys replied, deliberately adding a few extra days to the tally.\n\nThe Knife cursed. Swiping a hand across the table, he sent dishes and flagons crashing to the floor. Beer hissed where it landed on the hearthstone. \"A week! A week! You said it was cured. Now look at it.\" He thrust the blistered and weeping foot toward Veys. \"Your foul magics have made a leper of me.\"\n\n\"I said that I had warmed the flesh as best I could. You will not lose your foot. You will be able to walk and ride as normal. What is happening now is just the natural course of events. I cannot make your skin heal any faster.\"\n\n\"Aye, but you'd make it heal slower if you could.\" Hood turned over a cracked dish with the toe of his boot. \"If the limb festers, you die, Halfman. My own eight fingers will see to that.\"\n\nVeys pinched his lips tight. He didn't understand Hood's loyalty to the Knife, yet he knew it was something real. Hood would kill him, and it would be out of some strange and twisted brother love for Marafice Eye.\n\nPale eyes glinting in anger, Veys watched as the innkeeper\u2014a fat man with womanish breasts\u2014shoved one of his girls toward their table to clear up the mess. The girl was blond, fleshy, and brazen, exactly the kind of woman Veys despised and Hood and the Knife well liked. Deciding it was time to leave, Veys stood. He had no wish to witness Hood and the Knife exchanging the kinds of obscenities they took for flirting with some cheap, overfed whore.\n\nLooking to the Knife's foot, he said, \"As long as it's cleaned and packed with dog mercury each night, the skin will not fester.\"\n\nMarafice Eye grunted.\n\nHood smiled slowly, revealing a good portion of unswallowed elk between his teeth. Grabbing the blond girl by the waist, he forced her into his lap. \"Running off to your bed, Halfman? The thought of our little Moll here scares you that much!\"\n\nThe sound of Hood's laughter accompanied Veys from the taproom.\n\nHolding his white robe above the stair level so it didn't catch dust from the floor, Veys mounted the inn's main staircase and headed for his private chamber. The third best inn in Ille Glaive was named the Dropped Calf, and calf hides, calf pelt rugs, and paintings of calves formed the main decorations. Even the wax candles that lit the stairwell shone from scrubbed calf craniums, giving Sarga Veys the feeling he was being watched by the spirits of long-dead grasseaters as he made his escape.\n\nThe quiet grandeur of his room soothed him. No dirty rushes, no cheap boxed pallet, no tallow, unwashed linen, or pests. Instead there was a proper pitch pine floor, a bed carved from fruitwood, a dozen beeswax candles whiter than his own teeth, bed linens as crisp as autumn leaves, and nothing but stray filaments of dust buzzing around the light. Gratifyingly enough, upon their arrival at the Dropped Calf the innkeeper had mistaken him for the head of the party and had housed Marafice Eye and Hood on the far side of the inn, in a chamber that looked out across the vinegar brewery next door. Veys had at first been surprised when Marafice Eye discovered the error and chose to do nothing about it, then contemptuous. The Knife could think no further than the Rive Watch and his men.\n\nOf course, the passing days had shown the innkeeper who the real leader was, yet it pleased Sarga Veys' vanity to remind himself that on first look he had seemed the superior man.\n\nThe greasy smoke in the taproom had agitated Veys' eyes, and he crossed to the nearest of the two north-facing windows and flung back the shutters to let in the night. Icy darkness soothed him like a dip into a still pool.\n\nThe Dropped Calf was situated close to the north wall of the city, and its height and elevation allowed Veys a view across the battlements to the cityhold beyond.\n\nThe glacier-ground peaks of the Bitter Hills were a distant break on the horizon, topped by a crown of silver storm clouds. Each winter a hundred storms traveled south from the clanholds and the Want, some so close behind each other that three had been known to hit in the course of a single day. The Bitter Hills took punishment from them all. Perhaps once they had been mountains, yet between the grinding of ancient glaciers and the lashing of a million storms, they had been reduced to that awkward height that man had no right name for. Clansmen called them hills, yet that was just clannish bravado. And Veys knew all about that.\n\nMaking a small grimace of distaste that exposed his fine, inward-slanting teeth to the light, Veys sat at the oak desk that was positioned in front of the window. An excellent, large-scale map of the Ille Glaive cityhold lay unraveled and pinned to the wood. The map had cost Veys a small fortune, purchased earlier that day from a young ambitious chartmaker named Siddius Horn, and it merited every coin paid and more.\n\n\"All villages within thirty leagues of the city are marked and plotted,\" boasted Siddius Horn from behind the shabby, acid-burned counter of his shop. \"All hamlets, all proper farms, all roads, shared cattle trails, and elevations.\"\n\nIt was a very good map.\n\nVeys trailed a finger over the bleached silk-rag paper, tracing the course of Ille Glaive's northern road. The road, painstakingly traced in iron ink with a hair-fine sable brush, led directly from the Old Sull Gate to the Ganmiddich Pass. Angus Lok and his two companions had taken that road from the city. Veys knew that. He also knew that instead of continuing north to the pass or turning west toward Clan Blackhail, they had turned east instead.\n\nThe first piece of information had come cheaply enough. Gatekeepers were as willingly bribed as small children. It had taken Hood but quarter of a day to find the right gate and the right gatekeeper and purchase what intelligence was needed. The second piece of information was all Veys.\n\nYesterday morning, after Hood had returned to the Dropped Calf, Veys had paid a visit to the Old Sull Gate himself. More coins had changed hands. All bore the fine undetectable film of grease that formed on objects much handled and much used, yet one bore a little something extra as well: a compulsion. Compulsions were high sorcery, and Veys was good at them. More often than not a compulsion was spoken, not passed from hand to hand, but Veys didn't have the voice for it. A warm, rich, compelling voice was best. The sort of voice that encouraged a man to take part in one's schemes, that flattered his ego, and played tricks with his reason, and made the most irregular requests sound sane. A good voice and a commanding presence were half the work of a compulsion. Without them, such sorcery was hard work.\n\nIt had taken Veys most of the night to fix the compulsion on the coin. It was a simple one, of course. Compulsions only worked when the request was modest and of a nature that did not antagonize the victim in any way. Mostly they were good for information. With a compulsion upon him, a jailer might let slip the time of day when his prisoner was fed and the cell door was open, a pretty chambermaid might disclose her mistress's bedtime indiscretions, and a respectable innkeeper might point the way to the room of a guest who had just paid him good money for silence. The trick was in making the person want to fulfill one's request.\n\nWith the five silver coins that Veys had passed to the leanbodied, smoke-eyed guardsman, he had also passed along the suggestion that the man ask all who passed into the city that morning a simple question. Had they seen two men and a woman riding together, the men mounted on good horses and the woman atop a gray hill-bred pony?\n\nThe guardsman's eyes had turned from smoky to blank as Veys spoke his request. No power was present in Veys voice, yet the coin pressing against the red flesh of the guard's palm had burned cold with sorcery. The guard had nodded his assent even before Veys had reached the words gray hill-bred pony.\n\nHalf a day had been enough. After a small but excellent noonday meal of pheasant prepared in a crust of its own blood, Veys had returned to the guard and the gate. The guard related his intelligence in a voice that was fast and furtive\u2014somewhere deep inside he knew that what he did was wrong. Several people had sighted the three companions heading north toward the pass, and Veys was about to conclude that Angus Lok and his party had indeed crossed into the clanholds when the guard offered his last piece of information.\n\n\"A drover and his son said they saw such a party heading east three nights back. Said they were about ten leagues off the north road, traveling along a cattle path known only to locals and drovers.\"\n\nVeys made no reply\u2014one did not thank an ensorcelled man\u2014simply turned his back and walked away. A few discreet inquiries produced the name of the best chartmaker in the city, and not many hours later Veys was back in the comfort of his well-appointed chamber, plotting Angus Lok's journey with a pot of lampblack ink and a twig.\n\nThe guard's information was sound. It was just like Angus Lok to know the back ways: the low roads, cattle paths, game tracks, and dogtrots. If a drover had claimed to see him in such a place, then the drover was likely right.\n\nSatisfied in that regard, at least, Veys sat back and contemplated Siddius Horn's map. Until an hour ago he had assumed that Lok's final destination lay east. Now he wasn't so sure.\n\nAsarhia March's trail was dead. Either the sorcery that had clung to her had worn off or she had been warded by someone very clever indeed. Warding was a difficult business. One could not set wardings in place without giving something of oneself to the person who was being protected. Only few magic users could manage them, and almost all were likely members of the Phage.\n\nVeys' lip twisted with the force of unwanted memories. Yes, there were one or two people in this city capable of warding Asarhia March... but that was not what concerned him now. Other sorceries did.\n\nAn hour earlier, while he had sat with Marafice Eye and Hood in the taproom, wetting his lips with beer he found too coarse to swallow and cutting slivers of meat from the inner loin of elk, he had felt a different source of power in the North. Three fast jabs, one after another. Barely sorcery at all, so instinctively was it used by he who drew it.\n\nThe Clansman.\n\nVeys had perceived him twice before. Once, in Spire Vanis as he heart-killed four sworn brothers in the shadow of Vaingate, and again on the shore of the Black Spill when he took down a pair of hounds. His aftermath reeked of Old Blood. It made Veys' skin crawl. As soon as he perceived it, it was gone.\n\nNorth was all Veys knew. North, not east. North.\n\nA clean and perfectly filed fingernail scratched a furrow in Siddius Horn's map. After a three-day detour east, Angus Lok and his party were back at the Ganmiddich Pass.\n\nTo Sarga Veys that meant only one thing: Angus Lok had taken his new friends home. Smiling softly to himself as he worked, Veys began to work out how far three people mounted on good horses could travel east in a day in thick snow.\nTHIRTY-SEVEN\n\nIn the Tower\n\nTHEY SEPARATED HIM FROM Angus and Ash\u2014that he was grateful for. That was one thing to hold on to in the darkness that was to come: Ash would not see or know.\n\nThe skiff traveled smoothly over water as slick and black as volcanic glass. The storm had long passed, and the Wolf River was sleeping after a night spent howling at the moon. Raif could smell the thick animal odor of the water, water that in spring moved so swiftly and with such force that it killed more elk, homed sheep, snagcats, bear cubs, and small game than the largest pack of wolves in the North. It smelled of those kills now, of carrion suspended, half-frozen, in water so thick and cold that nothing would rot until spring.\n\nThe Ganmiddich Inch lay ahead. The Inch was a shoulder of granite that broke water in the river's middle, rising above the surface like the dome of an ancient temple, long sunk. The Ganmiddich Tower was built upon its bedrock. The red fire burning in the tower's uppermost chamber provided the only light for the skiff's skipper to steer by.\n\nIt was close to dawn. Raif could tell that much from the lay of the stars and the restless switching of air currents as night made way for day. He lay bound in the belly of the skiff, the booted feet of six Bludd oarsmen keeping him in place. A rope lashed across the bridge of his nose made it difficult to breathe, and another binding the soft tissue of his throat made any but the slightest movements impossible. He had not been beaten, but rough handling had broken open the hard, inflexible scar tissue on his chest. Bluddsmen's spit was still wet on his face and neck, and scratches on his temples and forehead leaked blood into the hull of the boat.\n\nCluff Drybannock stood at the prow, one foot up upon gunwales, his entire body leaning forward toward the Inch. Earlier, as they'd ridden north toward Ganmiddich, he had let down his braids, and now his waist-long black hair streamed behind him in the predawn chill.\n\nRaif knew Cluff Drybannock by reputation\u2014all clansfolk did. He was the Dog Lord's right hand, his fostered son, a fatherless Trenchland bastard who was named after the first meal he had eaten at Clan Bludd: dry bread. Now he was known to all as Drybone. He was the only man the Dog Lord trusted, people said, the only one who could speak and fight in his likeness. And he was the best longswordsman in the North.\n\nA rasping noise broke the quiet of slow-moving water as the boat's keel scraped against granite pebbles on the Inch's shore. The oarsmen raised their oars and waded into the river to haul the body of the skiff ashore. Cluff Drybannock worked with the men as one of the team, the tail ends of his hair floating in the animal-scented water as he shouldered his portion of the weight.\n\nRaif looked up at the vast five-sided tower that had been standing since before the clanholds were settled. Algae, mud, and mineral stains ringed the tower's lower chambers, each ring marking high water levels of ancient floods. The stench of the river clung to the stone, hiding in pockmarks and clefts in the granite. Ice, colored green and orange by rust, hung in storm-broken fingers from the tower's ledges, overhangs, and mooring rings.\n\nThe skipper tied the skiff to the nearest ring and then fell in line with the oarsmen, awaiting Cluff Drybannock's word.\n\nTime passed. Cluff Drybannock stood, half-in, half-out the water, watching the red fire burn thirty stories above him. Weariness was a hard presence on his face, and Raif wondered what it had taken for him and his men to capture Ganmiddich's roundhouse and hold.\n\nFinally the Bluddsman spoke, his vivid blue eyes not once leaving the light of the fire. \"Take him inside and beat him.\"\n\nThe words were heavily said, and the six oarsmen and the skipper reacted to the tone of their leader's voice by moving slowly and silently about their task.\n\nRaif felt large cool hands grasp his shoulders, ankles, and wrists. Somewhere ahead, an iron door creaked open, and for the first time that night Raif felt his stomach betray him by clenching in fear. Chains rattled as he was lifted from the stench and dampness of the skiff. Fresh air skimmed across his face, but the ropes at his nose and throat stopped him from inhaling deeply. The Bluddsmen's breaths came short and ragged as they hauled him inside the tower.\n\nInside all was as still and dark as a mineshaft. Wet mud sucked at the Bluddsmen's boots. Leaking moisture dropped like slow rain on their backs. The smell of the river was concentrated to a thick stock of meat, minerals, and mud. Smoke filtering down from the Bludd Fire provided the only relief from the stench. Raif watched stone ceilings pass above him as he was carried into the tower's heart. He thought perhaps they would take him upward, but they bore him down instead.\n\nMud turned to wet slime and then thick, blood-colored water as they descended. No one spoke. No tallow was lit to guide the way. Thin shavings of dawn light came from sources Raif could neither identify nor see. River sounds filled his senses. Even in winter, when the water was thick with suspended ice and sluggish with cold undertows, its current throbbed against the watch tower like a stallion's heart. All around water trickled and dripped, poured and rushed, making the tower echo like a sea cave.\n\nA second door opened. Water sloshed around the Bluddsmen's ankles, then Raif was thrown to the ground. His shoulder and temple struck hard stone. Water filled his mouth and nose. The rope at his throat was suddenly tight enough to choke him. Someone said, \"Cut him free,\" and cool blades licked his skin.\n\nRaif saw pale edges: a curved endwall, the lip of a stone bench, a square grille overhead that let in a keyhole's worth of light. River water, foul smelling and turgid with algae and gelatinous strings of animal matter, formed a shin-high pool above the floor. Raif had no time to take in more details before the first blow was struck.\n\nPain exploded in his head, streaking the world white and gray and filling his mouth with hot blood. Other blows followed, swift, well placed, each one a hard wedge in the soft belly of his flesh. Bluddsmen grunted. Water rode high against the walls, spraying the cell like a ship's prow in a storm. Raif rose and fell with the waves, grasping water, then air, fingers scrambling for handholds in the stone.\n\nHis jaws clenched and unclenched as he accepted the Bluddsmen's blows. Boot tips hammered at his spine. Knuckles found the same places in his ribs... again and again, like a machine. Boot heels were thrust below the water level, seeking out the hidden tissue of thighs and groin. Raif thrashed like a hooked fish, knowing the same terror and confusion. Pain tore at his senses, causing him to breathe water and swallow air. Still the blows came, so many kicks and punches that soon they could not be separated or counted. Hard dots of white light burned in place of his vision. Vomit blocked his nasal cavity and flooded in and out of his mouth like driftwood carried on the tide.\n\nSoon he lost all sense of where he was and what was happening. Blows and dealing with the pain of them were all he knew. Water buoyed but did not cool him. His back was afire, stripped of skin and bleeding acid in place of blood. His stomach contracted in hard waves, yet each time he tried to raise his knees to his chest to soothe the cramping, he was beaten below the water... held under by booted feet\n\nHe lost time. Slaps revived him. A half-closed fist thudded against his chest, forcing water from his lungs. Fingers found his raven lore, twisted it round and round until the twine that held it was like a garrote against his throat. Breathing was impossible... .\n\nMore time lost. Through closed eyes he judged an increase in light. His eyelids were gummed together\u2014whether by blood, mucus, or swollen tissue, he did not know. His throat burned. Breathing caused excruciating pain. A voice grunted words he could no longer understand, then something that could only have been a human hand pressed against his skull, forcing his head under the water once more.\n\nWhen he came to again he was no longer in the water. Hard stone dug into his spine and ribs. His clothes were sodden. Daylight was gone. People were gone. He was alone in the darkness with his pain.\n\nHours passed before he could work up the strength to move his right hand. He wasted nothing of himself by trying to open the bruised flaps of flesh that were eyelids or lick lips that were so dry that a single breath exhaled through the mouth could cause them to crack and bleed. Everything within him he put toward raising his hand to his throat.\n\nPain made him pass out more than once. Sour matter in his mouth stung his gums. The desire for water, just a few clear drops, was strong. But the desire to reach his raven lore was stronger.\n\nFingers swollen with bruises grasped at the horn that had been embedded in his throat. Blood made the ivory slippery. Gobs of flesh came away as he pulled on the twine and closed his fist around the lore.\n\nAsh. He felt her presence immediately, like a warm breeze or a sliver of sunlight shining upon his back. She was close and unharmed.\n\nClose and unharmed.\n\nThose words made the next beating bearable.\n\nThey came for him at some unknowable point in the night, or perhaps it was the next night and he had slept or been unconscious through a full day. This time they brought a hood for his head. He wanted to tell them not to bother, as he could not open his eyes, but instinctively he knew that any words spoken-would condemn him to torture of a worse kind. They beat him in silence, always silence, grunting softly when striking a blow, breathing hard when tired by their exertions. Someone brought a knife and slit open skin on his thighs and buttocks. Someone else urinated on the wounds.\n\nDays passed. For hours at a time he was strung up on dog hooks hammered into the cell wall. His arms were dead. The hood over his face made every breath taste of his own trapped sweat. He was not fed, and what water he drank came from the cell floor. Sometimes the river rose then fell, washing his own filth away.\n\nClose and unharmed.\n\nWhenever he woke, he spoke those words to himself. Time came when he no longer knew their meaning, yet even then they calmed him, like a prayer in a foreign tongue.\n\nOften he dreamed of Drey: Drey racing through the long summer grass in the graze; Drey teaching him how to tie and trim trout lures in the dead of winter when all the trout lakes were frozen; Drey waiting for him on the camp boundary the day they set Tem's corpse ablaze. The ambush on the Bluddroad always played itself out one beat slower than real time. Time and time again Raif saw the two hard points of his brother's eyes as he swung his war-scratched hammer into the Bluddswoman's face.\n\nNo. Raif's dream-self fought the memory. That was not his brother swinging the hammer that day on the Bluddroad. That was not the Drey he knew.\n\nHunger gnawed at Raif's body, then his mind, robbing flesh and sanity and the simple ability to rest in peace. Waiting became worse than the beatings. Waiting, he was alone, utterly alone. Thoughts and dreams tormented him. Inigar Stoop pointed a finger, calling him Watcher of the Dead. Tem walked from the badlands fire, his body alive with flames, his mouth opening and closing as he spoke the names of the men who had killed him. Raif strained and strained but could not hear them. Later Effie was there in the cell with him, standing knee deep in water, calmly reciting a list of the lives he had taken... and somehow Shor Gormalin and Banron Lye were on the list, and he wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he had killed no Hailsmen, but she disappeared before he could form the words. Later still Mace Blackhail was there, beneath the water, his wolf teeth flashing yellow as he laughed and said, I knew you'd push me too far, Sevrance.\n\nPain was something Raif passed out from and woke to every day. Bruises blackened his body, yet he could not see them. Split skin knitted and festered, healed and reopened, raising scars and welts that only his fingers knew. Unseen Bluddsmen choked and suffocated him into submission every night, his head held underwater until his lungs burned like furnaces, the cord that held his lore twisted until it robbed his breath. Soon the sickening blackness of unconsciousness was all he knew of sleep.\n\nThen one day the beatings stopped. The high whine of the cell door woke him from unknowable hours of senselessness. Through the fog of wakening senses, Raif waited for the first blow to land. His body was stiff with pain, his stomach sick with it. Above his head his arms ached with the strain of bearing his weight. Every breath cost him. A muscle spasm in his knee made his entire body jerk.\n\nClose and unharmed. Who? Effie? Was she here?\n\nAll thoughts left him as air switched against his throat. He hated his body for flinching, hated the fear that came to him as instantly as if he were a child listening for monsters in the dark.\n\nThe expected blow did not come. Instead hands worked on the rope that bound his wrists to the dog hook. The sour taste of helplessness stung his mouth. The routine was to beat him while he was strung, then later, when he was incapable of taking action to protect himself from a fall, let him drop to the stone bench or the floor. The change in tactics made him nervous. When firm hands took him by the shoulders, he heard himself make an animal sound, like a hiss.\n\nFingers grabbed the base of his hood, snapping his head back. \"Now is no time to fight, Hailsman.\" The voice was rough, heavily accented. Its owner took Raif's weight when the last of the ropes was cut and then laid him down upon the bench.\n\nRelief soaked through Raif like water through a rag, leaving his body cold and limp. Another pair of hands clutched his throat, but he hardly cared. At least he would be beaten lying down.\n\nA knife point pricked his jaw as the rope that held the burlap hood in place was sawed. Blood rolled into the crease between Raif's lips. The Bluddsman working the knife smelled of the last meal he had eaten. The stench of scorched animal fat and roasted leeks drove Raif to open his mouth and make a bloodmeal of the fluids accumulated there. When the rope was severed, the Bluddsman's fingers hooked the hem of the hood and pulled it free.\n\nRaif squeezed his eyes more tightly closed. It had been days since he had last seen the faces of those who beat him, and he had no wish to see them now. Fresh air buffeted his face\u2014also unwelcome. Suddenly he wished very much the beating would begin.\n\nWater sloshed as the man who had handled him left the cell. Raif heard the door close, yet he did not trust his senses and kept himself still. They had never left him awake before. Minutes passed. The Wolf River rolled like liquid thunder against the tower's exterior wall. Somewhere high above him, water dripped in perfect time like a pulse. Nothing moved in the cell. Raif concentrated on breathing... that, at least, was something he could do.\n\n\"Open your eyes and look at me.\"\n\nThe voice came from close to the door. It was not the same man who had spoken earlier, though both shared the Bluddsman's accent. This voice was harder, older, wearier.\n\nWater lashed against the cell's walls. \"I said LOOK AT ME!\"\n\nRaif obeyed. Skin on his eyelids tore and bled as he forced the gummed tissue apart. Through a film of blood he saw a man of medium height, heavily built and turning to stoutness, with hair of such brilliant grayness that the braids that hung down his back seemed like something woven from silver, not human hair.\n\nThe Dog Lord.\n\nRaif knew it instantly. The man's presence filled the cell like a guidestone. It was impossible not to look at his deep blue eyes, impossible not to edge back in his presence. How had he stood there for so long, watching in utter silence, without making himself known?\n\nThe Dog Lord said nothing. He looked at Raif and through him, his eyes pulling answers, his entire being pressing against Raif with a force so great it made breathing impossible.\n\nRaif held his gaze steady. He thought of the four Bluddsmen at Duff's Stovehouse, the Bludd women and children running through the snow the day of the ambush. Shame burned him.\n\nThe Dog Lord continued looking, seeing, knowing. His heavy breaths made the shin-deep water ripple as if with dropped stones. Suddenly he moved. Raif braced himself for a blow, but instead the Dog Lord turned his back.\n\nA cold dagger entered Raif's heart. The contempt of the gesture cut him to the core. You are not worthy of my fist, it said. You are not worthy of my breath.\n\nAs the Dog Lord opened the cell door and entered the world waiting on the other side, Raif felt himself shrink and wither like a dead leaf cast from a tree. He was nothing. The Bludd chief's scorn had stripped away what the beatings could not. He was an oath breaker, an outcast, a killer of men. As Angus had promised, the story of the killings at Duff's Stovehouse had spread. Raif Sevrance's name and his deeds were known to all. His presence at the Bluddroad ambush was known, and the betrayal of his clan.\n\nRaif brought his knees to his chest and prayed for the senselessness of sleep. He did not want to feel or think. The pain was not enough, though. The leaking eye, the cracked ribs, the slit ear and lip, and the torn muscles in his arms and thighs were suddenly hurts that could be borne. He lay there in the quarter light and suffered the voices from his past.\n\nYou are no good for this clan, Raif Sevrance, murmured Inigar Stoop. You are chosen to watch the dead.\n\nYou knew I would leave! Raif fired back at him. So why did you not stop me from taking First Oath?\n\nInigar Stoop shook his head from his place behind the shadows, the silver medallions sewn to his pig coat making a sound like breaking glass. Ask that of the Stone Gods, Raif Sevrance. It is they who form your fate, not I.\n\nRaif turned away, shifting limbs that felt hot to the touch. Still the voices hounded him. Raina warned him about Effie: Just you be careful with her, Raif Sevrance. You and Drey are all she has.\n\nAnd Drey spoke up for him that day on the court: I will stand second to his oath.\n\nRaif howled into the darkness.\n\nHours later, fever finally took him to sleep.\n\nWhen next he woke the world was soft around the edges. Someone, a Bluddsman, placed a bowl containing thick gray liquid beside him on the bench. Raif watched the bowl intently. He did not move. Fever lines spreading along in his chest made his body tremble. Thirst tore at his throat, yet he could take no action to relieve it. Watching the bowl was all he could manage, and he did it diligently until he knew no more.\nTHIRTY-EIGHT\n\nLords and Maidens\n\nVAYLO BLUDD SLIPPED A square of black curd into his mouth and chewed on it. The wolf dog and the other dogs sat in a circle around their master, their great jaws firmly closed, their ears pinned close to their heads in sign of submission. Occasionally one would moan softly, making a sound as if in physical pain.\n\nVaylo sat in silence, chewing. Ahead in the distance lay the shimmering black line of the Wolf River and the dark hump in its center that formed the Ganmiddich Inch. It was bitterly cold, yet the Dog Lord felt little of it. The night air was still, and the sky above the clanhold was cloudless, revealing a clawed moon and a thousand ice blue stars. Sitting where he was, on a block of trap rock used for blunting hammer edges and filleting trout pulled from the river, Vaylo could see both the Ganmiddich Tower and the roundhouse. All his now. All the land south to the Bitter Hills was his.\n\nFootsteps crunched in the snow behind his back. The Dog Lord did not need to look around to know the identity of the one who approached. The reaction of his dogs told him all he needed to know.\n\n\"Does he still live?\"\n\nCluff Drybannock made no answer, yet Vaylo knew well enough the question had been heard and understood. Coming to crouch by the dogs, Drybone gazed out across the river as he warmed his hands against the wolf dog's throat. After a while he said, \"He's still fevered. Cawdo doesn't know how he's made it through the past five days. Says any other Hailsman would be dead by now.\"\n\nVaylo spat the curd into his glove. Suddenly he didn't want to be out in the cold any longer. He wanted to be close to the hearth, his arms full of the two grandchildren he had left. Without a word, he stood.\n\nThe dogs were as much a part of him as the gray braids that fell down his back, and they rose as a single body the moment they heard their master's boot leather creak. Drybone also rose. He need not have done\u2014Cluff Drybannock had led the raiding party that took the Ganmiddich clanhold, and his due respect was now great enough that he need stand for no man, even his chief\u2014yet he did so as quickly as always. Others might have dismissed the gesture as mere force of habit, but Vaylo knew better than that. Cluff Drybannock stood because he was a bastard and that's what bastards did.\n\nVaylo placed his hand on Drybone's shoulder, and together man and chief took the short walk back to the roundhouse.\n\nThe Ganmiddich roundhouse was small compared with those of Dhoone and Bludd. Built of trap rock and green riverstone, it commanded a high bank above the river and the forest of oldgrowth oaks known as the Nest. The main structure rose a full six stories aboveground, in fitting with the Ganmiddich boast: Over mountains and our enemies we tower alike. Like most northern clansmen, Vaylo felt nothing but distrust for a roundhouse that rose to meet the clouds. A roundhouse's strength should come from the earth and the Stone Gods that lived there. Yet many of the southern clans built high roundhouses, betraying the influence of the Mountain Cities and the god of sky, air, and nothingness that the city men prayed to.\n\nThe Dog Lord shook his head as he and Drybone entered the storm-smoothed edifice of the roundhouse's southern wall. He found little joy in possession. Crab Ganmiddich, the Ganmiddich chief, was a man who had come to power only five years after he had. Crab swore like a trapper, would start a fight with any man who looked at him the wrong way, and had fathered as many bastards as most men had eaten meals, yet Vaylo had liked him well enough. He never lied, never failed to acknowledge his bastards, and once ten years ago when wetpox killed off all of neighboring Clan Withy's spring lambs, he had sent sixty head of blacknecks as a gift.\n\nVaylo sucked on his aching teeth. He had no grievances with Crab Ganmiddich, none save the man's newly struck friendship with the Hail Wolf. The attack on Bannen had made the Crab chief nervous, and rather than rely solely upon Dhoone for protection, he had been making overtures to Blackhail. Dhoone was weak, broken, and dispossessed. Blackhail was strong and getting stronger. Who could blame the Crab chief for dancing to two fiddles? As for Mace Blackhail... well, he had fought beside Dhoonesmen to save Bannen, and once the battle was done and he had returned home to that dark stinking Hailhold of his, he must have turned his gaze south and asked himself, \"What did I get for my trouble?\"\n\nThe Dog Lord shook out his braids. Next time Clan Blackhail came to the defense of a Dhoone-sworn clan, he doubted very much that the Hail Wolf would return home empty-handed. He had ambitions, that one. Vaylo recognized the taint.\n\n\"The Crab's fled east to Croser,\" Drybone said, as always his thoughts closely following his chief's. \"He's gathered forty score men about him and taken possession of the old fortalice.\"\n\nVaylo grunted. Slowly his enemies were mounting on his borders. Dhoone was split among Gnash, Bannen, and Castlemilk, and now Ganmiddich was housed at Croser. Any other time these facts would have consumed him, yet here and now his mind would not settle. The Hailsman was too close. Half the rooms in the Ganmiddich roundhouse looked out upon the tower and the Inch. All Vaylo had to do was raise his head and look.\n\nHe looked now, one last time before Drybone drew the great clan door closed, shutting out the frost and the night. Thirty stories of green granite rose above the river's surface like a Stone God's finger pointing at the sky: Ganmiddich Tower. Raif Sevrance was held there at water level. Watcher of the Dead.\n\nA shiver passed along the Dog Lord's body, making his seventeen teeth rattle in their casings of bone.\n\n\"Nan. Bring the bairns to me. I'll be in the chief's chamber.\" He spoke to a middle-aged Bluddswoman with braids the color and texture of sea rope, who approached with beer and sotted oats as he and Drybone crossed the vaulted expanse of the great hall. The woman met eyes with Vaylo for half an instant, nodded, then withdrew.\n\nNan Culldayis had traveled down from Dhoone with him. She looked after his grandchildren now that their mother and elder sister were gone. Vaylo trusted Nan with his life. She had nursed his wife through the last year of her illness and cared for his grandchildren and sons' wives since. For many years now she had provided him with what private comforts he needed. She was of an age where conception and childbirth were well behind her, and that suited Vaylo well enough. Thirty-five years ago on his wedding day he had sworn to himself he would father no bastards.\n\nVaylo's thoughts were broken by the soft burr of Cluff Drybannock's voice. \"Say the word and I will assemble a troop of hammermen and escort the bairns back to Dhoone.\"\n\nHalting by the chief's door, the Dog Lord turned and looked into the man's Sull-blue eyes. \"You don't think I should have brought them here.\"\n\nIt was not a question, yet Drybone answered it anyway. \"No. This roundhouse is no place for them. It's only a matter of time before the Crab tries to reclaim it.\"\n\n\"And what if I had left them at Dhoone, with their father? How safe would they be there?\"\n\n\"Safer than here, on the cityhold border, in a roundhouse only a day's ride from Bannen and Croser, and not much farther from Gnash.\"\n\nVaylo slammed a fist against the door. The dogs at his heels skittered and shrank to their haunches. \"Don't you think I know the dangers? Don't you think I lie awake each night, thinking and rethinking them?\"\n\nDrybone did not respond in any way to his chief's anger. Instead he held his fine head level and spoke in a quiet voice. \"Every journey you take them on is a danger. They are best kept at the Heart of Clan, at Dhoone.\"\n\nHe was right, and Vaylo knew it. Entering the greenwalled interior of the chief's chamber, he turned to Drybone and said, \"I fear to let them out of my sight, Dry. Two now, only two.\"\n\nCluff Drybannock nodded, once. He offered no comfort, made no attempt to remind him that his sons were still young and would father dozens more, and Vaylo was grateful for that. For the second time that night he touched Drybone on the shoulder. \"I'll let you take them in a few days.\"\n\nAs Drybone assented with the briefest of his always brief smiles, the two children in question came bounding through the door. Ignoring their grandfather completely, they made straight for the dogs.\n\nAfter watching them wrestle, tumble, and shriek in delight at the black-and-orange beasts known throughout the North as the Dog Lord's knuckles, Vaylo turned to Drybone and grinned. \"I can't say they'll miss me much.\"\n\nCluff Drybannock turned to go.\n\nHalting him with a small turn of the wrist, Vaylo said, \"How is the girl?\"\n\n\"Well. Nan visited her room today. Says she's not the sort to starve herself or throw tantrums. I think she's quite taken with her myself.\"\n\nVaylo rubbed his jaw, soothing his aching teeth as he thought. \"How old is she?\"\n\nDrybone shrugged. \"Just a girl. Tall, thin.\"\n\n\"Have her brought to me, Dry. I would look upon the Surlord's daughter myself.\"\n\n\"Here?\" Drybone's gaze flicked to the children, who were giggling wildly as they groomed the wolf dog's belly with their feet.\n\n\"Aye. If Nan thinks well enough of her, then I'll trust her at my hearth.\"\n\nDrybone left, closing the door behind him as quietly as if he were a servant, not the man who only seven days ago had claimed Ganmiddich for Bludd. Give me two hundred swordsmen, Dry had said the day before he'd left, and your silence until the deed is done. Even now Vaylo did not know how he'd managed it. Two hundred men to take a roundhouse the size of Ganmiddich? And it hadn't been a bloodbath, either... not like Withy.\n\nEasing himself onto the maid's stool close to the fire, Vaylo slapped his thighs for dogs and children alike. Many feet, both hairy and hairless, scampered over the stone to reach him by the shortest, quickest route. The two children came and sat at his feet while he unhooked the leather cinches from his belt and began lashing the dogs into a team. The dogs hated being bound, but the children's presence tempered their normal reaction, and Vaylo managed to collar them with only a minor loss of skin and blood. When he was done, he looped the main lead over a spit hook in the hearthwall.\n\n\"Granda, why do they have to be tied?\" Pasha, now his eldest grandchild, sent a long, sympathetic look the wolf dog's way.\n\nVaylo brushed the girl's jet black hair. Her mother had Far South blood in her, and the child was dark skinned and dark eyed and beautiful to behold. \"Because I'm expecting a visitor, and the dogs seldom take kindly to those.\"\n\nOne of the dogs, a lean bitch who was all teeth and snout, growled. Vaylo hissed at her, though in truth he was not displeased. As he returned his gaze to his granddaughter, a red light shining through the slitted window in the opposite wall caught his eye: the Bludd Fire burning in the upper chamber of the tower. Seven days and nights it had blazed, long enough for all in the cityholds to know that the Dog Lord now stood at their door.\n\nVaylo tried to tear his eyes away but couldn't. There had been a time when taking Ganmiddich would have meant something, when the thought of war and raids was what roused him from his bed every morning and kept him awake past midnight with his warlords every night. He fought because he had the jaw for it, because he loved to win more than he loved life itself. Now, though, he fought from hate.\n\nAnd fear.\n\nVaylo rose and closed the iron shutters, engaging each of the seven clasps and drawing the bar.\n\nBlackhail was the reason Cluff Drybannock had moved against Ganmiddich. He had been there the night the women and children were found off the Bluddroad. He had helped excavate the bodies. Any clan who might form an alliance with the Hail Wolf and his clansmen had to be sent a message of death. Drybone knew it. The Dog Lord knew it. And although no word had passed between them, they both knew the war would not end until Blackhail had been destroyed.\n\nVaylo put a hand on the iron shutters, resting the heavy bulk of his standing weight. The Ganmiddich Tower and its red fire still burned upon his irises. The Hailsman who lay imprisoned within it still burned upon his soul.\n\nHe was just a lad. When Vaylo had entered the tower yesterday at noon he had not known what to expect. Watcher of the Dead, people had started calling him after the night he'd slain three Bluddsmen at Duff's. He'd fought like a Stone God, they said, and freely admitted to being present at the Bluddroad ambush before he'd forced his way through the door.\n\nVaylo's hand cooled to the temperature of iron. Now he had this Hailsman here, imprisoned upon the Inch. He had seen him with his own two eyes, minded his wounds, and sniffed his stench. Cluff Drybannock and the others had expected him to finish the Hailsman off. He saw that on their faces, later, when he had emerged from the tower and they stood waiting in a half circle about the skiff. Drybone had even given orders that no beating was to be so great as to threaten the Hailsman's life or limb: that privilege belonged to the Dog Lord.\n\nYet Vaylo had not used it. He hardly knew why himself. Seeing the Hailsman lying there on the bench, beaten, his clothes dark with blood and river grime, Vaylo had tortured himself: How had it happened, that massacre on the Bluddroad? Did the Hailsmen go in expecting to kill women and children? Did one man panic and kill one child out of anger or surprise and the others followed suit? Had any of the women fought back? How long had it taken for his grandchildren to die?\n\nVaylo closed his eyes, let the iron shutter take more of his weight.\n\nNo. He had not killed the Hailsman. He would, because he was the Dog Lord and no one could slay his kin and survive, yet there were things he needed to know. Things only someone present that day could tell him.\n\nThe dogs stood and growled. Immediately Vaylo looked to the door. A few seconds passed, and then knuckles rapped against the wood. A moment later Drybone entered the room, leading a girl before him. Depositing her in the center of the room, he turned to leave without a moment's hesitation. Vaylo knew he would wait outside, at a distance where he could be sure not to overhear a word.\n\nPenthero Iss' foster daughter matched gazes with the Dog Lord. As Drybone had promised, she was tall and thin, yet Vaylo knew enough about young women to realize that the thinness would leave her soon enough. A few weeks of lard and oats would see to that.\n\n\"What have you done to Raif Sevrance and Angus Lok?\" The girl's voice was cold, and for the briefest moment Vaylo was reminded of her foster father, Penthero Iss. He had reared this child from birth.\n\nVaylo gave no answer. Instead he walked from the window to the hearth and came to sit in the company of his dogs. His two grandchildren scrambled quickly to his feet, the youngest tugging at his dogskin pants, demanding to be picked up and held in his granda's lap. Vaylo was aware of his grandchildren's unease: They had sensed the fear of the dogs.\n\nNormally when a stranger entered their master's territory, the dogs were quick to show their teeth. Growling, they would test their leashes, lower their tails, and watch the intruder with eyes that held memories of pack kills on the frozen tundra of the Want. Yet from the moment Iss' foster daughter had entered the room all the dogs had been silent. Not one of them growled, not even the wolf dog. They lay on their bellies, rumps pushed up against the hearthwall, ears flat against their skulls. As Vaylo picked up his grandson, one of the bitches whined softly and withdrew farther into the pack.\n\nVaylo watched the girl as she waited for his reply. Her silver gold hair brushed against her shoulders, falling as straight as if each individual strand had been weighted with lead beads. Her eyes were the same gray as the sky before a storm, large and clear, with silver filaments in the irises that reflected light. Everything about her looked conjured up from silver, water, and hard stone. Yet she was little more than a child, and she was afraid; Vaylo wasn't fooled about that for an instant. He saw how she clutched at the fabric of her skirt to prevent her hands from trembling, how a muscle in her throat bobbed when she swallowed... and she swallowed a lot.\n\nIt was interesting that the first question she had asked had concerned her companions, not herself.\n\nVaylo said, \"You have been well treated by my clan?\"\n\n\"Answer my question.\"\n\n\"Answer mine.\"\n\nThe girl flinched at the hardness of his voice.\n\nVaylo pressed his hands against each of his grandchildren's shoulders in turn, calming. Their granda's anger frightened them.\n\n\"I have been treated well enough. Fed. Clothed. Confined.\" The silver in the girl's eyes turned to something darker, like steel. \"Now tell me what has become of my friends.\"\n\nVaylo made her wait upon an answer. He was impressed by her courage\u2014he couldn't recall the last time anyone had demanded anything from him\u2014yet he had been the Dog Lord for too long now to let a surlord's daughter force him into speaking before his time.\n\nWhen he was good and ready he said, \"Angus Lok is being held in the pit cell directly below my feet. His only harms have been the dampness of the four walls that surround him and the poorness of his diet. By all accounts he has little taste for raw leeks and sotted oats.\"\n\n\"And what will you do with him?\"\n\nIt was on Vaylo's mind to reply, \"Whatever I wish,\" yet the girl chose that moment to push back her hair. The curt, guileless flick of her wrist was the action of a child, not a woman. To Asarhia March her hair was still a hindrance, something to be flicked away like a mosquito or a bit of dust, not a veil to be toyed with for the benefit of men. Vaylo almost smiled but didn't. The ghosts of granddaughters lost began to gather in the room.\n\n\"I shall hold Lok here in Ganmiddich until such a time as I see fit to move him. When I am ready I will either ransom or exchange him. There are some in the North who would pay good money for his head.\"\n\nIf this was news to the girl, she didn't show it. She merely blinked and said, \"And Raif?\"\n\n\"He will die by my hand.\"\n\nThe girl took a breath. The light in her eyes dimmed, actually dimmed, as if something within her had blocked the fuel they needed to burn. A noise such as Vaylo had never heard before sounded deep in the throats of his dogs. The skin along his arms puckered with gooseflesh as he listened to the fearful keening.\n\nLetting his grandson slide to the floor, he stood. \"Raif Sevrance and his clan slew our women and children upon the Bluddroad. In cold blood they drew steel, and with cold hearts they rode down my grandchildren as if they were nothing more than sheep.\" Vaylo didn't take his eyes from the Surlord's daughter as he spoke. Every sense he had told him there was danger here, from this slip of a girl, and he never questioned his instincts. He was the Dog Lord: He lived by them.\n\nThe girl stood perfectly still. Light from the fire seemed pulled toward her, as if she were sucking it from the hearth. The air in the room moved, puffing through the dogs' coats and the children's fine black hair.\n\nUnnerved, Vaylo continued speaking, his voice becoming louder as he approached the center of the room. \"Raif Sevrance is a slayer of children. A murderer. An enemy to this clan. I will kill him because I have no choice. Nine gods demand it.\" Barely an arm's length from the girl now, he reached out and touched her cheek. It was like touching stone.\n\nMuscles in the girl's throat began to move.\n\nSorcery.\n\nRecognizing it for what it was, Vaylo snatched back his hand and sent it plunging downward to the gray iron clansword at his waist. As he drew metal from the hound's-tail scabbard, the girl's lips fell open. Something dark and liquid, like molten glass, purled on the tip of her tongue. Shadows lived within it, floating slowly through its liquid eye like specks of dust in oil.\n\nVaylo's skin cooled. Deep within him, in the blood vessels that connected his mind to his heart, he felt the nearness of something he could only name as evil. His dogs felt it, too. Behind his back he was aware of them, whimpering and scratching at the floor. He was aware also of the wolf dog moving into place by his grandchildren.\n\n\"I shall not kill him yet.\" Vaylo spoke because he knew exactly how fast he was with the blade, exactly how long it would take him to cut through the girl's neck... and he knew it wasn't enough.\n\nThe words were softly spoken, whispered darts, each one making the girl blink. The light in her eyes brightened. The dark mass on her tongue hung, half in the Dog Lord's world, half in the moist cavern of her mouth. Its surface rolled like hot tar. Vaylo saw his own death reflected there before the girl inhaled, sucking the substance she had created back into her lungs.\n\nThe chief's chamber trembled. Ceiling timbers ticked and shuddered, and a thin stream of masonry dust showered the hearth.\n\nThe dogs began to howl.\n\n\"Granda! The lady looks sick!\" Vaylo's granddaughter spoke in a child's idea of a whisper that was actually louder than her normal speaking voice. \"Shall I bring her the stool?\"\n\nVaylo considered the Surlord's daughter. The blankness of moments earlier had gone from her face, leaving her looking like a young girl who had played too hard and stayed up too late. She swayed, and Vaylo automatically put out his swordhand to steady her. Glancing over his shoulder, he said to his granddaughter, \"Yes, fetch the stool. Quickly, now.\" Then, to the dogs, \"Silence!\"\n\nVaylo couched his sword. His hands were trembling, but the blade slid into the scabbard on first attempt. What had just happened here? Part of him almost knew, almost recognized what the girl had brought forth, yet when he probed for a memory that might explain it, he drew blank. All sense of evil had left him. The girl was just that: a girl. As his granddaughter dragged the maid's stool across the floor, Vaylo shouldered more of Ash's weight.\n\nBlood trickled from her nostrils to her mouth as he lowered her onto the stool. She was trembling, and Vaylo sent his granddaughter and grandson to fetch a good malt from Nan Culldayis. He was glad to have them gone from the room.\n\n\"Here.\" Vaylo handed the girl the soft red kerchief from around his neck. \"Clean yourself.\"\n\nHe watched her do so, taking deep breaths to calm the worn muscle that was his heart. He needed a drink. Badly. The faint odor of urine in the room testified to the fear of one of the bitches. Vaylo could not find it in himself to discipline her.\n\n\"I should slay you now, Surlord's Daughter. Do the whole of the Northern Territories a favor.\"\n\nShe looked up at him, her gray eyes as clear as a child's. \"But you won't.\"\n\nShe had the truth of it; he needed her alive and well. Yet he would not let her know that. \"What are you?\"\n\n\"You do not want to know.\"\n\nShe was right. He was the Dog Lord, and he existed in a world of earth and clay, where roundhouses were seldom built more than three stories above the ground and all gods worshiped lived in stone. What he had seen upon her tongue was something else, something that belonged to another people and another place. And as that thought turned over in his mind, he finally realized what part of him already knew.\n\nThis girl did not belong with Penthero Iss in Spire Vanis. This girl belonged to the Sull.\n\nSeventeen teeth ached with raw, needling pain as Vaylo thought upon his old enemies. Bludd shared borders with the Sull, with the Trenchlanders who were part Sull, part clansmen, part anyone else who stayed long enough in their slash-and-burn settlements to give birth or spread their seed. Trenchlanders were one thing. The real Sull, the pure Sull, were something Vaylo feared above all else.\n\nHe clearly remembered the day, thirty-four years ago now, when he had led a raid on the Trenchlander settlement of Cedarlode. He had been chief less than a year, and a dry spring had forced the Cedarlode Trenchlanders out of their forests and onto his borders to search for game. Trenchlanders hunted by setting fires. They torched whole corridors of forest to force the creatures living there to flee ahead of the flames. If a fire went well and the winds blew true, they could kill enough game in a single day to feed an entire settlement for a season. While Trenchland hunters stood at the fire's mouth, waiting to spear fleeing game, cindermen moved across the scorched and smoking charnel, bagging freshly charred carcasses.\n\nVaylo shuddered. He hated Trenchlanders. He had seen them destroy a thousand-year-old timber line in half a day.\n\nWhen they started lighting fires on his borders, he had been quick to act. Eight score of his best hammermen and spearmen rode east with him to Cedarlode. A skirmish of sorts had taken place. Trenchlanders were no match for Bluddsmen, and even before the battle was met the Trenchlanders began to withdraw. Vaylo's lips stretched in something close to a smile. Stone Gods! He had been arrogant that day. Suddenly, in the heat of easy victory, it wasn't enough to force them back to their own bounds. Why not drive them farther? Claim land along the Choke River that Bludd had always coveted? It was so easy. Vaylo clearly remembered laughing with Jon Grubber and Masgro Faa as they'd bludgeoned a dozen Trenchlander cindermen along the red mud banks of the Choke.\n\nFour hours it took them. Four hours to claim the river and the high bluffs beyond. Afterward they danced in the shallows. Masgro Faa found women, as Masgro always did, and although Vaylo himself didn't take part in the rapings, he watched as others did. When they had done with the women, they drank themselves stupid on elk milk turned green and beer as watery as piss. In the morning, still drunk with victory and the lingering effects of green milk ale, they headed back to the Bluddhold.\n\nLess than an hour later the Sull halted them in their tracks.\n\nFive hundred of their warriors surrounded them. Pure Sull, dressed in lynx furs so rich and supple, it seemed as if they rode with living predators at their backs. Their horses were like no others: breathtaking, silent, oiled like machines. Long recurve bows gleaming with rendered wolf fat rose above the horses' haunches like masts.\n\nUntil the Sull had shown themselves, Vaylo had not seen or heard a thing, so softly did their horses' hooves break ground.\n\nVaylo clearly remembered that not one Sull\u2014not even the foreguard\u2014drew a single arrow from his case. They didn't need to; Vaylo knew that straightaway. Superior numbers, superior ground, superior weapons, formation, and foreplanning were all theirs. He also knew that if he'd had twice or even three times their number, the Sull would still have bettered him.\n\nIt was the first real lesson he had learned as the Dog Lord: The Sull were not to be crossed.\n\nThe Sull held their positions for as long as they chose to. To this day, Vaylo could not decide how much time passed as the two mounted camps faced each other. Sometimes he thought perhaps it was minutes. Other times he knew it was hours. Then, suddenly, without an order being called or any signal that Vaylo could see being made, the Sull turned as a single body and headed back into the woods. Vaylo could still remember the breeze of air and clay dust they created, still recall the equal mix of fear and wonder he had felt.\n\nNo words had been exchanged, no weapons drawn, yet the message was unmistakable: Trenchland is Sull land. Stay clear.\n\nVaylo had never set foot on Trenchland since. He protected his borders\u2014vigorously\u2014yet never once had he or any Bluddsman under him claimed as much as a hair-thin strip of Sull land for his own. Sull borders were sacred. He had known that even as he had ridden to Cedarlode with his men that first day, yet he was chief, and he was shiny with new power and brash with jaw, and he'd thought he could take them on.\n\nThinking back on it now, Vaylo knew he had gotten off lightly. The Sull could have slaughtered them all that day. Yet they had chosen to teach a lesson in might instead.\n\nAnd the Dog Lord never forgot those.\n\nFrowning, Vaylo studied the Surlord's daughter from the safe haven of the hearth as she sat on the maid's stool and held the bloody kerchief to her nose. If she had any Sull blood in her, nothing in her coloring or face betrayed it. Still, he could not discard what his instinct told him. The Sull were not people of earth and clay like clansmen; they lived in a land of cool nights and silver moons, surrounded by oceans of rippling icewoods as tall as mountains and pale as frost. Sorcery lived in their blood. All their cities were built to let in the light of the moon. The Sull were night and twilight, shadow and shade, and Vaylo knew in his bones that the substance he had seen rolling upon Asarhia March's tongue was something they would recognize and claim as their own.\n\n\"Vaylo,\" came a soft voice through the wood of the door. \"I have brought food and malt.\"\n\n\"Enter, Nan,\" he called.\n\nAt nearly fifty years of age, Nan Culldayis moved more gracefully than any other woman in the clan. Vaylo watched her as she walked across the room, her fine head held perfectly level as she bore, then deposited, the tray. He noticed how little lines above her brow deepened as she looked at the girl. The habit of care ran deep within her. Like Cluff Drybannock an hour earlier, she left the room without a word.\n\nVaylo took the malt and drank from the jar. Food, all his favorites\u2014charred blood sausage and pork leg roasted so slowly that it fainted from the bone\u2014had been laid out on a platter with sotted oaks and the kind of fancy honey cakes that all women loved yet Nan knew he hated. Vaylo took a second mouthful of malt, letting its sweet, hellish flames burn his tongue. Nan thought to slip a treat to the girl.\n\nShrugging, he tipped a full measure of malt into the hollow jug stopper and handed it to the girl. She drank it in one, then looked up for more.\n\nVaylo brought the jug. \"There's fancies if you want them,\" he said, topping up the stopper. \"Honey and spices and like.\"\n\nThe girl looked at him. \"I'd rather have the meat.\"\n\nIt was then, under the scrutiny of those clear gray eyes, that Vaylo Bludd began to regret what he had done. Asarhia March didn't belong with Penthero Iss in Spire Vanis, in his world of silk-lined walls, rose-scented candles, and chamber pots with lids that fit so tightly that not even light could escape. Yet he was going to send her back there all the same.\n\nBreaking a knuckle of pork, he said, \"I've sent an osprey to your foster father, telling him you're here. It will only be a matter of days before a sept comes to fetch you.\"\n\nThe girl's face registered no surprise. \"What? No ransom?\"\n\n\"That's my business.\" Vaylo's voice was harsh. His teeth ached savagely, and he pushed away the tray of food. The girl was right: She would not be ransomed, just handed over as quickly as copper pennies between a trapper and his whore.\n\nThe Dog Lord owed the Surlord. Oh, Iss and his devil's helper denied the existence of any such debt. It was always My master wants nothing in return for his assistance with the Dhoone raid, or We think that you're the best man to take control of the clans. Yet the words held no truth. Vaylo had been a chief for too long not to know that all things came at a price. Iss wanted something. Vaylo wasn't sure what, but he knew enough to suspect that war in the clanholds suited the Surlord nicely. And helping the Bludd chief take the Dhooneseat was as good a way as any to start one.\n\nWhatever the motive, the deed was done. Vaylo would not look back on his past and wish things different. He would not allow himself that weakness. He and his clan were at war, and every day that war got bigger as each and every clan was drawn into the dance of swords. Old hates resurfaced and new hates were created, and Vaylo was cold enough a man to see that if he was canny enough and moved quickly enough, there was much to be gained amid the madness. He, the Dog Lord, bastard son of Gullit Bludd, born with only half a name and half a future, might be the first Bludd chief yet to name himself Lord of the Clans.\n\nYet for now he had a smaller goal on his mind. Vaylo glanced at the girl. He hated being indebted to any man, most especially when that debt was as cloudy as Trenchland beer and reeked in the same foul way. Penthero Iss held his marker, and now, thanks to the keen eyes of Cluff Drybannock, Vaylo had a way to get it back.\n\nThe Surlord's daughter. Return her to Iss and all debts were paid in full. There'd be no more devil's helpers scratching at his door, upsetting his dogs, and suggesting courses of action he might like to take in voices more fitting to milkmaids than men. He and the Surlord would be free of each other. And that was fine with the Dog Lord. As fine as fine could be.\n\nThe day the news of the girl's capture had arrived at the Dhoonehold, Vaylo had thrown the osprey into the air himself. She was a comely bird, heavy as a newborn, trained by the cloistresses in their mountain tower, capable of flying the cold currents of dawn and twilight, and inbred with ancestral memories of Spire Vanis. She would be there now, or perhaps even on her way home, her left leg no longer burdened by the message she had carried south. The Surlord's wellmanicured fingers had probably stroked her gray-and-white flight feathers as one of his helpers broke the seal.\n\nUncomfortable with his thoughts, Vaylo banged on the door with his fist to summon Drybone. He could look at the girl no longer. The message had been sent before he'd met her. What was done was done. So she wasn't what he had expected Iss' foster daughter to be: That was no reason to change his plans.\n\nThe girl's gaze was hot on his back as he waited for Drybone to enter. She did not speak, but he heard the malt stopper she had been holding in her hand roll to the floor. The ghosts of grandchildren lost were suddenly heavy in the room, and for a moment he expected to hear the words Granda, don't send me away.\n\nDrybone entered the chief's chamber. His blue eyes met once with Vaylo's own and took from them what orders he needed. He crossed immediately to the girl, seized her wrist, and forced her to stand.\n\n\"Take the meat and see she eats it.\" Vaylo jerked his head toward the tray.\n\nDrybone led the girl to the table and picked up the pork joint by the bone. His strength was such that even with one hand he could hold her. One of the dogs whined as Drybone, the girl, and more importantly the bone made their way toward the door.\n\nThe girl turned on the threshold. Holding her head high, she waited for the Dog Lord to acknowledge her. \"When do you intend to kill Raif Sevrance?\"\n\nVaylo breathed deeply. Suddenly he felt very tired and very old. The girl was exhausted, too; the corners of her mouth hung down as she waited for him to speak. \"I will stay his execution until the day after you leave.\" His own words surprised him, yet he made both his face and his voice hard as he added, \"On that you have my oath.\"\n\nThe girl looked at him for a moment longer, then turned and walked away.\n\nPutting a hand against the green riverstone wall for support, Vaylo waited to hear the door latch click. He had not expected her to thank him, yet he felt her lack of response like a coldness against his heart. She would draw no more sorcery tonight, he was sure of that, yet he knew she was someone he could not control. Like the Sull that day in Cedarlode, it was a matter of superior might.\n\nBetter to have her gone. Soon.\n\nAfter a time he pushed himself off from the wall and unhooked the dogs' leashes from the spit hook above the hearth. Part of him wanted to climb up the three flights of stairs that separated him from Nan's chamber and lose himself in her hay-scented flesh. Nan knew him well. She would offer the kind of familiar, homely comforts he was content with. Yet another part of him wanted to be outside, with his dogs, walking through the sharp river-scented air of Ganmiddich.\n\nNo one stopped or spoke to him as he crossed the entrance hall and made his way outside. The Ganmiddich roundhouse was high ceilinged, damp, lit by fish-oil lanterns that made the walls slick with grease. Vaylo was glad to be free of it. As soon as the great door closed behind him, he let the dogs run free. Normally at such a time they would race off in all directions, their massive lungs pulling scents of foxes, hares, and rats from thin air. Tonight they chose to stay close to their master. Vaylo cuffed them, told them to go and find some supper for themselves, as he had no intention of feeding them, yet still they would not go. Cursing softly, he let them stay.\n\nHe led them to the river shore, and together master and dogs watched the Ganmiddich Tower through the dark hours of the night.\n\nTHE ASSASSIN SAT IN A CHAIR well illuminated by the amberburning lamp, yet Penthero Iss still found it hard to behold her. He thought at first that the light had perhaps dimmed owing to impurities in the fuel, yet he could detect no increase or darkening of smoke. Finally, after several minutes of study, he was forced to conclude that Magdalena Crouch was the sort of woman whom it was difficult to see.\n\nMagdalena Crouch, or the Crouching Maiden, as she was known to the very few people in the Northern Territories who could afford to deal death at the rate of one hundred golds a head, waited for Penthero Iss to speak. She was perhaps twenty, no, thirty, no, forty, years of age, with hair that may have been either brown, red, or golden depending on the vagaries of light. Her eyes he had given up hope on. Looking straight into them when he had opened the door, he had seen nothing but his own reflection staring back. She was slim, but somehow fleshy, small, but with the limb length and bearing of someone much taller. Or was she simply tall?\n\nShe was not attractive, yet Iss found himself attracted to her. She was not repulsive, yet he found himself repulsed.\n\n\"Did you have a good journey from...\" Iss let the question trail away as he realized he did not know where she had journeyed from. Rumor had it that she lived within the city. But all rumors surrounding the Crouching Maiden were invariably false.\n\nThe maiden did not blink as she said, \"Any journey, no matter how brief or prolonged, can tire one at this time of year.\"\n\nThe voice was one thing she possessed that could be pinned down and classified: that beautiful, honey-poured voice. Iss smiled both in acknowledgment of an answer well given and in satisfaction that he finally had something on her.\n\nHe had dealt with the Crouching Maiden before, of course, but only by proxy. Caydis Zerbina\u2014who, with his network of liquid-eyed brothers, priests, underscribes, personal servants, bath boys, errand boys, and musicians, knew most things about most people who lived in or passed through Spire Vanis\u2014had always taken care of the details. Meeting the assassin in places of her choosing, Caydis gave her Iss' instructions and paid her fees in gold, always gold.\n\nThis time Iss had chosen to summon her himself. It had not been an easy task, for the Crouching Maiden ill liked to be summoned by any man and valued her celebrated anonymity highly. Yet she had come. One week following the original summons, she had come.\n\nWhy? Iss could only speculate. Beforehand, he had assumed she had come because he was the Surlord of Spire Vanis and one never refused a direct request from a man such as he. Yet now, standing in the switching, blue smoke shadows of her presence, he knew that not to be so. The Crouching Maiden came only because she chose to.\n\n\"Would you care for some wine... a liqueur perhaps, a cup of rosewater spiked with cloves?\"\n\n\"No.\" The word was spoken easily enough, yet the Crouching Maiden rippled her muscles like a tundra cat displaying to a rival as she spoke it.\n\nShe was a woman of business, then. Iss respected that. He found it quite delicious. \"I have a problem, Magdalena,\" he said, fingers closing around a piece of killhound bone as he spoke. \"There are people, a family, whom I would like to see... removed, yet I don't know the exact location of the village in which they live. I have, thanks to one of my informants, a good idea of the whereabouts of the village... the general area, should we say.\"\n\nIss paused, expecting to hear some small murmur of encouragement from the maiden. None came, and he was forced to continue speaking. \"The family lives in a farmhouse situated a day's ride northeast from Ille Glaive. My informant named three villages which he thinks are most likely to contain them.\" Iss gave the names. \"What I need is someone to move through these villages and discreetly, very discreetly, discover where the family lives, and do what is necessary to slay them.\"\n\nA pause followed. Iss, who was not used to being left hanging by anyone, began to feel the first stirrings of anger in his chest. True, the Crouching Maiden was the greatest assassin in the North, her name spoken in whispered awe by those who had used, and continued to use, her services. Yet he was Surlord of Spire Vanis. Just as Iss' jaw moved to rebuke her, she spoke.\n\n\"Ille Glaive is nine days to the north. It will cost more.\"\n\nIss felt a measure of relief but did not show it. \"Of course.\"\n\n\"And the family? How many are there?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. The mother, one daughter that I'm certain of, perhaps a few more.\"\n\n\"Uncertainty costs more.\"\n\nIss had expected it would. \"I will pay whatever it costs.\"\n\nThe Crouching Maiden made a small movement with her mouth, flashing teeth that were dry of saliva. Iss resisted the temptation to step back. Her presence was beginning to wear on him. It took too much effort to look at her. It was like staring at a landscape through a distorted piece of glass.\n\nMost held that the maiden's success lay in her appearance. She looked like everyone's maid. When glimpsed sideways as she made her escape from assassinations in granges, guildhouses, palaces, and private homes, all who saw her assumed she was a maid, a messenger, an ash girl, an old washerwoman, a nanny, a wet nurse, or a scullion. Unlike the handful of other female assassins who could be hired in the Northern Territories for a handful of golds or a ruby the size of a housefly, the Crouching Maiden did not look like a whore. She never seduced men, never slipped in her blade as the man slipped in his manhood, never used guile or beauty to gain access to forbidden places or hid her knife beneath a froth of lace-bound cleavage. She had no need of feminine traps. Her appearance was such that people who looked at her saw what they expected to see: someone who belonged in their setting.\n\nAnd of course she was as subtle as a fox.\n\nThe night Sarga Veys had sent word that he had the location of the Lok farm pinpointed to a handful of villages, Iss' first thought was, I must send for the maiden. Sarga Veys would be no good for the job. No one would willingly pour information down the Halfman's throat, and even if they did, he had no belly for blood. The Knife had the belly, but not the guile. He would break bones for information, scare the entire population of each village he visited, and alert the very people he had come to kill.\n\nIss returned the piece of killhound to his desk. Besides, the Knife and the Halfman had other business to tend to. They must bring Asarhia home from Ganmiddich. She must not be lost again.\n\n\"Tell me the details,\" said the Crouching Maiden in her silken ribbon of a voice.\n\nIss thought of Angus Lok, thought of the Phage, of old hates and old worries that had preyed on his mind for sixteen years. He gave the details. The meeting lasted scant minutes after that.\nTHIRTY-NINE\n\nWatcher of the Dead\n\nRAIF BURNED. HIS SKIN was hot to the touch, wet, swollen. When he touched the broken flesh on his arms, it was like probing a roast pulled from the fire. All of him ached, yet he could barely make sense of the pain. Mostly his body plunged him into sleep. Fever thrived in the darkness, shooting out purple bloodlines along his chest and rattling his bones with shivers so intense, he felt them even as he slept.\n\nHis dreams were no longer filled with people and places he knew. Strangers spoke to him, calling him Watcher of the Dead, massive silver-pelted wolves chased him through forests of pale trees and across frozen lakes polished so highly they reflected the moon and stars. A pair of mated ravens flew overhead, leading him north, always north. Sometimes he glimpsed the broken walls and skeletal arches of a ruined city above the treetops. Once he looked down at his feet and saw that the hard surface he walked upon was a sea of frozen blood.\n\nIn and out of sleep, he weaved, waking for short, dizzying moments when even the effort to lift his tongue from the base of his mouth was too much to be endured.\n\nNo one beat him now. They came, once or twice a day, bringing swim bladders full of freshwater and sotted oats cooked in beer. Most spat as they made for the door, as if tending him had left a bad taste in their mouths, one they had no wish to carry home to their womenfolk and hearths. Some signed to the Stone Gods if they happened to touch him. Others swore under their breaths, calling him the Hail Wolf's Firstborn or other damning curses. All desired his death; Raif saw it in the cold black centers of their eyes.\n\nClose and unharmed. Even now, after he had long forgotten their meaning, those words held power over him. Sometimes when he was lost in the deep well of fever bliss, his lungs hissing like war engines, the heat on his forehead raising hard, clear blisters, he would hear himself say those words.\n\nAlways they brought him back. He'd wake, dry mouthed and blinking, to find his hand at his throat and his fingers glued fast to his lore.\n\nIt was enough to keep his mind intact.\n\nWhen the worst night came and he lay shivering on the stone bench, his clothes wet as a drowned man's, his mind shifting between real dreams and hallucinations the fever sent him, he felt himself slide closer to the world's edge. Death was a pale presence in the cell. Raif did not have to see her to know what she was. Like a brother parted from his sister at birth, he recognized her in an instant.\n\nWe are alike, you and I.\n\nThe words came from nowhere, sliding down his spine like beads of ice. Half beings, tall and distorted as children's shadows at sunset, danced in the far quarters of his vision. Raif licked lips as dry as paper. He thought he should be afraid, but neither his body nor his mind could generate the physical state of fear. He blinked, because that was one thing he could do.\n\nShall I take you, Watcher?\n\nThe voice sounded in the space beneath his jaw, causing a soft, intimate pain like a lover's bite or a sister's pinch. The shadow beings rippled and grew larger with every word.\n\nRaif held himself still. Something brushed against his cheek. An exhaled breath condensed against his teeth and retinas. The sweet, just turned odor of sour milk filled his mouth. The scent of new death.\n\nClose and unharmed. He didn't know where the words came from. They were simply there inside his head, tugging away like a child at his father's coattails. Close and unharmed Raif strained for the memory. Who?\n\nThe shadow beings filled his vision, their limbs of smoke curling around his fingers and thighs, the vacant sockets of their eyes and mouths sucking the life heat from him. Cold entered through pores in his skin, sinking downward through layers of fat, muscle, membranes, and bone toward the one thing Death wanted: his soul.\n\nRaif gasped. Something glimpsed or half glimpsed in the center of the cell stopped his heart. Death showed her wares. Raif knew terror then, knew in every particle of his being that he did not want to travel that path, did not want to visit the hell that was waiting for him in the space between her arms.\n\nClose and unharmed The words thundered through his skull. Close and unharmed. Close and unharmed. Raif thrashed against the stone bench. He had to know, had to remember, had to find a reason to fight back.\n\nThe shadow beings began to feed. Painless as mosquitoes drawing blood, they sank their diamond fangs into his flesh. Strings of saliva flashed like spider's silk, each one landing on his skin with a hiss of utter coldness.\n\nRaif raised his hand toward his throat. A dozen of Death's creatures fed on his arm, weighing it down, sucking its juice, but he fought them with jaws clenched. He was Raif Sevrance, Raven Born, Oath Breaker, and Watcher of the Dead, and nothing would stop him from reaching his lore.\n\nAnger was hot within him, pumping blood to the far reaches of his body, where necrosis had already begun. More half beings gathered, drawn to the heat that was their one stock in trade. His arm shredded their insubstance, split their death's-heads in two. Close and unharmed. Fingers stabbing at hollow eyes, Raif reached for his lore. As his fingertip grazed the cool black horn, Death fought him, but he was too close and too angry to let her have her way. Wrenching his arm free, he grabbed the raven's bill.\n\nClose and unharmed.\n\nA moment stretched to breaking as Raif pressed the lore against the meat of his palm. The creatures continued to feed, but he did not heed them. His heart beat, just once, as the lore spoke a name for his ears alone.\n\nAsh.\n\nAsh was close and unharmed. And that was reason enough to fight Death tooth and nail.\n\nLetting the lore drop against his chest, Raif braced himself for war. He had made Ash a promise, and he would not fail her, and if he had to battle his namesake, then so be it.\n\nAs he raised his torso from the stone bench, a murmur passed through the half beings. In an instant they were gone. Fled.\n\nSoft laughter tinkled through the cell. Shadows grew within shadows, becoming darker and darker until it seemed as if the very substance of time collapsed under their weight. Perhaps I won't take you yet, Watcher. You fight in my image and live in my shadow, and if I leave you where you are, I know you'll provide much fresh meat for my children. Death smiled as she withdrew. Kill an army for me, Raif Sevrance. Any less and I just might call you back.\n\n\"No!\" Raif screamed into the emptiness of his cell. \"NOOOOOOOOO...\"\n\nA THIN KEYHOLE OF SUNLIGHT shining down upon his face woke him. Even before he opened his eyes he knew the fever had broken. Lying there motionless, enjoying the sun's warmth upon his face, he let the aches and hurts of his body occupy his mind. Memories hovered close, and he knew he could retrieve them, but first he had to deal with the pain.\n\nThirst made him probe the bench's ledge for the water bladder. His tongue felt large in his mouth, bloated and sore with many cuts. When he found the skin he spilled more water than he drank, letting the cool liquid run down his chin and neck. His throat stung as he swallowed, and he found he was quickly sated. He didn't have the strength to return the bladder to its place, so he let it drop into the water, where it floated for a while and then sank.\n\nHe slept for some time after that, and when he next woke the cell was dark. He missed the sun. He had not intended to sleep.\n\nMore water and a fresh bowl of sotted oats lay at his feet. Their presence reassured him: The world he had come to know remained unchanged. He drank the water\u2014all of it this time\u2014but had no stomach for the oats. Pain shot up his arm as he pushed the bowl away, and memories of the night before came with it. Creatures feeding on his flesh. Fangs as cold as ice. Raif shook his head, drove the images back.\n\nHe relieved himself in the corner of the cell and then let sleep take him once more.\n\nHe did not dream, or if he did, it was of simple things that had no meaning. He slept well and long, and when he next opened his eyes it was dawn.\n\nHis body moved more easily from the bench this time. His head pounded less. When he reached for the freshwater bladder, he tensed, but the pain when it came was less than expected. Having drunk his fill, he probed the cuts, bruises, and sore points on his body. A rib broken during the first of many beatings had already begun to mend. It hurt when he touched it, but the join seemed surprisingly smooth. A bruise the size and shape of a ewe's heart colored the skin above his left kidney. The organ beneath was tender, and he winced as his fingers examined it. The split stitchwork on his chest was hard with scabbed flesh, and his arms and legs were striped with cuts at various stages of healing. All of his muscles ached. When he probed the glands that lay beneath his jawline, his fingers brushed against the cord that held his lore.\n\nAsh. Close and unharmed. He didn't even need to touch the lore itself to know it.\n\nAfter that he stopped tending his wounds and lay down on the bench to rest and think of Ash. The knowledge she was safe soothed him, and he soon fell asleep.\n\nHe awoke to the awareness that he was not alone in the cell. Without opening his eyes or changing his breathing pattern, he tested the light levels through his eyelids and drew air across his tongue. It was full dark. It could have been anytime in the long winter's night, but the darkness had a weight and complexity to it that came only with many hours of nightfall. The air tasted of dogskins and rendered dog fat, and Raif knew he was in the presence of the Dog Lord.\n\nHe opened his eyes.\n\nMoonlight silvered the cell, glinting upon the water and turning stone walls to blocks of ice. The Dog Lord was looking straight at him, his face half-hidden by shadow, his eyes the color of ink. Taking a breath, he filled his chest with air that stank of death. \"They told me the fever would not take you.\"\n\nRaif acknowledged the words with a small movement of his jaw. The movement annoyed the Dog Lord, and he kicked the water at his feet, sending it spraying into Raif's face. \"Why is it that you live so easily when those who cross you die more quickly than newborns in a wolf's jaw?\"\n\nShaking drops of river water from his face, Raif rose to sit upright on the bench. He made no reply. The only sound was the water sloshing against the walls of the cell.\n\nThe Dog Lord ran a large red hand over his face and his braids. For a moment he looked very old. When he spoke his voice trembled. \"Tell me, what evil lies at the heart of your clan, that men such as you and the Hail Wolf are born?\"\n\nThe Hail Wolf. So that's what they were calling Mace Blackhail these days. Raif said, \"Do not link my name with his.\"\n\n\"Why? You slew in his name on the Bluddroad, then again in the snow outside Duff's.\"\n\nRaif's face burned. There was nothing to say.\n\n\"Answer me!\"\n\nHe flinched but did not speak. To answer would be a betrayal of his clan... of Drey. The truth had died that day on the Bluddroad. He would not be the one to resurrect it.\n\nThe Dog Lord came for him, lunging through the river water to take Raif's throat in his hands. Pressing his thumbs into Raif's windpipe, he cried, \"You slew my babies. Out there, in the cold and the snow. Children, they were, just children. Scared, shivering, clutching at their mothers' skirts.\" His voice was terrible to hear, rough with grief so powerful that each word shook him like a fever. The image he created was so close to the truth that Raif could not meet his eyes. \"And they called for their granda to help them. And their granda did not hear.\"\n\nAbruptly the Dog Lord released his hold and turned away. Muscles to either side of his neck jerked powerfully, yet within a second he had stilled them.\n\nRaif spat blood. His throat was on fire, but he made his voice hard as he said, \"You slew our chief in the badlands, him and a dozen more. You started this dance of swords. You struck the first blow.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord lashed at air with his hand, pushing Raif's words from him. \"Clan Bludd made no raid on Blackhail. It may have suited the Hail Wolf to claim it, but Dagro Blackhail did not die by my hand.\"\n\nRaif stood. He knew he should be surprised at what the Dog Lord said, but he wasn't. A cold anger grew within him, and he felt his face tighten as he stared at the Dog Lord's turned back. \"Why didn't you deny it?\"\n\n\"Who would? When half of the clanholds is praising your jaw for carrying off such a raid, and the other half are so scared that it might happen to them that the piss freezes to their thighs at the sound of your name, who's going to stand up and forswear it?\" The Dog Lord shook his head. \"Not me.\"\n\n\"Who, then? Who did it?\"\n\nSomething in Raif's voice made the Dog Lord turn to face him. His eyes were hard as sapphires, yet Raif met them with a hardness of his own. This man standing before him possessed knowledge that could have stopped a war.\n\nThe Dog Lord's braids rose and fell against his chest as he gathered breath to speak. His voice, when it came, was unrepentant. \"You'll hear no answers about the badlands raid from me. I wasn't the one who rode home from a killing field and named myself a chief.\"\n\nRaif felt a portion of his anger leave him. The Dog Lord had spoken his own thoughts right back to him. Struggling to find sense, Raif said, \"What of the wounds? Bron Hawk was there the night you made raid on the Dhoonehouse. He said your swords entered flesh but drew no blood. I saw the same thing at the badlands camp. My father's rib cage was smashed to pieces, yet there was barely enough blood to dye his shirt.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord swore. Placing a hand upon the cell wall, he let the ancient stone of the Ganmiddich Tower bear a portion of his weight. \"I should have known,\" he murmured. \"The devil is playing both sides.\"\n\nHairs on Raif's arms prickled, and in the space of one second he remembered all that Death had said. Kill an army for me, Raif Sevrance. Raif shivered. He heard his voice say, \"What do you mean?\"\n\nThe Dog Lord turned on him. \"What do I mean? What do I mean? You dare ask me what I mean? You, who have slain children in cold blood and butchered three of my warriors so badly that I could not let the widows tend their corpses.\" Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, and his braids cracked against his shoulders like whips. \"I will answer no questions from Watcher of the Dead. Cluff Drybannock was right. You must be finished, and quickly. Would that he and his men had cut you down where they found you, and not thought to save you for me. Would that the deed had been done, and my hands need not be stained with your blood.\"\n\nRaif stood tall and silent in the face of the Dog Lord's fury. He wondered how much of it had to do with him. The Bludd chief had not known about the wounds at the badlands camp. Yet he knew now, and that knowledge had shaken him.\n\nThe Dog Lord took the three steps necessary to bring himself opposite Raif. Reaching out, he closed his hands around Raif's lore. \"They said your guide had named you a raven.\" With one quick movement he snapped the twine. \"If it wasn't for an oath spoken to the Surlord's daughter, you would be dead this night, Raif Sevrance. Know that. Think on that. And then spend the next night praying to the Stone Gods for mercy, for when the time comes you shall get none from me.\"\n\nWith that he turned and walked toward the door. Before he reached inside the lock hole to open it, he dropped the raven lore into the dark, greasy water at his feet.\n\nRaif swayed, forced himself to stay upright until the Dog Lord had gone.\nFORTY\n\nIn the Crab Chief's Chamber\n\nNOTICING THAT THE SMOKE from the fish-oil lanterns irritated Sarga Veys' eyes, Vaylo Bludd ordered another two to be lit. He couldn't stand the stench of them himself\u2014he'd been in this blasted tall roundhouse for six days now, and his clothes and braids reeked of river trout\u2014but he'd be damned if he'd make this meeting any easier for the Halfman. They could call him the Fish Lord first!\n\nNeither Marafice Eye nor the Halfman looked at ease. The Knife had already staked out a corner of the chief's chamber and made it his own. He walked it now, his massive body straining against his urine-softened leathers as he moved. Every now and then he would look around, his gaze alighting on blunt objects, metal pokers, and ceremonial weaponry like a prisoner contemplating escape. The Dog Lord detected a limp, carefully concealed. As for the Halfman, well, he looked no different from when Vaylo had seen him last. Despite the long ride from Ille Glaive, his white robe and kidskin boots were barely soiled, and he must have shaved on the hoof for his jaw was smoother than a purse made of silk.\n\nThey had arrived at noon. Ten men in all: the Knife, the Halfman, a sworn brother with only three fingers on his right hand, and a full Rive Watch sept. The sept's appearance upon the bluff south of the roundhouse had caused a stir among the clan. The Rive Watch, with their bloodred blades, their black leather cloaks, and the Killhound embroidered at their breasts, represented the might of Spire Vanis to the clansmen. They wore iron bird helms, which none removed until they were challenged by a dozen spearmen a hundred paces from the roundhouse door. It was an act of arrogance and hostility that Vaylo had made them pay for.\n\nAfter four hours' forced wait in the ewe pen, the sept's manners seemed little improved.\n\nIt was dark now, early evening. A high wind rattled the shutters and breathed down the chimney, causing the flames in the hearth to leap into the room. The sept and the man with eight fingers had been led to the Ganmiddich kitchen, where Molo Bean had them well in hand. Vaylo almost pitied them, for Molo was an excellent hammerman and a fine cook, yet he hated city men with a vengeance. Eighteen summers ago a troop of white helms from Morning Star had killed his brother in a dawn raid upon his father's homestead in Clan Otler. The white helms had taken offense at a dam built by Shaunie Bean to direct water from the Wolf River northward to wet his fields.\n\nVaylo sucked on his aching teeth. The city of Morning Star was no friend to Clan Bludd. He would have to remember to send an osprey to his first son, Quarro, tell him to set more watches on the Bluddhold's southern borders. The Lord Rising and his white-helmed cockerels would get no land from Vaylo Bludd.\n\nTroubled, the Dog Lord turned his attention to Marafice Eye and Sarga Veys. He had left them to stew for an extra hour in the chief's chamber while he fed and kenneled his dogs. It had seemed a fair idea at the time, yet now he wished he hadn't bothered. This matter was better over and done.\n\n\"Has she been given supper yet?\" Sarga Veys said, his voice as high and grating as the sound of a sackpipe leaking air.\n\n\"I am not her nursemaid.\" Vaylo sat at the head of the chief's table, a block of green riverstone pitted with ancient fish fossils and petrified shells. A dozen horseshoe crabs, perfectly preserved, formed a circle below the Dog Lord's hand. \"How would I know if she's been fed or not? What does it matter to you?\" The anger was quick to come. His two remaining grandchildren were on their way home to Dhoone, escorted by Drybone and his crew. Nan had returned with them. By Vaylo's reckoning they would have reached the halfway point by now. Stone Gods protect them.\n\n\"It matters,\" said Sarga Veys with a sharp little jab of his chin, \"because I need to drug her.\"\n\nVaylo didn't like the sound of that. \"What with?\"\n\n\"Nothing. A little posy to make her sleep.\"\n\n\"I said, what with?\"\n\nMarafice Eye stopped pacing and dropped his hand to his weapon's belt. It was empty, of course\u2014the first Bluddsmen to meet the sept and its leader had ransomed their weapons until such time as they departed\u2014yet the Knife had a way of making the gesture look threatening even when his scabbard lay slack against his thigh. He was a dangerous man, Vaylo reckoned, yet he still feared the Halfman more.\n\nSarga Veys sent the Knife a superior glance, one that assumed command of him by warning, Easy with your hostilities. Not surprisingly the Knife ignored it. No love lost between those two there.\n\n\"Very well,\" Sarga Veys said. \"If you must know, I intend to give Asarhia blood of the poppy and the pulverized seeds of henbane.\"\n\nSo he meant to carry her away from the roundhouse without her knowledge or consent. By the time those two minddeadening drugs wore off, the Knife and the Halfman would be well away from Ganmiddich, on the far side of the Bitter Hills. And the girl herself would be left so weak, she'd be lucky if she could swallow water and sit a horse.\n\nVaylo took a wad of black curd from his pouch and chewed on it. He had seen for himself what the Surlord's daughter could do when she was cornered, so he understood the need for caution. Yet henbane could be poisonous in heavy doses. And that he would not have. \"You will not give the girl henbane under my roof.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" The Knife leered. \"Are you smitten with the bitch, too?\"\n\nVaylo stood. \"I would have the girl delivered safely to your master. If you and your men had done your jobs properly and found the girl yourselves, you would not be dealing with me now. But you didn't, and you are here, on newly made Bluddground, and you will abide by the Bludd chief's terms.\"\n\nMarafice Eye listened to Vaylo Bludd in silence.\n\nSarga Veys made a thin, snorting noise. \"I know my master's wishes. The girl must\u2014\"\n\n\"Silence!\" The Knife took a step toward Sarga Veys. \"Do as he says.\"\n\nSarga Veys took five steps back and might have taken more if it hadn't been for the fact that his shoulders came in contact with the wall. His lower jaw shook violently as he said, \"Very well. As you wish.\" Slender fingers unhooked a dun-colored pouch from his belt and retrieved a vial from within. The vial was the length of a pea pod and sealed with brown wax. Veys held it out toward the Dog Lord.\n\nVaylo considered knocking it onto the floor. He hated drugs and sorceries\u2014all things that could play tricks with a man's mind\u2014yet there was little choice here. Not because of the power of the two men standing before him, or even the power of their master in Mask Fortress. No, rather the power of the girl. If she were awake when they carried her away from Raif Sevrance, Vaylo did not know what she would do.\n\nHe took the vial. In a harsh voice he called to Strom Carvo, who was standing guard beyond the door. Sarga Veys gave his instructions to the dark-skinned swordsman: Use all the vial, pour it in her sotted oats and drinking water, and whip it in the butter and honey she spreads upon her bread. Vaylo spat out a wad of curd as the Halfman spoke. He had a bad taste in his mouth.\n\nAs Strom withdrew, Sarga Veys said, \"I think it best if I go with him to oversee the preparations. I have some skill in such matters.\"\n\nVaylo didn't doubt it. \"No. You will stay here and wait.\" He slammed the door shut. He would not have the Halfman walking freely about the roundhouse. With Drybone and his crew gone to Dhoone, they were short of men, and that was one fact the Dog Lord didn't want anyone to know.\n\nMarafice Eye said, \"Name your terms for the other two prisoners.\" His small mouth pulled tight like scar tissue as he spoke, and his hands\u2014the largest Vaylo could recall seeing on any man\u2014pushed against a rotten timber in the wall.\n\nVaylo suddenly longed for the company of his dogs. One of the bitches was in heat, and the rest were half-crazy with jealousy or lust, and he'd had little choice but to shut them away for the night in the dog cote. He ill liked being without them, but nature was one thing he knew better than to fight Marafice Eye was another thing entirely. He said, \"Angus Lok and the Hailsman are not for ransom.\"\n\nThe Knife smiled, his lips splitting like a sausage on a grill. \"I said, name your terms, Dog Lord.\" As he pushed himself off from the wall, Vaylo marked the bulge of a handknife concealed above his right kidney.\n\n\"And I said the prisoners are not for ransom.\"\n\n\"You owe my master,\" hissed Sarga Veys. \"He won't be pleased when he hears of this. I shall advise him to withdraw all assistance\u2014\"\n\n\"Tell him do it!\" Vaylo roared. \"I want no more kindness from the Spire King. Stone Gods help me, I wish I'd never given ears to him or his schemes. Tell him from me, the Dog Lord, that once his foster daughter leaves Bluddground this night, all agreements between us are sundered. The girl is payment in full.\"\n\nSarga Veys opened his mouth to speak, but both Marafice Eye and Vaylo Bludd moved forward to stop him. For one moment the Knife and the Dog Lord locked gazes, and shared intent and shared opinions on the Halfman made passing comrades of them. He was a fighting man, Marafice Eye. He knew better than to squawk and bluster when he was outmanned and far from home.\n\nWith a mock bow, Vaylo stepped back and let him deal with his man.\n\nMarafice Eye approached Sarga Veys, drawing so close that their shoulders touched. Putting his small lips to the cartilage of the Halfman's ear, he said, \"Silence,\" in a voice so cold it caused the flames in the Crab Hearth to shrink.\n\nSarga Veys sat... quietly.\n\nVaylo poured two drams of malt liquor, keeping the first for himself and offering the second to Marafice Eye. The Knife accepted it, and the two men struck cups and drank. Any other time Vaylo might have savored the silent companionship that came with sharing a fine malt with a man he did not hate, but his mind was too agitated, and he drank his liquor fast and with little joy. When the Knife returned the empty dram cup to the stone surface of the chief's table, Vaylo said, \"I'd have you take a message to your master.\"\n\nThe Knife raised his chin, indicating he would listen.\n\n\"Tell him to keep his fingers out of the clanholds. I know what he's doing, and if he doesn't stop, I'll gather all the clans that are loyal to me\u2014Clan Broddic, Clan HalfBludd, Clan Otler, Clan Frees, and Clan Gray\u2014and ride south to Mask Fortress and tear down his gates. Iss has played me for a fool once, and I'm an old man with a high opinion of myself and I'll not let him use me again.\n\n\"I know I wasn't the only chief he approached with his dirty little promises of sorcery and aid; while one of his faces was busy whispering Dhoone secrets to me, the other was talking treason to the Hail Wolf. Mace Blackhail and your master arranged the raid on the hunt party in the badlands, made it look as if Dagro and his clansmen were attacked by a troop of my men. The Hail Wolf got a chiefdom for his trouble, and Iss drew Blackhail into the war. Now I don't know which other chiefs he's approached and what other deals he struck, but I do know he'll make no more. The clanholds are no longer his business. Tell him that from me, the Dog Lord. Tell him that from this day forth all wars we wage will be of our own making.\"\n\nVaylo was shaking by the time he was finished, his throat raw. He was not one for speeches, but a warning needed to be sent. Penthero Iss had to be told that the clanholds were no longer his field of play.\n\nMarafice Eye held Vaylo's gaze for a long moment, then said, \"I'll pass your message on, Dog Lord, though I see no easy end to the Clan Wars.\"\n\nHe was right. Lines were too clearly drawn and hatred too deeply entrenched for any clan chief to face another over a table and speak of peace. Yet that wasn't the point. \"It's a matter for the clans now.\"\n\nMarafice Eye nodded, understanding immediately. Vaylo respected him for that.\n\nThey waited in silence for an hour. Marafice Eye did not sit once during that time, though Vaylo noticed that he rested his left leg from time to time and favored his right when walking. Sarga Veys sat exactly where the Knife had placed him and neither moved nor spoke. Vaylo resisted the urge to drink more. Waiting made him weary. He longed for Nan's gentle company and the closeness of his dogs. He worried about his grandchildren and wondered if Drybone had them riding through the night.\n\nEvery now and then he would glance at the southeast wall in the chamber and fix his eyes upon the window, shuttered and bolted, there. Raif Sevrance was never far from his thoughts. Even to look in the direction of the Inch brought on feelings so intense, he could taste them in his mouth. Vaylo wished Drybone had broken down just once in his self-controlled, iron-willed life and beaten the lad to death where he had found him. At least that way there would have been swift, unthinking justice. Not this slow, ever more complicated torture of truth and lies.\n\nVaylo pushed a hand through his braids. It had been a mistake to see him. He didn't want to see Raif Sevrance as a young yearman still protecting the honor of his clan from a cell that stank of death. He wanted to look upon a Hailsman and see a murderer instead.\n\nVaylo called for Strom Carvo and gave the order to check on the girl. Only when she was gone and a new dawn had come to the roundhouse could he finally put steel to the Hailsman's throat.\n\n\"She's sleeping, Chief,\" Strom said when he returned four minutes later. \"I called her name, but she didn't respond. I shook her arm, and still she slept.\"\n\nVaylo nodded. \"Bring her to me, Strom. Pull on her coat and boots as best you can\u2014\"\n\n\"And make note of how much food she has eaten.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord raised an eyebrow Veys' way. Hadn't anyone bothered to tell him that no one interrupted a clan chief when he was speaking? Strom's dark, storm-lined face brightened at the prospect of a verbal lashing, but Vaylo let the incident pass. He would not waste breath on the Halfman. Placing a hand on Strom's arm, he walked with the swordsman out of the chief's chamber.\n\nWhen they were past earshot, Vaylo said, \"Do as the Halfman says, Strom. But first, find Ranald or one of the others and tell him to search the Halfman's saddlebags and remove all powders or potions.\" It was little, but it was something. Henbane was scarce in winter, and Sarga Veys would not easily lay his hands on more.\n\nStrom nodded.\n\n\"And tell Branon that I want all clansmen and clanswomen war dressed and mounted within the quarter. When Marafice Eye and his sept leave Ganmiddich I want the last thing they see to be the armed might of Bludd.\" Strom turned. Vaylo halted him with a final caution. \"We must be careful, Strom. Marafice Eye has a soldier's mind; he'll spot our poor numbers given chance.\"\n\nStrom Carvo, who was Cluff Drybannock's blood-brother and one of the finest swordsmen in the clan, simply nodded and said, \"Due care has already been taken.\"\n\nVaylo felt better for hearing those words. They made the next waiting period bearable.\n\nHigh winds blasted the walls of the roundhouse as the Knife, the Halfman, and the Dog Lord stood in silence and waited for Strom to bring the girl. When hail began to batter the shutters, Vaylo was neither worried nor surprised. A storm suited his feelings well enough.\n\nWhen the knock came it seemed too soon. Sarga Veys' tongue came out to moisten his lips. Marafice Eye stopped pacing and shifted the massive fact of his body toward the door.\n\n\"Enter,\" called the Dog Lord.\n\nStrom Carvo carried the girl into the room. The swordsman had taken care to wrap her tightly against the storm, and her slim body was thick with as many layers of wool and oilcloth as the remaining Bluddswomen could spare. Strom had even thought to tuck her lovely ash blond hair beneath her collar, where the wind could not find it as she rode. The girl herself was lifeless. Her head lolled back and forth with every step Strom took.\n\nSarga Veys moved forward. Vaylo heard the excited inhalation of his breath. It sickened him.\n\n\"Lay her on the table.\"\n\nStrom obeyed his chief, yet Vaylo saw the glint of anger in his eyes. He didn't want to give her up to these men.\n\nSarga Veys was first to approach, pulling down the fox hood that Strom had tied in place. \"Oh yes,\" he said. \"It's her.\" Then to Strom: \"How much food has she eaten?\"\n\nMuscles on the swordsman's face shifted with the deceptive smoothness of ice plates riding a rough sea. \"Nothing. She drank only the water.\"\n\nVaylo closed his eyes. Only water. How strong is the drug the Halfman gave her?\n\nAs Sarga Veys plucked open her eyes and picked up her limbs and dropped them, Marafice Eye moved toward the table. His face darkened as he beheld Asarhia March, and his large hands came together to crush the air above her chest. Watching those hands, Vaylo almost said, You cannot have her.\n\nSarga Veys produced a second vial of poppy blood from his pouch. \"The few drops she drank with the water are not enough. She'll wake in the night if we're not careful.\"\n\nStrom looked to his chief. Vaylo said, \"Take the vial from him and put two drops only upon her tongue.\" Strom did his bidding in silence.\n\nWhen all was done and Marafice Eye was busy cracking his knuckles in readiness to bear Asarhia's weight, the Dog Lord approached the table. The girl's face was pale, her lips almost blue. Frozen. It was easy to imagine her mouth full of snow... .\n\nAbruptly he turned away. \"Go!\" he commanded, chasing ghosts and men alike. \"And be sure to tell your master that all debts are paid in full.\"\n\nRAIF WOKE.\n\nAsh.\n\nHis hand clutched at his throat, seeking his lore. It wasn't there. Memory flooded back to him; the Dog Lord had cast it into the standing water at his feet. It hadn't seemed important to search for it at the time. The raven lore always came back.\n\nSteeling himself against pain and weakness, Raif rose from the stone bench and waded through the shin-high water. Storm darkness filled the cell. He couldn't see anything, not even his hands as he plunged them into the black substance of the river and began questing for his lore.\n\nWeeds wrapped around his fingers, slimy as uncooked meat. Other things floated by his wrists, soft things, jellylike things, bits of something smooth like hollow bone. He smelled his own filth and the filth of those who had been here before him, yet he could find nothing within him that was repulsed. He had to get to his lore.\n\nHis body was weak, weak, and he cursed it a dozen times in the darkness. When his legs began to tremble beneath him, he knelt in the water and continued searching. Raking his fingers along the cell floor, he probed the cracks and creases and river-worn hollows, disturbing centuries of mud and shit each time he moved a hand. The water was bitterly cold, yet he barely felt it. Outside the storm howled like a wild beast, swiping at the tower with claws of wind and hail, yet it mattered less than the hiss of his own breath. Something was wrong with Ash.\n\nIcy water deadened his fingers, turning them into wooden sticks. Skin split and tore as he dredged through the silt. Where is it? Had the current carried it away? Raif shook his head. No. As a child he had thrown the lore from him a dozen times, yet the clan guide had always found it and brought it back.\n\nIt had to be here.\n\nWater sloshed against the walls as he grew more frenzied. His clothes were sodden, stinking. Knife cuts on his thighs and belly burned like white fire. His rib cage felt big and swollen, the bones making unnerving creaking noises every time he took a lungful of air. He thought he heard Death laugh at him, a high, tinkling chirr that chilled him in ways no cold water could. Ash...\n\nAs he dragged his hand along the crease where the wall and floor met, a length of twine tangled in his fingers. Snatching his fist closed, he caught it in his grip and pulled it through the water. The moment his hand broke the surface, he knew his lore had come back to him.\n\nHere it is, Raif Sevrance. One day you may be glad of it.\n\nThe small length of bird horn came dripping from the water. Raif held the twine, only the twine, until he had returned to the dry island of the bench. His heart beat against his rib cage with quiet force as he moved. He thought his hands might shake when he pulled the twine through his fingers, but they held steady. River water dripped from every point of his body, pooling onto the bench where he sat. He thought about signing to the Stone Gods, asking them to keep Ash safe, then decided against it. Stone Gods were clan gods, and neither he nor Ash was clan.\n\nForcing his lips together, he placed the lore in the palm of his right hand and closed his fist around it.\n\nThe knowledge came to him instantly, warm as his own blood, slipping into his mind like just another thought. Ash was gone. She was no longer close and unharmed. Someone had taken her away.\n\nSpitting to clear the taste of river from his mouth, Raif rose from the stone bench. Slowly he crossed to the cell door. When he was within two paces of the oak and ironclad planking, he halted. Tensing his body for a long moment, he filled his lungs with air. Then, with a movement so fast it split the standing water in two, he sent his shoulder smashing into the wood.\n\nAsh was gone... and the tower would have to fall so he could reach her.\nFORTY-ONE\n\nAn Object Returned\n\nRAIF LET THE MADNESS TAKE HIM. Hours passed as he tore at the darkness in his cell. When his right shoulder became a bruised and bloody mass, he began driving at the door with his left. When the door held firm, and whatever bar or bolts bracing it on the other side failed to crack or jump their casings, he swung himself up onto the bench and began punching the iron grating. The bars of the grate were as thick as arms, set deep into mortise holes and packed with burned lime: They did not budge under his bombardment.\n\nHe shouted until his voice was hoarse, but no one came for him to kill. He charged the walls, then kicked them, and when that failed he clawed at the green riverstone with bare hands. Blood flowed from beneath his fingernails, running along his palms and dripping from his wrists to the river below. Sweat stung his eyes and turned the clothes on his back to sopping bandages packed with salt. He wanted someone to come\u2014anyone. The kill was upon him, and he imagined beating Bluddsmen senseless against the stone walls, then using their swords to carve out their hearts. Watcher of the Dead, they called him. Well, let them come and see for themselves how quickly he could take a life.\n\nHours passed, and still he raged. Terrible tremors shook him, making his legs bend with exhaustion and his eyes see things that could not be there. Tem was in the cell with him, lying on the stone bench, his arms burned black, and his mouth open and full of worms. When Raif looked again it was his mother, her skin all yellow and loose, her eyes sealed closed with sulfur paste. Soon his legs could no longer hold him, and he dropped into the water and began gouging rotten mortar with his lore. Ash was all that mattered. Getting to Ash.\n\nDimly, in some distant part of his mind that could still look ahead, he knew his best course would be to lie low until morning, wait until a Bluddsman entered the cell\u2014one hand busy with the bolt, the other balancing a water bladder and a bowl of sotted oats\u2014and take him as he entered. Smash the door in his face, seize his weapon, and run. Yet the idea of doing nothing until morning was unthinkable. Somehow it was all mixed up with Drey... he could not break another oath.\n\nAs the night wore on, he fought sleep. His mind lapsed for seconds at a time, leaving him blinking in the darkness, gripping his lore. After a time his neck could no longer support the weight of his head, and he rested his chin on his chest as he worked. His eyes closed, but he continued to jab bloody fingers against stone, using the pain to stay awake.\n\nEventually the pain stopped hurting, and the line between sleeping and waking began to fade. He lost seconds, then minutes, then hours. Still fighting, he fell asleep.\n\nClacking noises, like the sound of wooden training swords bashing together, filled his dreams. He saw Shor Gormalin parrying with Banron Lye on the court, dead men dueling with swords. Clack! Clack! Clack!\n\nRaif turned in his sleep. The clacking followed him, only now it sounded different, higher, sharper, like steel meeting steel. Someone screamed. Footsteps thudded in the distance. Dogs wailed, their cries growing higher and more desperate until they stopped sounding like things bred by man and howled like wolves instead.\n\nA mighty crash shook the tower. Raif's right arm skidded from the stone bench and fell into the water below. He opened his eyes. The pale light of winter dawn filled the cell like gray smoke. Something red and bloody lay directly in front of his face, and he stared at it for a long moment before realizing it was his own left hand. As he pulled his right free from the water, he heard a salvo of shouted orders. Sword metal clattered against stone. Footsteps drew close. Breath exploded in a violent hiss. Something, very probably a body, fell with the thud of a rolled carpet toppling onto the floor.\n\nEven as Raif drew himself upright, the cell door burst open.\n\nBlade metal gleamed like cut ice. A fist, gloved in black, balanced a lead-weighted sword close to a chest plated in silvered steel. A face, shadowed beneath a thorn helm of acidblackened iron, emerged from the darkness behind the door.\n\nBlackhail. Pride stabbed at Raif's heart: His clan had taken Ganmiddich back.\n\n\"On your feet.\"\n\nRaif turned cold. His pride drained away as quickly as an exhaled breath. The voice behind the thorn helm was known to him. \"Take off your helm.\"\n\nThe figure shook his head. Eyes gleamed cold beneath a mesh of iron thorns. Raising the tip of his sword, he said, \"Stand.\"\n\nRaif stood and faced the figure by the door. He was shaking, but the helmed man was not. The hand that gripped the sword was as solid as rock. The chest beneath the armor rose and fell with powerful, even breaths.\n\n\"Drey?\"\n\nThe figure stiffened.\n\n\"Brother.\" It was almost, yet not quite, a question. The figure before him was barely recognizable as Drey; his voice was deeper, his shoulders broader. Even his attire was different. War dressed in tempered steel and black leathers, Drey had shed the rough hand-me-downs that were the stock of all yearmen and clan sons. He was all hard edges now.\n\n\"We are not brothers, you and I. Blood ceased flowing between us the day you broke your oath.\"\n\nRaif controlled the muscles in his face. Inside, the coldness in his chest contracted to a single rigid point. Drey was not here to save him. It was a child's thought, a sudden realization that those you trusted could hurt you, and Raif felt the same sickening shock as if Drey had smacked him in the face. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but the habit of Drey's loyalty ran deep within him. Drey was always there to pull him out of scrapes, to conceal bloody knees from Tem and broken saplings from Longhead, and to back up incredible stories about bears fleeing over thin ice and lone elk trampling tents. Drey always waited.\n\nSwords clashed in the chamber above. The ceiling shuddered as something heavy and metallic, like a charcoal burner or an arms rack, crashed to the floor. Drey stepped forward, jabbing the air next to Raif's throat with his sword.\n\n\"Move!\"\n\nRaif cursed the reflex action that made him flinch. Fixing his gaze on what was visible of his brother's eyes through the thorn helm, he walked around the blade.\n\n\"Up the steps. One pace ahead of me, no more.\"\n\nRaif climbed the spiral stair in silence. Light stung his eyes. Fresh air and new sounds made his head swim. Once he stumbled and had to put a hand upon the wall to steady himself. Drey's sword drew blood from the center of his spine, and he did not stumble or slow down again.\n\nTwo Hailsmen stood guard on the floor above. Both men's breastplates were beaten out of shape, and one man's gorget was punctured and leaking blood. Their blade edges were caked with chunks of hair and skin. Through the wire of their helms, Raif recognized Rory Cleet and Arlec Byce. As he drew closer, Raif saw that Rory's handsome face was now marred by a thick white scar running from the crease of his eye to his mouth.\n\n\"Stone Gods!\" Rory hissed as Raif approached. \"What have they done to him?\" Rory received no answer, nor did he say anything more. Drey sent a look to silence him.\n\nRaif kept his face hard. He could not stop them from seeing the hurts on his body, but that was all they would see.\n\n\"To the skiff.\"\n\nHearing his brother speak those words, Raif realized that Drey had changed more than his appearance. Arlec Byce, a full clansman of five winters, moved on his say.\n\nThey climbed through the base of the tower, past snuffed torches, unhinged doors, and a Bluddsman's decapitated corpse. Black smoke pumped from a doorway, twisting around itself to form a funneling afterbirth of soot and fumes. Raif considered the band of darkness it created, noticed how Rory Cleet lifted his visor so he could rub his stinging eyes and how Arlec Byce held his swordhand to his helm to block the stench of burning flesh.\n\nIt would be so easy to take them.\n\nKill an army for me, Raif Sevrance.\n\nRaif shook his head with quiet force. He would not slay his clansmen. Not even for Ash.\n\nA fourth Hailsman joined them as they filed out of the tower into the gray stormlight that shone upon the Inch. Raif paid him no heed, yet he knew well enough that it was Bev Shank, kitted out in new-made plate armor and guard chains. His sword was badly notched and would have to be sent to Brog Widdie to be refired. Then again, perhaps his father would buy him a new one; Orwin Shank could well afford it. Raif was aware that Bev's gaze was upon him, yet he kept his thoughts and his eyes upon the sword.\n\nSpray from the river lashed his cheek as he waited to board the skiff. High winds shaved the surface, slicing the heads off waves and driving dark swells against the Inch. Hailstones battered the tower, drowning out the sound of battle to the north. On the far bank, the Ganmiddich roundhouse glowed orange and green, lit by a moat of soaring flames. Strip fires, Raif thought, to stop the Bluddsmen from forming lines.\n\nThe skiff rocked as he stepped into it. Gray water lay two hands deep in the hull, yet Raif barely felt it. Compared with the water in his cell, it was warm and fragrant. Hailstones as big as peas bobbed on the surface.\n\n\"Tie his hands.\" Drey's voice was hard. His brown eyes dared Rory Cleet to defy him.\n\nRory was no riverman, and when he stood to do Drey's bidding, he sent the keel of the boat pitching into the stormstripped water. Bev Shank and Arlec Byce struggled to keep the oars in their locks.\n\nRaif held himself perfectly still as he allowed his wrists to be tied. He thought he was going mad. He saw death everywhere he looked. It would be so easy to push Rory against the gunwales and capsize the boat. All of them would be thrown into the water. Some would die. Bev Shank could swim, but his new armor must weigh two stone and a half and he'd sink straight to the bottom. All four of the Hailsmen were wearing helms and plate. The water was cold. Icy. Undertows and storm tows would pull them under in an instant, send them smashing against the Inch. Raif knew he would survive. Cold water was nothing to him... and there was no steel on his back, only rags.\n\nRaif sat and did not move. Salt from the river burned his skin. He watched Drey yet did not seem to. He thought of death yet did not act.\n\nIt was a long journey to the shore. All four clansmen took up oars. Instead of fighting the current, Drey used it to steer the skiff to the bank, allowing the river to carry the craft downstream. Mounted figures milled upon the bank, rippling in the heat of the strip fires like demons. Hailsmen and Bluddsmen. Raif thought he saw the barrel chest and chestnut braids of Corbie Meese amid a melee of sixty men. He heard the screams of wounded horses and the furious rattle of hammermen's chains.\n\n\"Raise the oars.\" Drey snapped the order even though they were still some distance from the north shore, and the skiff carried them even farther downstream. By the time the skiff's keel scraped gravel, they were clear of the roundhouse and the fighting. Raif looked from face to face as the four clansmen dragged the skiff ashore. No one would meet his eyes.\n\nMace Blackhail. The thought came with the strength and speed of a reflex action. Mace Blackhail wanted him taken quietly, away from the fighting and the other clansmen. Far better to deal with the traitor alone, get the whole thing over and done, with no interference from the clan. Raif looked across the bank, his eyes skimming over the wooded slopes and wet meadows of Ganmiddich. Any moment he expected Mace Blackhail to ride forward on his roan.\n\nDrey secured the skiff's lines himself and then straightened to address his men. \"Rory. Arlec. Head upstream on foot, find Corbie and Hugh Bannering and tell them the Inch has been taken.\" He unsheathed his sword as he spoke. It was the same sword he always carried at his back along with his hammer, yet the grip was new doeskin and the blade had been oiled and whetted to a high sheen. The metal gleamed with all the colors of the storm. \"Bev. You go with them. Fetch my horse and a spare pony for the prisoner. Ride them back at haste.\"\n\nArlec Byce and Rory Cleet exchanged a glance. Drey trained the tip of his sword on Raif's kneecap. \"Go,\" he murmured, stabbing the bone. \"I'll hold the prisoner until you return.\"\n\nBev Shank was first to start east. Rory Cleet and Arlec Byce were slower getting started, and Arlec looked back several times as he headed along the bank. Raif wondered what had happened to the axman's twin; the two were seldom far apart.\n\nDrey held his position as he watched the three men scramble over the wet gravel and storm-greased rocks along the shore. Hailstones bouncing off his breastplate made ticking sounds as seconds passed.\n\nRaif's throat was dry. He was aware of the blade point at his knee yet didn't look down to check for blood. His eyes were on his brother. Drey's face was banded by shadow. The glove that held the sword was stretched white at the seams. I'll stand second to his oath. Drey's words were suddenly there in Raif's head. That and the image of Drey kicking his black gelding forward on the court, one man among twenty-nine. The only one willing to back his oath.\n\nRaif almost didn't feel the rope being cut. Drey's sword ran with light as he sliced through the horsehair twine at Raif's wrist, yet no brightness found its way to his face. Raif saw him glance east, to the grove of ancient water oaks that had hidden Rory, Arlec, and Bev from view. Slowly, not meeting his brother's eyes, Drey shifted his grip on the sword.\n\n\"Take it.\"\n\nRaif blinked. Drey pushed the hilt of the sword toward him.\n\n\"I said take it.\"\n\nConfused, Raif shook his head.\n\nDrey sucked in breath. His eyes darted left then right. With a sudden movement he grabbed the edge of the blade and drove the pommel into Raif's chest. \"Cut me!\"\n\nNo. Raif took a step back. He saw where the sword edge had bitten through Drey's glove and drawn a line of blood. Even as he watched the steel turn red, Drey moved forward, grabbing Raif's hand and forcing it around the hilt. Raif fought him, but Drey had always been stronger, and even before he could pull away, Drey stepped into the tip of the sword.\n\nMetal punctured with a quiet hiss. Drey tensed. His eyes darkened, and his lips twisted as he fought to take the pain soundlessly... as Tem had taught him. Horrified, Raif pulled the sword back. Blood, shiny and nearly black, oozed from a jagged slit in Drey's breastplate. Raif lost his grip on the sword, and it clattered against the rocks, making a sound that seemed too loud.\n\n\"Go,\" Drey said, fingers working to release the leather straps on his breastplate. \"We fought. You took my weapon from me, wounded me, then fled.\"\n\nRaif moved forward to help Drey with the straps, but Drey warned him back with a single glance. His face was gray. Blood rolling down his armor pooled in the waist crease and dripped from the runnels. The wound was high in the belly, just below his ribs. How deep had the blade gone? Could it have punctured his stomach or lungs?\n\n\"GO!\"\n\nRaif's body swayed at the force of the word. How can you expect me to leave while you are bleeding? he wanted to scream. We are brothers, you and I.\n\nDrey sucked in breath as he peeled the breastplate from his chest. Fresh blood gouted from the wound, and he forced his knuckles into the wetness. Seconds passed as he dealt with the pain.\n\nRaif forced himself to watch. He could not believe what Drey had done. Drey Sevrance was not the sort of man to commit treason lightly. He lived for clan, like Tem before him, and his bear lore drove him hard and true.\n\nWhen Drey next looked up his eyes were clouded. With hands bloody from his wound, he poked at the packages hanging from his belt. \"Here,\" he said, snapping the horn containing his portion of guidestone from its brass hook, \"take this. Inigar has hewn your memory from the guidestone. He cut a portion of stone the size and shape of a man's heart and gave it to Longhead to cart away. Mace had him smash it to dust.\"\n\nRaif took a breath and held it. Excised from the guidestone, like Ayan Blackhail, second son to Ornfel Blackhail, who killed the last of the Clan Kings, Roddie Dhoone. Ayan Blackhail had thought his father would thank him for putting an arrow in Roddie Dhoone's throat, yet Ornfel Blackhail had turned on his son and cut off both his hands. \"An arrow is no way to kill a king,\" he had said. \"You should have used your sword, or naught at all.\"\n\n\"You are no longer my brother or my clan,\" Drey said quietly, pulling Raif back. \"We part here. For always. Take my portion of guidestone... I would not see you unprotected.\"\n\nTheir eyes met. Raif looked at his brother and saw a man who could be chief. He did not speak. There was no place for questions about Angus and Effie and clan. There was only enough time to look at Drey, lock his face and his presence into memory.\n\nAnd in the end there wasn't even enough time for that.\n\nA shout sounded downstream. A mounted figure crested the high bank above the river, pushing his likeness in woodsmoke before him. A wolf's head cut into his breastplate had been rubbed with acid until it burned, then worked with pure carbon so that its blackness was one of empty eye sockets, open mouths, and charred wood. Mace Blackhail. He had not spotted them yet.\n\nFor one brief moment Raif let himself imagine that Drey was coming with him, that they would ride through the Northern Territories, swords in hand, warriors and exiled clansmen alike. It wasn't to be. There was Effie and clan... and Ash. And days darker than night lay ahead.\n\nRaif took the tine from his brother. He had to leave now, before Mace Blackhail saw them together. Raif had little care about himself\u2014and there was something in him that welcomed the chance of getting close enough to kill Mace Blackhail\u2014yet he would not endanger Drey. Not after this. Not ever.\n\nDrey's fingers were sticky with drying blood; for a moment when he touched them, Raif felt them cleave to his own. \"Go, Raif,\" Drey said. \"I'll watch over the clan.\"\n\nIt was the softest Raif had heard Drey speak since he had burst into the cell what seemed like a lifetime ago. Raif looked into his brother's eyes one last time, then turned away.\n\nAs he took his first step, he felt Drey's hand capture his trailing fist. Something small and cool was pressed into his palm. Feeling it, Raif thought his heart would break.\n\nThe swearstone. Drey had kept it whole and safe until today.\n\nLowering his head against the storm, Raif headed west.\nFORTY-TWO\n\nGanmiddich Pass\n\nSARGA VEYS LAY BENEATH the overhang formed by a shelf of compressed and buckled slate. The great glacier tongues that had once reached from the Breaking Grounds to the Bitter Hills had churned up entire quarries of bedrock from the earth as they withdrew. Even now, thousands of years later, the violence of the glacier's retreat could still be observed in places. The northern slopes of the Bitter Hills, just below the Ganmiddich Pass, was one such place. A few lichen had sunk their root anchors into the hard glassy crust, yet no trees or shrubs of any kind had managed to take seed amid the rocks. The wind would have their heads off in an instant.\n\nWrapped in blankets spun of the softest goat's hair, Veys endured the wind now. Hood had wedged his strong, fleshy body behind Veys' back, claiming the deepest refuge\u2014the crease directly beneath the overhang\u2014for himself. Veys was distressed by the man's nearness, repulsed by his own physical reaction to the warm, respiring body next to his.\n\nIt did not occur to him to move. Here, lying beneath a broken plate of slate, feigning sleep in the face of a storm, he could watch both Marafice Eye and Asarhia March closely.\n\nAfter taking his leave of the Dog Lord yesterday evening, Marafice Eye had driven his party of eleven through the night. A spare pony had been purchased in Ille Glaive to carry Asarhia's drugged body back to Spire Vanis, yet the Knife had chosen to ride with the girl himself. He was determined to make the best time that he could. \"Put the stench of clannish inbreeding behind me.\" Veys was inclined to agree with him.\n\nA storm thundering down from the north had stopped their journey two leagues short of the pass. At first the Knife had tried to ride with it, declaring that no clannish storm could slow a brother-in-the-watch, yet when a hellish gust of wind had ripped the saddlebags from his horse's rump, he'd had little choice but to eat his words and call a halt.\n\nCamp had been made in the deep rocky draw between two opposing ledges of slate. Veys supposed it was the best place to be found under the circumstances and had wasted no time staking out his own claim beneath the narrowest and least desirable ledge. He had assumed that no one would be willing to share space with him, yet Hood had found it amusing to force himself into the dark airless cavity at his back. \"As long as I'm behind him and he's not behind me, I reckon I'll be safe.\" Much laughter had followed Hood's declaration, and Veys had felt his face heat in the darkness. Thoughts of revenge had followed him to sleep.\n\nNow it was dawn, and a red and weary sun was rising in the east, and the sept that had found Hood so amusing the night before was stirring with the increase in light. Their leather cloaks were poor cover for a storm, and such lambskins that had been hastily purchased in Ille Glaive were wet and stinking. One sworn brother, a brawny giant with a slow eye, was melting a cake of elk lard in a tin cup. The smell nauseated Veys.\n\nMarafice Eye was awake. He had relieved himself some distance from the campground and had now returned to his place by the wool-and-alcohol fueled fire. He poked the fire with a stick for a while, managing to coax some real heat from the flames, before turning his attention to Asarhia March. The girl lay on the bedroll next to his, covered by sheepskins and cloaks. Something unpleasant happened to Marafice Eye's face as he beheld her, and Veys thought it likely that he was considering the men he'd lost by the Spill. The Knife was strange like that. My men, he called his brothers-in-the-watch. Last night when the wind had dragged the saddlebags from his warhorse, two red swords had clattered onto the slate. Veys knew what they were in an instant: Crosshead's and Malharic's swords. The Knife meant to carry them back to the forge, heat them in that great black furnace, and return their steel to the Watch. As if that could do Crosshead and Malharic any good.\n\nVeys snorted softly as he watched Asarhia March's face for signs of waking. The poppy blood the girl had been given last night in the Ganmiddich roundhouse was a strong agent of sleep. Veys had distilled it himself, turning liquid that was normally thinner than water into something that poured as slowly as cream. It was more potent than the Dog Lord knew, a fact that Veys congratulated himself on later when he found his saddlebags had been rifled and his supply of henbane seeds, so carefully concealed within the handle of his cane-and-leather horsewhip, gone.\n\nThe Dog Lord had thought to protect the girl on her journey home.\n\nVeys smiled, allowing icy drops of rain to tap against his teeth. The small quantity of poppy blood he had on him\u2014barely enough liquid to sauce a lamb chop\u2014was more than enough to render Asarhia March senseless all the way to the obsidian deserts of the Far South.\n\nThe smile on Veys' face shrank as he noticed Asarhia March's gloved hand fall free of the sheepskin. Did the fingers contract?\n\nMarafice Eye was oblivious of the movement. He was busy working on the girl's chest, whipping bodice strings through eyelets and pushing back the collar of her dress. His mouth was pulled tight like a sphincter muscle. The sworn brother heating the elk cake turned to watch.\n\nVeys reached down beneath his blankets, questing for the vial of poppy blood. Even as his physical self was bent on the task, he probed out toward Asarhia with his mind. If she was waking, he needed to know. Normally a girl her age and size could be expected to sleep until noon on the dose of poppy blood she'd been given. Yet the more Veys learned of the Surlord's almost-daughter, the more he realized there was little normal about her.\n\nCold air buffeted his thoughts as he pushed his mind against her skin. Quickly in and quickly out, he cautioned himself, fear rising within his spine like cold water. A gasp exploded from his lips as he entered Asarhia's body and ran with her blood. Her chest cavity was riddled with opposing forces. Hard strands of sorcery were coiled about her organs like snakes made of glass. Wards, Veys realized, subtle ones cast by a master. Pushing from the outside in, they exerted control over her liver, lungs, and heart.\n\nYet something was pushing the other way.\n\nVeys perceived something... a soft, malleable force, shining dully like the skin that formed over cooling magma.\n\nPure darkness.\n\nExternally, Veys did not move. Not one fiber on the goat's-hair blanket shivered as he withdrew his insubstance from the body of Asarhia March. Slowly he went, like a servant backing out of a throne room. As he slipped the last tendrils of self through the upper reaches of her skin, the force that pressed from the inside out raised a finger of darkness toward him.\n\nVeys did not recoil. Reverence and fear tightened his chest. Raw power, clean of emotion, filled him with the complete opposite of light. His mouth watered. The tendons supporting his scrotum ached with sweet pain. Here at last was something worthy of Sarga Veys.\n\nToo soon the connection was gone. Veys' neck strained forward, trying to hold on to the last filament of power for as long as he could. Yet even as he did so, he was aware of something cold dripping through his fingers. Rain, he thought, annoyed at such an earthly intrusion at that moment. He wanted the power back.\n\nIt was gone, though, the connection broken, and Veys had no choice but to return to his flesh. Pain tugged at his mind as he settled himself back into his cage of bones, and his gaze was drawn to his hand, where a streaky pink substance, part blood of the poppy and part blood of Sarga Veys, dribbled along his wrist. Spikes of glass were embedded in the meat of his palm. Veys hissed. The vial had broken!\n\nBreathless from his contact with darkness and irritated by the potential loss of such a crucial drug, Veys barely noticed what was happening at the center of the campground. More sworn brothers had gathered around Asarhia March and the Knife. One man was laughing in a hard self-conscious way, yet the others were uncharacteristically silent. Veys hardly cared. Turning his arm slowly, he let the pink emulsion roll around his wrists like honey around ajar. As long as it didn't drip into the snow or smear on his clothes or blanket, it could be saved. Once it had dried sufficiently he could scrape it off, store it like whore's rouge between two squares of waxed paper.\n\nVeys was content to wait. The revelation of darkness filled his thoughts. So much power...\n\nFor the taking.\n\nHood shifted at Veys' back, still fast asleep and snoring softly. Sarga Veys edged minutely away.\n\nThe darkness within Asarhia March explained many things: why Penthero Iss had been so desperate to find her, why he had sent the Protector General of the Rive Watch to bring her back, and why he had isolated the girl from the sharp eyes and nails of the Spire Vanis court. The girl was dangerous... and powerful in ways Veys could hardly comprehend. Whoever controlled her could have that power for himself.\n\nVeys turned his arm, allowing the last pink droplet to run flat, as he recalled the last time he and his master had spoken. The force with which Iss had taken control of his body had left Veys feeling dirty. Raped. The memory of the domination made the sweet ache in Veys' groin turn to something bitter and wanting. He glanced in the direction of Asarhia March. Iss already had one special access to power. Why should he have two?\n\n\"Strip her.\"\n\nVeys' heart chilled as he heard Marafice Eye's spoken command. He looked up but could no longer see Asarhia March due to the crowd of sworn brothers that surrounded her. Marafice Eye stood in the center of the black-and-red coven, his face all shadows and hard lines.\n\n\"She killed our brothers-in-the-watch,\" he murmured. \"Iss wants her alive, and that's well and good, but I know one way to destroy a life without taking it.\"\n\nA taut murmur of agreement united the sept. Two brothers pushed toward the girl, cheeks sucked against their teeth, eyes glinting with wind tears, hands already forming the shapes needed to hold her down.\n\n\"No!\" Veys screamed, scrambling to his feet. He had a vision of Asarhia March waking and blasting them all to hell. The wards that shored up her body were nothing compared to that... thing that lived within her. If Marafice Eye tried to harm her in any way, there was no telling what she would do. \"Stop! She'll kill us all.\"\n\nMarafice Eye and his sept turned to look at him. For one moment Veys saw himself through their eyes: a narrow-shouldered figure dressed in cleric's white, with fine eyes and fine hands, clutching a blanket to his chest like a baby. Veys stood tall, let the goat blanket drop to the ground.\n\nThe Knife said something to his men. All laughed quickly. The two sworn brothers who were working on the girl straightened their bent backs. The Knife touched both men on their shoulders in turn, encouraging them to carry on. Veys caught a fleeting glimpse of the girl's body, saw pale skin peeking through wool. Raindrops fell upon her closed eyelids, gray and frothy like spit.\n\nMarafice Eye said, \"This does not concern you, Halfman. You are not one of us. If the manner of such things offends you, turn your back.\"\n\nBlood colored Veys' cheeks. \"Fool! Haven't you taken notice of anything I have said? The girl is dangerous. Sorcery\u2014\"\n\n\"Hood.\"\n\nOne word spoken by the Knife was enough to waken the eight-fingered man. Veys heard footsteps crunch wet snow. He smelled Hood's ripe breath at his back.\n\n\"Take him in hand. Mind he sees nothing that his mam wouldn't be glad to show him.\"\n\nHood slapped Veys' shoulder blade with something akin to affection. \"Looks like you and me will be sitting out the storm, Halfman.\" Then, to Marafice Eye, \"Save me a portion of the girl.\"\n\nThe Knife nodded. A command was spoken, and the sept turned back to their business. Marafice Eye stood and watched as Hood led Veys back to the overhang.\n\n\"The drugs have worn off,\" Veys cried, making a feeble attempt to break away from Hood's three-fingered grip. \"She'll kill us all!\"\n\n\"Hush him.\" Marafice Eye peeled off his black leather gloves as he spoke.\n\nHood punched Veys in the spine. \"You heard the Knife, Halfman. No whining.\"\n\nVeys tucked himself back into the space where he had slept. Pain from Hood's blow made his eyes water, yet pride kept him from crying out. Hood stood directly in front of him, his fleshy drinking-man's body blocking the view.\n\nThe wind carried the metallic snap of a belt buckle. Nervous laughter followed, then silence. Veys felt the hairs on his arm rise one by one. Through the space between Hood's legs, he watched as Marafice Eye walked a short distance from the group, found himself a section of slate to lean against, then settled down to watch the show. Of course, Veys thought, the Knife is doing this just for his men. He won't take part himself. Everyone knows he prefers to keep his own whoring private. Veys did not know why.\n\nAll thoughts except those concerned with self-protection left Sarga Veys as the first man fell upon the girl. The wind pattern changed. Gusts began swirling round and round in the space between the ledges... and then suddenly there was no wind at all.\n\nRaif!\n\nVeys heard the girl's cry plainly, but not in the way a man normally heard sound. The cry passed through his skin, not his eardrums, making his flesh pucker and turn cold. Hood shifted position, and Veys saw the sept standing tense, eyes focused hard upon the girl. No man among them had heard her cry.\n\nStop! Veys wanted to shout. Can't you see what is happening? Can't you feel it?\n\nThe stench of metal filled the air. Frost glittered on the surrounding slopes like a thousand winking eyes as the first brother fell upon the girl. Veys felt the first push of her power; it was nothing, a mere nudge as she struggled to wake. Yet it was enough to turn the breath in his lungs to ice.\n\nQuietly, discreetly, he began work upon a drawing of his own. He had caught a glimpse of the darkness that was inside her, and although it fascinated and attracted him, he knew he would be a fool not to fear it. Slowly, over the course of many seconds, he drew small shavings of power to him. He could not stand against her, that much was clear, so he concentrated upon the only thing that mattered: Saving Sarga Veys' neck.\n\nHe knew the instant she became fully awake. A quarter second of pure quiet followed as she opened her eyes and gazed into the face of the man who knelt above her.\n\nTerror threatened to crush Veys then. Sorcery had been his sole advantage for as long as he could remember, the one thing he held over every man, woman, and child he had ever met. Even Penthero Iss, magic user and Surlord of Spire Vanis, could not better Sarga Veys when it came to drawing power. It was the source of his arrogance and his pride. No matter what humiliations Marafice Eye and his like heaped upon him, Veys could always console himself with the thought that when the time came for out-and-out conflict, the advantage would be his. A man could not fight when his corneas were snapped from his eyes like badges from his chest. He could not focus his mind on winning when the air froze in his lungs like a ghost made of ice.\n\nNow, though, sensing the terrible pull that Asarhia March created, the way the wind, the air, even the light itself, seemed to bend toward her person, Veys knew that his one advantage was gone.\n\nThere was no fighting the darkness inside her.\n\nHe thought of calling out one last time, warning the sept to take cover or run, but he was quick to remember their spiteful laughter, and in the end he saved his strength for himself.\n\n\"Let me go!\" the girl cried, her voice high and panicky.\n\nVeys saw pale fists pounding the sworn brother's chest, heard fabric rip, then a man's voice, low and distracted, murmur, \"Shut up, bitch.\"\n\nIt was the last sound the man ever made. Veys had no words for what happened next. Panic and terror reduced him to a cowering child. Light and air split, tearing open the fabric of the world. Darkness of an alien kind bled through the rents, smelling sweet and cold and wholly corrupt, rippling like black oil. A mushrooming band of air blasted into the sept, sending bodies crashing into walls of slate.\n\nHorses squealed and thrashed, bucking their hindquarters and throwing their heads from side to side. Men screamed and screamed... and then fell silent. A cloud of churned snow rose high into the sky, where the storm dogs tore it to shreds.\n\nVeys thought he was prepared, but he wasn't. Hood's body slammed into his, cracking his ribs like dry sticks. All breath left him, and the clever little drawing he had devised to save himself came out half-formed, ill timed, and without force. It was barely enough to shield his brain and his heart. His mouth and nose filled with rushing snow. He tried to keep his eyes open to see what would enter through the rents the girl's power had torn open, but ice crystals scoured his violet retinas, and in the end his eyelids were forced shut.\n\nThe force of the blast wedged him into the rear of the overhang, Hood's body pinning him in place. Fear, so complete it was like a wholly new emotion, robbed all moisture from his throat.\n\nThis was what he wanted. This.\n\nHis eardrums popped as air that had been moving outward began to contract. A breeze exactly the same temperature as body heat ruffled his hair, then his clothes, then the hair and clothes of Hood.\n\nShe's pulling it back.\n\nSomething howled, high and terrible, almost beyond hearing. Veys knew then that the creature issuing it came not from this world. No animal or beast he had ever heard of made a sound that could stop a man's heart.\n\nThen everything ceased.\n\nIn the silence that followed Veys thought he heard something. A sound like the hiss of air escaping from a punctured water bladder. Probably the wind blowing through distant rocks. The snow that had been churned up in a great white cloud fell again, gently, floating to earth as if for the first time. Wind picked up, pushing here and there, unsure of which way to blow. Veys stole a breath. His rib cage was on fire, but he dared not move to relieve the pain. Hood's thigh was crushing his foot, and ice crystals were working their way down his throat. Still he did nothing but open his eyes.\n\nThrough a curtain of twice fallen snow, he saw the girl rise to her feet. Her dress was torn to the waist, and her breasts were bare. Her hair blew around her face, rippling as if each strand moved through water, not air. Gray eyes took in the cleared ground surrounding her, then the flopping, leaking bodies of the sept. Her lips came together. Her right hand began to shake, but she quickly gave it purpose, using it to pull at the tattered shreds of her bodice. Veys noticed the poppy blood bruises under her eyes as she turned to look his way.\n\nIf she saw him in the shadows of the overhang, she did not show it. She took a few steps his way, but only to reach for the goat's-hair blanket that he had dropped earlier. Hands shaking no longer, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and turned her back on Veys.\n\nOn the far side of the campground someone groaned.\n\nAsarhia March stiffened. Veys thought she might turn and heed the cry, but she didn't, simply continued walking away from the campground in the direction of the hobbled horses.\n\nSarga Veys waited as quietly and silently as he knew how. The memory of the darkness he had seen eclipsed the pain of his chest and foot. It had called to him as surely as if it had spoken his name out loud.\n\nA small movement against his foot made him realize that Hood was still alive. Hearing the muffled sound of a horse's hooves heading north, Veys pulled his foot free. \"Hood?\" he hissed. \"Hood?\"\n\nHood gurgled.\n\nIt took Veys several minutes to locate the man's knife. The tip of a broken rib pressing against his lungs made Veys wary of quick movements. To add to his difficulties, Hood had fallen awkwardly on his side, and his body had to be levered before Veys could gain access to his equipment belt and knife. Hood's tunic had ridden up, and his bare belly was in contact with icy ground. Already the rolls of flesh hanging from his gut had taken on the yellowy gray stiffness of frozen flesh.\n\nVeys found nothing to be concerned with as he raised the knife to Hood's throat.\n\nFrostbite was not a problem for a corpse.\nFORTY-THREE\n\nMeetings\n\nGULL MOLER, OWNER AND sole proprietor of Drover Jack's tavern, was cleaning up the mess from last night's fight. He had a good broom in his hands, but even the stiff shire horse bristles weren't enough to scrub the dried-on vomit off the floor. Gull shook his head in exasperation. Fistfights were bad enough. But why was there always some damn fool who kicked someone else in the knackers? Guaranteed to make a man lose his supper, was a blow to the knacks. Right disrespectful to the owner of the establishment. Right disrespectful when that owner had to get down on his hands and knees and scrape rubbery, partially digested oatmeal off the floor.\n\nIt was all Desmi's fault, of course. It usually was. If that daughter of his had one talent in life it was surely for starting fights. She was just too comely for her own good. Who would have guessed that she would have turned out to be a head turner, especially with her dear departed mother looking the way she did? Not that Pegratty Moler hadn't been a good woman and an excellent wife. Heavens, no! She just wasn't known for her beauty, that was all.\n\nFeeling a small twinge of guilt, Gull put down the broom and headed for the stove. He needed a bucket of warm water for the floor and a dram or two of malt for his soul.\n\nDrover Jack's was a one-room tavern. Kitchen, beer cellar, dining tables, gaming tables, minstrel's stoop, and great copper bath were all crammed into an area the size of a modest vegetable garden. It had occurred to Gull that he could in all honesty remove both the stoop and the bath and suffer no ill effects to his trade. Thirty leagues northeast of Ille Glaive as he was, in the shadow of the Bitter Hills, deep in the heart of ewe country, Drover Jack's received few musicians stopping by to play for their supper. And those who did never showed an interest in performing from the stoop. Preferred to sit close to the stove, they did, or\u2014even worse\u2014walk among the customers while they were playing! Still, even in the face of this traitorous disinterest Gull couldn't bring himself to part with the stoop. His was the only tavern in the Three Villages that had one.\n\nSame with the bath. Drover Jack's was strictly a tavern; it sold food, drink, and warmth. It did not sell beds for the night. Heavens, no! That was one trade Gull Moler did not want. Travelers. They were trouble, paid in foreign coin, spoke with accents Gull's one good ear had trouble deciphering, and they always started fights. True, Three Village locals had been starting enough of their own ever since Desmi came into bloom, but that was beside the point. Locals were locals; they fought in ways Gull knew and understood. They never damaged the stove, the beer taps, or the proprietor. Travelers damaged everything in sight.\n\nWhich brought Gull to the copper bath. No one except Radrow Peel had used it in the fifteen years it had been sitting in the far corner below the hung meat and drying herbs. And even then he hadn't bathed in it himself; he'd used it to thaw out a sheep. Even so, a copper bath was a copper bath, and Gull was inclined to keep it. Not only did it glow like a freshly struck penny, casting a warm, reflective light upon a corner that had once been dark, but it gave him boasting rights as well.\n\nDrover Jack's could warm-bathe a frostbitten limb, coldbathe a fever, and sulfur-bathe anyone with sheep ticks, scrofula, or the ghones. Overcome with feelings of affection and pride, Gull crossed to the bath and patted its curled rim. His sharp proprietor's eyes picked out telltale blue flecks around the lip. Gull Moler's soft well-fed belly jiggled in consternation.\n\nTarnish!\n\nDesmi had sworn she had polished it last week, yet Gull Moler knew a month's worth of neglect when he saw it. That girl was turning out to be nothing but trouble. The fights among her suitors he could stand, the girlish tantrums he could stand, but sloppy care of Drover Jack's furnishings and fittings was where he, as owner-proprietor, drew the line. The girl needed to be talked to in the most serious terms. Her own good looks had turned her head!\n\n\"Desmi!\" he called, raising his head toward the oak-and-plaster ceiling. \"Come down here, daughter!\"\n\nNo response. And it was already noon! Gull Moler looked from the ceiling to the bath. He could climb the steps and bring her down, but while he was doing that the tavern would not get opened, and the bath would not get scrubbed, and those hateful blue flecks would remain.\n\nFor Gull Moler it was an easy choice, From the back of his prized bloodwood serving counter, he took his basket of cloths, soft and coarse, fuller's earth, pine wax, powdered pumice, white vinegar, and lye. He loved and honored his daughter, but he treasured his bath.\n\nHe did not hear the woman enter. He was kneeling on the dark oak-plank floor, his attention given wholly to the task of removing the rust from the bath, when a voice said:\n\n\"Milk steeped in phosphorus would do the job better, and a few drops of tung oil rubbed into the surface when you're done will stop the blue scale from coming back.\"\n\nGull Moler turned his head and looked into the face of a short, no, average-size, woman of an age he guessed to be about thirty. His first reaction was one of disappointment. From the golden loveliness of her voice he had expected someone extraordinary. Yet the woman was plain of hair and face and clad in a shapeless dress of dove gray.\n\n\"I'm sorry if I distracted you,\" she said. \"The door was open, so I let myself in.\"\n\nGull Moler looked at the door. Surely he hadn't pulled the latches yet?\n\n\"I thought of knocking, but then I said to myself, What if a man, an owner-proprietor, is at work inside here? What right have I to pull him from his tasks?\"\n\nGull Moler put down his soft cloth and smoothed his collar, all thoughts of latches forgotten. He stood upright. \"Such consideration does you credit, miss.\"\n\nThe woman, whose hair he had first thought dark and graying but now saw was a delicate shade of ash brown, nodded in a polite way. \"Thank you, sir. And it's not miss, by the way, it's madam. I'm a widow.\"\n\n\"Oh. I am sorry to hear that, madam. Can I offer you a dram of malt?\"\n\n\"I never drink.\"\n\nGull Moler began to frown. Experience told him never to trust abstainers.\n\n\"Anything stronger than fortified wine.\"\n\nGull's frown turned itself into a nod of approval. Such moderation was fitting in a widow woman.\n\nWhen he returned from the counter bearing two cups of strong red wine on a limewood tray, he was greeted by the sight of the woman crouched on her hands and knees, polishing the copper bath to a glorious sheen.\n\n\"I hope you don't mind,\" she said, continuing to buff the metal with a wrist action so smooth and firm that watching her, Gull felt a guilty blush of sexual excitement. \"But it seems to me that a busy and important owner-proprietor such as yourself must have plenty more pressing things to do than spend his time scrubbing blue scale from a copper bath.\"\n\n\"My daughter normally tends the polishing, but\u2014\"\n\n\"She's reached the age when she'd rather tend herself than the tavern.\"\n\nGull sighed. \"Exactly.\"\n\nThe woman's eyes darkened. Gull could not tell what color they were, just that they darkened. \"What you need is someone to work for you a few days a week. Take the strain off you and your daughter. A young girl can hardly be blamed for acting like a young girl, can she? And an owner-proprietor such as yourself should be concentrating on the higher points of his business.\"\n\nGull nodded as she spoke. He wasn't sure that a tavern like Drover Jack's had any higher points of business, but that didn't stop him from agreeing with her all the same.\n\n\"And a little help at the tables at night would save both your and your daughter's feet.\"\n\nSuddenly catching the real meaning of the conversation, Gull laid the tray down on the nearest table. For some reason he felt as if he'd been duped. \"I couldn't take you on, madam. It's just been me and my daughter since my wife died. I couldn't afford to pay another set of hands. The business doesn't warrant it.\"\n\nThe woman dipped her head in disappointment. \"I've heard such good things about Drover Jack's. And now that I've come here and seen for myself this beautiful copper bath and the fine minstrel's stoop...\" Abruptly the woman laid down the polishing cloth and stood. \"Well, I'd best be on my way.\"\n\nGull looked from the woman to the copper bath. The metal shone more brightly than the day Rees Tanlow had brought it on his cart from Ille Glaive. Even the reliefwork around the hand rings had been scraped clean of all the gummy remainders of previous waxes and polishes. Gullglanced at the ceiling. Desmi was becoming a problem\u2014just look at last night: Burdale Ruff had kicked Clyve Wheat in the knackers because he'd thought Clyve was looking at Desmi the wrong way.\n\nGull's glance came to rest upon the woman once more. She was plain enough to inspire no fights, yet not so ugly as to send customers away. And she did look so very honest and hardworking. \"I'll pay you five coppers a week.\" It was a pitifully small amount, so small that Gull felt his cheeks color as he said it.\n\n\"Done.\" The woman, who he had first thought was of short or medium height, suddenly looked tall. \"I'll get to work on those tabletops; whoever cleaned them last used too much wax. Then I'll pin on my apron, ready to serve the midday trade. Your customers come from all over the Three Village area, don't they?\"\n\nGull nodded. \"Yes, madam.\"\n\n\"Good.\" The woman smiled, displaying teeth devoid of saliva. \"It wouldn't be fitting for you to call me madam anymore. I'm Maggy. Maggy Sea.\"\n\nASH RODE NORTH, THEN northwest. When she came to the banks of the Wolf River, she forced the horse into the black icy water and made him swim it. The horse was a shaggy gelding with thick legs and ears like a mule, and he had no love of moving water. Ash hardly cared. If she'd had a crop, she would have whipped him. She could not allow herself to stop and think. Stop and she might turn and ride back to the pass and take a count of the men she had killed. Think and she might slide her feet from the stirrups, push herself out of the saddle, and let the river's dark currents take her to hell.\n\nAs it was, horse and rider were buoyed by the thick black water, carried a league downstream by its force. Ash let her hand trail upon the surface as the gelding swam beneath her, watching grease and light ripple along her fingers like strange gloves. Her dress floated around her, growing ever and ever darker as it soaked up the substance of the river. Strangely, she wasn't cold. Perhaps she should be... but then she should be feeling a lot of things, yet she was feeling nothing at all.\n\nWhen she reached the north bank, Ash dismounted and took the wet saddle from the horse. The gelding shook itself, thrashing its mane against its neck and kicking its hind legs into the air. Ash looked at the sky. The storm had long passed, and a late day sun sent shadows stretching for leagues. Even the wind had stilled itself, and all was quiet except for the sound of rotten ice cracking on distant ponds.\n\nThe terrain north of the river was hard. Upstream, Ash saw oaks and green meadows, apple groves and dark tilled earth. Downstream, where she was headed, lay a landscape of conifers and trap rock, spawning ponds and spider moss. On the northwest horizon, Ash saw the red and green needle foliage of resin pines, trees that held on to their seeds for a lifetime, waiting until forest fire or death to bear their young. On the southwest horizon, if she looked back, she could see the dark green finger of the Ganmiddich Tower. Night-dark smoke, the kind that was released from burning pitch and petrified wood, poured from the topmost chamber.\n\nBlackhail. Ash had known that from the moment she had first turned the mule-eared horse north and ridden from the camp. There were few places from which the tower could not be seen and nowhere to hide from the smoke. The red fire of Bludd had been snuffed, and now a smokestack smoldered in its place. No flames burned black, so the Hailsmen had chosen to send their message in smoke instead.\n\nAsh wasn't sure what the taking of Ganmiddich would mean to Raif. Almost it didn't concern her. Raif had already left, that she knew, and he was somewhere west waiting to meet her. She did not question where the knowledge came from. She was a Reach. Raif had sworn to see her safely to the Cavern of Black Ice, and they were bound by that promise and the touch they had shared outside Vaingate.\n\nShe remembered calling his name while... while hands were touching her and everything was foggy and she couldn't think, and her arms had been so hard to move, like lead, and she'd heard someone say, If she's waking, it'll make better sport. Ash stiffened. She thought she had called Raif's name out loud, but somehow her lips wouldn't open and her tongue wouldn't move, and the cry had sounded inside instead. Then she'd opened her eyes and seen the face of the man kneeling above her, his breath coming all ragged and short, his eyes... his eyes...\n\nAsh swallowed. She wouldn't think about that now. Wouldn't. She just wished she knew what she had done.\n\nHolding the dripping saddle against her side, she led the horse downstream. The light faded slowly, over hours, and the first stars came out even before the sun had fully set. The moon shone behind her, pale and not quite full. The land surrounding the river became flatter the farther west she traveled, and from time to time she spied the square outlines of farm buildings amid the trees and freshly stamped hoof-prints in the snow. Ash found herself little concerned about the possibility of being spotted by outlying clansmen or drovers. She didn't know if it was weariness or a sense of her own power that made her unafraid. Who could harm her now? Who dared?\n\nAsh stiffened her back as she walked. They would be able to track her now, magic users, Sarga Veys, anyone else her foster father sent to fetch her. Yet next time when they came they would be wary, prepared. Suddenly she wished very much that she had demanded more answers from Heritas Cant. She knew nothing about her own power, couldn't even guess what she had done. Killed men, said a small voice inside her. Killed them with only a thought.\n\nAnd that might be the least of my sins. No. Ash stopped herself dead. She hadn't reached. It wasn't possible. She had drawn power but pulled it back. Nodding firmly, she continued downstream.\n\nRaif saw her before she saw him. Slowly, over the course of an hour, she had worked her way around a damned lake that bulged from the river like something about to burst. Now, as she returned to the main body of water, she became aware that she was drawing close to him. Gooseflesh puckered along her arms, and for the first time since she'd left the camp at dawn she felt the cold. Her stomach ached with anticipation. As she scanned the water's edge, hoping to catch sight of him in the reflected surface light, she heard her name spoken out loud. Turning her head in the direction of the sound, she saw a dark silhouette emerge from a stand of resin pines fifty paces ahead of her to the north. For an instant she was afraid. The figure was tall, distorted, the darkest object in sight. She pulled back minutely, drawing closer to the horse for reassurance.\n\nThe figure raised his hands from his side. \"Ash. It's me. Raif.\"\n\nFear fled as she saw his face. Her chest tightened. The saddle slid from her grip, hitting the ground with a soft crunch. What have they done to him? All the quiet strength that she had filled herself with during the ride evaporated, and a wave of exhaustion made her legs shake like straw as she ran through the snow to reach him.\n\nRaif was silent as he pressed her against his chest. He smelled like ice. Hard nubs of scarred flesh on his neck and hands scraped her cheeks, and tiny flecks of desiccated blood sifted from his hair to hers. His body was so cold. Ash had to stop herself from shivering.\n\nHe pulled away first, keeping both hands on her shoulders while he studied her. Ash saw then the leanness of his face and chest, the lack of spare fat or tissue on his body. He looked older, but something more than older as well. The raven lore at his throat glinted blue black in the moonlight... it was the only thing on him that looked new made.\n\nDark eyes searched her face. After a long moment he said, \"Let's find some shelter.\"\n\nHis voice was weary but gentle. Ash wondered what had happened at the Inch yet dared not ask.\n\nHe went back for the horse and the saddle. Watching him, seeing how thin he was, how he moved like a wraith by the water's edge, Ash felt the slow burn of anger in her chest. She could kill the men who had done this to him, gladly and without regret.\n\nWhen he fell in by her side, she offered him the blanket that covered her shoulders, yet he shook his head. In silence he led her north from the river. The moon rose higher as they climbed the bank, forming pools of blue light upon the snow.\n\n\"Do you know the area around here?\" she asked after a while.\n\nRaif shook his head. \"Ganmiddich is a border clan, sworn to Dhoone. Blackhail has little use for it.\"\n\nAsh thought back to the black smoke pouring from the tower. \"Until now?\"\n\n\"Until now.\"\n\nIt was the end of the conversation. Raif led them across a field of eroded slate, lately grown over by tufts of urinecolored bladdergrass and dog lichen. Snow cover was light, as the wind dried the top layers to powder and then blew them south to the Bitter Hills. Ice smoke boiled off the fields, swirling around the horses' cannons as they climbed to the high ground above the river. When they reached the top of the bluff, Ash spotted a farmhouse and half a dozen farm buildings scattered in the valley below. The farm's walls had been cut from the same green riverstone as the Ganmiddich roundhouse, and its roof was blue gray slate. Raif guided the horse toward it, crossing a series of tarred fences erected to contain sheep.\n\n\"Won't someone be living here?\" Ash whispered.\n\n\"No. Blackhail would have cleared it first, before they took the roundhouse.\"\n\n\"Why? What threat is a farmer to an invading force?\"\n\n\"When one clan takes another, it takes it wholly.\"\n\n\"What about the people who lived here, the clansfolk?\"\n\nRaif shrugged. \"Dead. Captured. Fled to Bannen or Croser.\"\n\n\"What becomes of their livestock?\"\n\n\"It's lost either way. If a farmer is killed or captured, his animals are taken. If he's lucky enough to escape, then most of those animals will go in Refuge Purse to the clan who takes him in.\"\n\nAsh frowned. \"I thought Croser was a sister clan to Ganmiddich? Wouldn't they take Ganmiddich clansmen in out of a sense of honor?\"\n\nRaif's eyes darkened at the word honor. \"It's war. All clans must do what they must do.\"\n\nThe words reminded Ash that she and Raif came from different worlds. He was a clansman, grown in the windstripped spaces of the clanholds, brought up to fear nine gods who lived in stone and gloried in war. Ash frowned. Her god lived in thin air and spoke of peace\u2014not that anyone in the Mountain Cities ever heard him. She glanced at Raif. His gods meant something to him. Hers meant almost nothing at all. She thought for a moment, then said, \"If you need to stay and fight for your clan, I will not stop you.\"\n\n\"I have no clan.\"\n\nAsh shivered at the tone of his voice. She waited, but he said no more.\n\nThe farm outbuildings consisted of a series of stone sheds and paddocks connected by walled sheep runs sunk partly underground. The main building was missing its door, and many of the shutters had been left to bang loose in the wind. As they approached the entrance, Raif stopped to pry a broken roof tile from the frozen mud. Ash tried not to look at the tattered and bloody skin on his hands, the nail turned black, the white edges of bone poking through knuckles that looked half-skinned. Hefting the slate against his chest, he bade her wait outside while he checked the building for armed men.\n\nAs the minutes passed Ash felt herself growing colder. The night was dark now, thin in substance like cold, dry nights always were. Frozen weeds crunched beneath her boots as she stamped her feet.\n\nSo cold tonight, so cold Warm us, mistressss, pretty mistressss. Reach for us. We're close now. We smell you, smell of warmth and blood and light...\n\n\"Ash! Ash!\"\n\nRough hands shook her awake. She was no longer standing by the mule-eared horse, but in the timber-framed doorway of the farmhouse. Raif stood before her, his lips tight as stretched wire, his arms supporting her weight.\n\n\"How long?\"\n\n\"Seconds.\"\n\nAsh looked away. She felt as sick as if she'd taken a blow to the head. Heritas Cant's wards were gone. Whatever she'd done at the campground had blasted them clean away. Nothing was standing between her and the Blind.\n\n\"Let's go inside.\" Raif's voice was quiet, his hand on her arm firm. \"There's no one here. We'll be safe tonight.\"\n\nAsh let herself be guided into the dark, strong-smelling interior of the farmhouse. Raif made her sit as he broke down a chair with his booted feet then tore a mangy sheepskin rug into strips to light a fire. The force of his actions made her flinch. She watched as he searched the black mouth of the hearth, looking for something to strike for sparks. He found an old iron pot with a rough base and built a mound of wool tufts and fabric scraps around it, then struck the base hard with a wedge of slate.\n\nIt took a lot of coaxing and blowing to turn the quick flashes of light into flames. Ash concentrated on Raif's actions, afraid that if she let her mind wander in the darkness, the voices would take her to a place she did not want to go. The muscles in her arms ached as she kept them pressed tightly against her sides.\n\nWhen the fire finally took and yellow-and-white flames spilled over the broken chair spindles, releasing smoke that smelled of pines, Raif went outside to search for food. Ash did not move for a long time after he'd gone. She feared to step away from the flames. The farmhouse kitchen was a broken shell: charred timbers here, cracked masonry there. Shadows danced on walls black with soot. Ash shivered. She missed Angus... and Snowshoe and Moose. Where were they now? Did the Dog Lord still hold them, or had Blackhail claimed them for its own?\n\nShe closed her eyes for a moment, then set herself to working on her dress. The bodice was ripped and dirty, the hem stiff with ice. She tugged on the torn bits of fabric, tying knots and unraveling threads from the blanket to bind the bodice closed. She didn't want to have to look at her breasts for a very long time... not until the bruises had healed. The skirt was easier to deal with; she simply stripped it off and beat it against the wall.\n\nRaif returned as she was feeding the fire with the last scraps of wood. He carried with him a pan packed with powdered snow, a long-leafed chicory plant with its roots still attached, and an animal carcass that was warm but not bleeding. The animal was the size of a small dog, with sharp, opaque claws, a fox's snout, and rich black-and-gold fur. At first Ash couldn't work out how Raif had killed it, as she knew he had no weapon. Then she saw the fist-size clot of blood directly above the creature's heart. Raif's eyes met hers. Ash tried to hold his gaze, but in the end she looked away.\n\nEven without a bow he can do it, she thought. Even with a jagged chunk of slate.\n\nRaif made short work of skinning and dressing the carcass. He told her the creature was called a fisher and its pelt was highly valued by Dhoonesmen, \"for the Dhoone Kings wore cloaks of fine-spun wool, dyed as blue as thistles, with collars of fisher fur.\" Ash liked listening to Raif speak and was infinitely glad he didn't ask for her help in preparing the carcass for roasting. Somehow, with only a thin piece of slate, he managed to open and drain the thing, remove the organ tree, and quarter the bones. The blood he saved for gravy.\n\nWhile the meat was browning on the tin platter, he stripped leaves from the chicory plant and rolled them in his fists until they were broken and leaking sap. That done, he emptied the leaves into the pot of melting snow and stirred the contents until the liquid turned green. After a few minutes he emptied the cooked blood and meat juices into the pot. The fat sizzled and spat as it hit the water, belching out steam that smelled of roasted meat and bitter licorice.\n\nAsh's mouth began to water. \"You're used to cooking, aren't you.\"\n\nRaif shrugged. \"Camping. Cleaning kills. In the clanholds, before a boy takes his first yearman's oath, he's pretty much at the mercy of any sworn clansman. Clansmen hunt, bring the kills to camp, then leave the dressing and roasting to those without oaths. It's the way it's always been. Men who have sworn to die for their clan deserve respect.\"\n\nAsh would have liked to ask Raif if he had spoken a yearman's oath, yet something about his movements as he spoke warned her away from the subject. Instead she said, \"Do you know what's happened to Angus?\"\n\nRaif stiffened. A moment passed before his words came. \"He may have been captured by Blackhail; I can't know for sure. Even if Bludd still holds him, he should be safe. He's more valuable alive than dead.\"\n\nAsh wanted to believe him. \"What do we do now?\"\n\n\"We head west at first light.\"\n\n\"But we can't leave tomorrow,\" Ash cried. \"What about Angus? And you. You're in no state to travel. Look at your hands, your face...\"\n\nRaif started shaking his head before Ash had finished speaking. \"There's no time to wet-nurse wounds or look for Angus. Cant's wardings are gone. The creatures in the Blind have already begun calling you, and if Cant is to be believed, then that's not the worst of your troubles. He said you would die, remember? He said that it costs you to fight them. They've already taken you once today. What if they take you tonight or the next night or the night after that? How long will it be before I can't pull you back?\"\n\nAsh could find no words to fight with. He was right, yet she didn't want him to be. She wanted to wait, at least a day, just one day, to sit and think and put the horror of the campground behind her. Unconsciously she ran a hand down the front of her dress. \"What about clothing? Supplies? We've got a horse, but precious little else.\"\n\nRaif gestured toward the fisher pelt hanging high above the fire, the raw face of its flesh side facing the flames. \"It should be dry enough to use tomorrow. It'll make a good pair of mitts or a collar once I've scraped the fat. Come first light I'll look around, see what I can find. There's bound to be something here we can use.\"\n\n\"And food?\"\n\nRaif showed a cold smile. \"I should be able to see to that.\"\n\nAsh made her face show no reaction. For a while the only sound was the snort of burning wood as it released small pockets of moisture to the flames. Raif speared the roasting heart with a stick, turned it so the side with all the veins showed.\n\n\"What happened today at dawn?\"\n\nAsh looked up. \"Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"I felt something, after I left the tower. It was like the day my father died... only different. The river swelled and broke its shore ice, and I smelled metal, like when steel's taken hot from a furnace.\"\n\n\"You knew it was me?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Raif's eyes rose to meet hers. \"If anyone hurt you, I will kill them.\"\n\nA chill took her. Anyone else, and those words would have meant nothing; but coming from Raif Sevrance they sounded like absolute truth. She thought carefully before speaking. \"I think I was drugged. I don't remember leaving the roundhouse. I remember feeling cold and a bit sick, and all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep. And then I had all these dreams... and they all got mixed up. And then there were hands on me... and I thought it was part of the dream. Only it wasn't.\" Ash found some small piece of gravel on the floor to look at. \"Then I panicked. There were all these men around me, and I just wanted them to go away... and got angrier and angrier...\" She shook her head at the piece of gravel.\n\n\"What happened then?\"\n\n\"Do you really need to know that? Do you really need to know what I saw?\"\n\n\"I need to know if you reached.\"\n\nAsh swallowed. Suddenly the scent of roasting meat was enough to make her sick. When she spoke her voice was quiet. \"I felt Cant's wardings snap. And at that point, that one point, I didn't care. I wanted those men gone. I wished them dead. I wasn't thinking about the Blind. I don't know if I reached or if I didn't; it happened so fast and my mind was on just one thing.\" She paused, taking a quick moment to glance at Raif's face. \"Then I felt something spill out with the power. I heard a noise, high, like the sound of a knife drawn over glass. Something tore open... the air... I don't know what. There were things waiting on the other side, Raif. Terrible things. They were men, but not men, with eyes that burned black and red and bodies that were all shadow. I saw them. I knew what they were.\" She shivered. \"And they do not fear me.\"\n\nFat hissed as it dripped onto the flames, giving off fine dark smoke. Raif moved from his place near the fire, and a moment later Ash felt a warm arm wrap around her shoulders and a second encircle her waist. She heard Raif murmur, \"Stone Gods help us,\" and even though the clannish gods weren't her gods, she repeated the words to herself.\n\nQuickly, before she lost nerve, she told him the last of it, how she'd panicked and pulled back, how the dark fire in the creatures' eyes had dimmed, and how they'd screamed and screamed as she'd sent them back to whatever hell they'd come from.\n\nAs she spoke, she felt the hairs on Raif's neck lift away from his skin. She counted the seconds until he pulled away from her. She thought he would turn his back, cross to the fire, and busy himself with the cooked meat there. She did not expect him to stay and meet her eyes. But he did.\n\nIncredibly, she saw he was smiling. The sort of gentle, crazy smile that came from shared troubles, from bad news heaped upon more bad news, and the unasked question, What next? His eyes were dark, but warm, too. And the fear was almost hidden. He took her hands in his, wrapping them carefully in his fists until he had covered all her flesh.\n\n\"Are you afraid of me yet?\" she asked him.\n\n\"No. But I'm getting close.\"\n\nTheir laughter was on the edge of desperation, yet no less for it. When it was done, Raif released Ash's hands and stood. \"You're not alone in this, Ash March. Know that. We will make it to the Cavern of Black Ice, and we will bring an end to this nightmare. I swear that on the faces of nine gods.\"\n\nAsh nodded. She watched as he made his way to the fire, took the stock of snowmelt, meat juices, and chicory from the flames, and set it to cool on the floor. Next he moved the tin platter containing the roasted fisher carcass and its edible organs from the heat and began to section it as best he could with his sharp piece of slate. For the first time Ash noticed the silver-capped tine at his waist. It was larger than the one he normally wore, the horn darker, the tip sword bashed and peeling. She had been present when Cluff Drybannock had torn Raif's tine from his belt, yet now another hung in its place.\n\nIt meant something, yet Ash knew it wasn't the time to ask questions.\n\nIt was time to eat, then sleep.\nFORTY-FOUR\n\nSomething Lost\n\nEFFIE SEVRANCE HAD MISPLACED HER LORE.\n\nShe'd looked everywhere for it, all her secret places like the little dog cote, the space under the stairs in the great hall, and even in the strange-smelling wet cell where Longhead grew mushrooms and mold. She was certain that she'd had it yesterday when she awoke, as she clearly remembered pulling it from her neck and dropping the little gray stone in her fleece bag along with the rest of her collection. She was sure about that.\n\nWhat she wasn't sure about was what happened next. She remembered carrying the fleece bag with her most of the morning, could almost swear that she'd had it with her while she ate her blood pudding at noon. Trouble was, Anwyn Bird had kept her so busy all day, running around doing all those chores that needed doing with a full half of the sworn men away, and she'd been to so many places and done so many things, that everything had got mixed up in her head. Now, thinking about it, she couldn't really be sure if she'd had blood pudding at supper, noonday, or dawn. Possibly she'd had it thrice. Certainly it had been cold and greasy and had to be chewed to death before it went down her throat.\n\nEffie didn't mind the chores at all... as long as they didn't involve going outside. It was good to feel useful. Some things came easily to her, such as keeping tally of the oil and wood stores, divvying up eggs and milk quarts, and running messages word for word among Raina, Anwyn, and Orwin Shank. Sometimes whole hours went by where she forget about her lore and all the bad things it showed her. It was a good thing to walk into a room where you knew you had purpose, where people were waiting upon your message or your tally, and where they listened to what you had to say. There was less time to worry and think.\n\nJust yesterday morning ancient, liver-spotted Gat Murdock had stopped her in the kitchen doorway and told her that she reminded him of her mother when she'd first married Da and come to live in the roundhouse. \"Aye. You should've seen Meg Sevrance then,\" the old swordsman had said. \"As clever at figuring as any man, yet comely enough so you clean forgot it and thought about her dark eyes instead.\"\n\nEffie mouthed the speech to herself for the hundredth time. She did not want to forget it. Her mother had been good at figuring. Just like her.\n\n\"Effie! You wouldn't be dallying on those steps now, would you?\" Anwyn Bird's voice rose up the staircase like the call of a rusty horn. Effie peered down, but the grand matron of the roundhouse was not in sight. Her graying yellow braids and barrel-shaped body were hidden by a block of bloodwood stangs. \"As you know what happens to those who stop and daydream on the stairs.\"\n\nEffie thought for a moment. \"They get trampled if there's a fire.\"\n\nAnwyn Bird's snort of indignance was enough to send roosting pigeons into flight. Effie sensed much shaking of the great yellow head. \"You, my girl, are going to be a problem come the courting years. You don't say but two words a day, and when you do, you come out with something that stops all talk stone dead.\"\n\n\"Sorry, Anwyn.\"\n\nSome distance below Effie's feet, air puffed from Anwyn's lips. \"Don't sorry me, young lady. Sorry's a word for faithless husbands and bad cooks.\" More puffing followed. \"Run along now and find Inigar Stoop. Tell him Orwin Shank's called a meeting in the Great Hearth, and his council is needed.\"\n\n\"Yes, Anwyn.\" Effie started down the steps. She knew Anwyn wasn't mad at her really, not in a special way. Anwyn was mad at most people most of the time; it was how she managed to get so much done. By the time Effie reached the final turn in the stairs, the roundhouse matron was already on her way back to the kitchen, her voice cracking orders to anyone unlucky enough to cross her path.\n\nEffie took the stairs and headed for the small stone corridor that linked the main building to the guidehouse. It was late afternoon, not the time of day she'd normally choose to visit the guidehouse. Inigar Stoop was always there until sundown, and although Effie loved the dark smoke-filled quiet of the guidehouse very much, she always felt cold and itchy around the man who called it his home. Inigar smelled funny. Ever since the war started, he butchered hogs with his own hands and poured their blood on the smoke fires to make them burn thick and long. And his eyes were so dark they were like mirrors, and when you saw yourself in them you looked very small. Effie ducked to avoid a bloodwood beam leaking pitch. Inigar had a way of looking at you with those dark eyes that made you sure he knew all your secrets and bad thoughts.\n\nThe great clang and hiss of the clan forge could be heard throughout the roundhouse day and night ever since Mace Blackhail had ordered Brog Widdie and his crew to turn every bit of metal in the roundhouse into an arrow or a hammerhead, yet as Effie approached the green-stained door of the guidehouse the noise receded to the distant clamor of a kitchen at mealtime. Effie didn't like the forge. It was hot and bright, and the roughest of the tied clansmen worked there under Brog Widdie's Dhoone-blue eyes. Yet she had grown accustomed to the noise. Things seemed too quiet when it was gone.\n\nLike many outlying parts of the roundhouse, the guidehouse corridor had ceded to damp. There were no longer enough men to plaster and rechink the walls, and Raina Blackhail had forbidden any woman to spend a moment plugging leaks or repairing cracks when she could be tending to war needs instead. Supplies were the biggest problem. Even with the tied farmers and free crofters yielding their livestock and grain to the clan's keep, they were stretched for fresh eggs, butter, and milk. So many of the spring lambs had been slaughtered for meat that it was impossible to find a room in the roundhouse that was not hung with airing hides. Raina had fought many fights with the tied farmers. \"Would you send your clansmen to fight on lard and oats?\" she had cried when Hays Mullit threatened to drive his forty blacknecks back to his croft. Raina had shamed him and others into staying, though Effie only had to walk through the lower levels of the roundhouse to hear the sheep farmers nursing ill feeling toward the clan.\n\nEffie frowned. Just this morning Raina had ordered one in every five yearlings slain. With no clansmen free to hunt and no migrating elk butchered and rendered this season, meat was in short supply. And yearling lambs ate their weight in hay and feed once a week.\n\nAll thoughts of war slipped from her mind as her hand came up to work the latch upon the guidehouse door. She took a breath, like a diver before entering the water. Smoke as blue as ice trickled through the opening, bearing the smells and shadows of the guidestone to Effie's nose and eyes. Instinctively she brought her hand to her chest to touch her lore. Only it wasn't there.\n\n\"Not wearing your lore, Effie Sevrance?\" Inigar Stoop emerged from the shadows, his body breaking strands of smoke as he moved. Smudges of black paint beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks made him look like someone wasted by disease and ready to die. The cuffs of his pig coat were singed in recognition of the war: He was the clan guide, and he would not fight or raise a weapon in his own defense, yet every time he lit a smoke fire, guided a clansman's prayer, or chipped a warrior's portion from the guidestone, he did so with hands ringed with death. \"Step inside. Close the door. Approach me.\"\n\nEffie did as she was told. The smoke was stinging her eyes. Suddenly she wished very much she had not taken her lore from around her neck.\n\nInigar Stoop stood silent as she walked the length of the guidehouse. At one time Effie would have run her fingers along the guidestone as she passed it... but that was before the war. The stone was different now. Colder. Its surface was wet with pale seeping fluids that collected in ruts and hollows and hardened like tiny teeth. Even the great blocky profile of the stone had changed, and its many faces and creases were now misshapen by chisel cuts. Many clansmen had died far from home, their bodies claimed by enemy soil, leaving Inigar Stoop no choice but to cut surrogate remains from the stone. Families needed something to grieve over. Widows without bones needed stone.\n\nA thick litter of stone dust and soot hushed Effie's footsteps as she came to stand in front of the guide. Inigar was always grinding these days, grinding and burning and speaking with the dead.\n\n\"You have not answered my question, Effie Sevrance. Why do you not wear your lore?\"\n\nEffie looked for a moment into the guide's black eyes, then thought better of it and took to studying her feet. \"I have lost it.\"\n\n\"Did the twine break?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"So you took it from your own neck?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nInigar Stoop chose silence for his reply. Effie felt her cheeks heat. The guide's gaze was like a hand around her neck. It forced her to look up to receive the next question.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nEffie thought of lying, but the guide's black eyes were upon her and she saw her own face reflected there. She found she could not lie to herself. \"It's not always easy to wear it, not since Da died... and Raif left.\"\n\nInigar Stoop's shoulders stiffened at the mention of Raif's name. \"Our lores drive us hard in times of war. Why should you stand before me and claim yours drives you harder than most?\"\n\nEffie shook her head. That was not what she had meant to say.\n\n\"Does it show you things, Effie Sevrance? Does it pour the unripened juice of the future in your ear?\" Inigar's bony fingers gripped her arm. \"Tell me the truth, daughter of the clan. When you lie in bed at night with the lore upon your chest, are your dreams of things that will one day come to be?\"\n\nEffie yanked her arm free. Her breath was coming hard and fast, and she felt fingers of smoke clutching the insides of her lungs. \"No. It's not like that. It doesn't show me anything. It never enters my dreams. It pushes me. Here\u2014\" She hit her chest. \"And when I take it in my hand I know things. Small things, like... like...\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\nMuscles in Effie's face fell slack. Her own words had trapped her. Her lore told her no small things. She had to think a moment before answering. \"When Mace Blackhail came back from the badlands and he was riding his foster father's horse, and he said that no one but him had survived the raid, I knew it wasn't so. I knew Drey and Raif would come back.\"\n\nThe guide's eyes glinted like two pieces of coal. \"What else?\"\n\nShe searched for something to say. She would not speak of what had happened in the Oldwood the day she and Raina went to check on Raina's traps. Nor would she tell him of the night her lore had awakened her and told her to run away. Those things were bad secrets, and she had learned her lesson about telling those. Raising her chin, she said, \"I knew Raif would leave the clan. I knew it the day that he took his oath.\"\n\n\"That too.\" The guide's face did not soften one fraction, but when he spoke again there was less anger in his voice. \"It was right that your brother left us, child. There is no place for a raven in this clan.\"\n\n\"Will he come back?\"\n\n\"Not as you know him.\"\n\nEffie swallowed. She didn't understand Inigar's words, yet they made her insides ache. In all the months that Raif had been gone, she had not spoken about him to anyone. His name was no longer said in the clan. \"I see him sometimes, when I hold my lore. I see ice and storms and wolves and dead men... and I want to warn him and tell him to be careful, but he's not here.\" Tears prickled in her eyes. \"He's not here.\"\n\n\"Is that why you're not wearing your lore, child? Because it shows you things you do not want to see?\"\n\nEffie nodded. \"It pushes me all the time... and I get frightened. I don't want to see bad things happen to Raif and Drey.\"\n\n\"Yet it is your lore, given to you by the man who was guide before me. No clanswoman can ever turn her back on her lore.\"\n\n\"I know. I only took it off for a bit. It's worst when Drey's away. Every time it pushes... I... I think\u2014\"\n\n\"Hush, child. I know you love your brother very much.\"\n\nBrothers, Effie amended to herself.\n\n\"You must wear your lore, Effie Sevrance. Our clan is at war, and if the Stone Gods choose to send messages to you, what right do you have to turn away? Our warriors fight with fear in their bellies: How much less is their burden than yours?\"\n\nEffie had no answer for that. What Inigar said was right and true. She only had to think of Drey to know that her fears were foolish compared with his. He had to ride from clan to clan in ice and darkness, never sure when the next battle would come or what it would bring. Clansmen he had taken his yearman's oath with were dead.\n\n\"Put your lore back in its place,\" said the guide. \"You need fear no more questions from me. You are a daughter of this clan, and you have the rock as your lore, and that means you are steadfast and silent. I trust you will speak to no others about this. There are many in the clan who would not understand the knowledge your lore brings, call it by a name which it does not deserve.\"\n\nEffie nodded. She understood what Inigar meant. Mad Binny in her crannog over the lake was called bad names. Anwyn Bird said that at one time Mad Binny was the most beautiful maid in the clan. Her name had been Birna Lorn, and Will Hawk and Orwin Shank had once fought on the graze for her hand. Orwin had won, but once the banns had been spoken and the wedding day set, rumors began to spread about Birna being a witch woman. She always knew which cows would die from grass fever and which ewes would cast their lambs before time. Clanswomen began to fear her, for all she had to do was look at a pregnant woman to tell whether or not she would give birth to a healthy child. A month before her wedding to Orwin Shank, Birna met Dagro Blackhail's first wife, Norala, in the kaleyard. According to Anwyn, Norala's belly was newly quickened with child, but not even Norala knew it. The moment Birna Lorn saw her, she said, \"That bairn you're carrying will die in your womb.\" Three weeks later when a bloody sack was cast from Norala's belly, Birna Lorn was driven from the guidehouse by an armed and angry mob. Norala blamed her for the miscarriage of the chief's first child.\n\n\"Effie Sevrance...\" The guide's cold, irritable voice broke through her thoughts. \"See to your lore.\"\n\nShe shook herself. \"I don't know where it is. I took it off and put it in my fleece bag with all my other stones. Only now I can't remember what I did with it afterwards.\"\n\n\"Your fleece bag is beneath my work bench. Fetch it now and do not leave it here again.\"\n\nToo embarrassed to feel relief, Effie shuffled past Inigar Stoop and made her way to the far corner of the guidehouse, where the business of chiseling and grinding was done. She was such a fool! Of course she had come here last night! It was too cold to venture outside to the little dog cote, and she had so wanted to be somewhere quiet and alone. And safe.\n\nAs she plucked the fleece bag from the floor, Inigar said, \"Do you think me a hard man, child?\" She turned and shook her head, but he did not seem to notice. His eyes were focused deep within the smoke. \"Mace Blackhail is the chief and he does what a chief must in times of war, yet his eyes only see so far ahead. He thinks in terms of his own lifetime; what he can gain for himself, his family, and his clan. I do not fault him for this. It is the way of all chiefs. It's not his place to think of those to come. The dark times are coming and shadows are massing in the Want. Soon the sky will burn red, and the City of Ghosts will rise from the ice, and a sword will be drawn from frozen blood. If I told this to Mace Blackhail, it would mean nothing to him. Clan battle men, not shadows, he would say. Yet he would be wrong. The Stone Gods will not turn their backs on this fight.\"\n\nCareful not to make a sound, Effie tied the fleece bag to her belt. She didn't understand what Inigar's words had to do with her.\n\n\"It is I who must guide the clan through the long night ahead. My lore is the hawk, and I see farther than most, and that is why when your brother came to me seeking guidance, I spoke worlds to unbind him from this clan. My duty is to Blackhail and the gods who live in stone.\"\n\nEffie breathed quietly as she listened to the guide speak. Inigar was old and wise, but she knew words alone had not sent Raif away. \"Hawks do not see in the darkness,\" she said quietly. \"Owls do.\"\n\nInigar Stoop's small, paint-smudged face turned toward her, and his gaze sought her out through the smoke. \"You have the right of it, child, yet there is no owl lore amongst us. I would like to think that if you had been born two years later, after the old guide had died and his duties fell to me, I would have chosen the owl for you.\"\n\nIt was the nearest thing to kindness she had ever received from Inigar Stoop. Tears for herself and Raif collected in her eyes. \"But guides do not choose the lores of new babies. They dream them.\"\n\n\"For you and Raif I would have dreamt again.\"\n\nA tear slid down Effie's cheek.\n\n\"Go, child. Be sure to wear your lore day and night.\"\n\nEffie moved past the guide, careful to touch neither him nor the guidestone. Only when she reached the door did she remember Anwyn's message. \"Orwin Shank called a meeting in the Great Hearth. He asks for your presence there.\"\n\nInigar Stoop nodded. \"Tell him I will come once I have seen to the smoke fires.\" His thin brown fingers caressed the burned matter at his cuffs. \"And Effie, keep yourself safe.\"\n\nThe look he gave her almost made her speak. It would be such a relief to tell someone about the time Nellie Moss' son came for her in the middle of the night. She could not tell Drey, for his honor would leave him no choice but to go straight to Mace Blackhail and confront him. Effie's stomach twisted sharply at that thought. Drey must never know. Abruptly she dropped her hand to the fleece bag at her waist. She had her lore back now; that would warn her if Cutty Moss came again... if he ever did. In all the days that had passed since she'd overheard Nellie Moss speaking with Mace Blackhail outside the dog cotes, her lore hadn't once told her to flee. Perhaps she was safe. Perhaps she'd made more of the thing than it was worth. Already the details of what had been said had grown fuzzy in her mind.\n\n\"Are you all right, child?\" Inigar's voice was almost gentle.\n\nBut in the end it wasn't enough. Effie tapped her fleece bag. \"I'm just glad to have my lore back.\" Before any more questions could be asked, she slipped through the door and into the cool, damp corridor beyond. The fresher air pleased her, and with a little skip she broke into a run. She had a message to deliver to Orwin Shank, but first she would do what the guide had commanded and return her lore to its proper place. This was a thing that couldn't be done anywhere, for she was governed by her own secret rules in this matter. She needed somewhere quiet, just to hold it for a bit first, make up for time lost.\n\nThe space under the stairs in the entrance hall was a good place to sit for a while and not be noticed. It was good and dark, and there were all sorts of interesting dead spiders to look at. Once she'd tucked herself into the deepest part, where the ceiling was lowest and the stone floor was furry with dust missed by Anwyn's broom, she slipped her hand into her bag. Smooth, lifeless pebbles and chunks of rocks met her fingers. Frowning, she reached deeper and spread her hand wide, yet still could not feel her lore. Quickly she pulled the bag free from her waist and emptied the contents onto the floor.\n\nEffie felt her face go cold as she watched the dust settle. Her lore wasn't there.\nFORTY-FIVE\n\nThe Iron Chamber\n\nTHE SECRET TO BLOOD SORCERY, thought Penthero Iss as he hooked the baleen lamp to a nail hammered deep into the wall, was to remove the caul fly whole. Any fool could take a scalpel to the host's skin, make an incision above the fidgeting almond-size mass of the parasite, swiftly grip the body sac with a pair of tongs, and tug it out Trouble was, with that method the caul fly nearly always failed to cooperate. As soon as the scalpel edge came down upon the skin, the parasite would throw itself into paroxysms. Its double-jointed legs would begin to flay. Its wings, folded over its thorax in a protective carapace until the creature was ready to leave its host, would spread and break. Its homed mouth-piece would sink into muscle flesh and its massive, articulate jaws lock in place.\n\nIt was messy, very messy. Bits of caul fly always broke off, and no matter how hard one tried to remove all the detritus, some tiny bit of matter was often overlooked. And overlooked pieces of caul fly had a nasty habit of festering and causing gangrene in the host.\n\nFrowning, Iss turned and contemplated the iron chamber and the Bound One chained to its walls. Light seemed to shine differently here, in the very apex of the Inverted Spire, and the air was heavier and harder to breathe. The Bound One wheezed as he drew breath, the skin at his throat pulling so tight that Iss could count the veins. Iss took a step toward him. In his hand he held a pair of fine tweezers, their tips black with carbon from a whole hour spent above a flame, and a jeweler's wedge-shaped knife just in case.\n\nA muscle as thin as trap wire contracted in the Bound One's forearm as he attempted to raise his hand toward his master. One of his eyes was as pale as milk and quite dead. The other was cloudy, the iris stained white in places, yet he could see. Iss had long decided he could see.\n\nIss knelt upon the iron lip of the apex and pushed apart the loose folds of the Bound One's tunic. A small bandage, the size and shape of an eyepatch, was fixed in place on the uppermost section of the Bound One's back. One had to asphyxiate a caul fly if one wanted to remove it whole: block its airhole with a bead of fish glue, fasten a cap of bladderskin over the boil, then seal the cap edges with more glue. Eight hours was usually enough to send the caul fly to sleep.\n\nWith his fire-darkened tweezers, Iss picked at the bladderskin cap. The Bound One's skin was yellow and loose, attached to his body in very few places, and Iss had to be careful not to tear it as he worked.\n\nWhen the cap was off and the glue scraped away, Iss pressed his thumb and forefinger into the flesh to either side of the boil. As he felt the hard scaly form of the caul fly rise against his fingertips, a small thrill heated his face. This one was fully formed. It had pupated in the flesh; another few days and it would have eaten its way out. It was heavy, too, gorged on blood. A perfect parasite, every organ, cilia, and membrane created by the host.\n\nAnd that was the real reason why one had to withdraw it whole. Nothing, not one drop of digestive fluid, one double-jointed leg, or one hollow and serrated tooth, could be lost during the extraction. Blood sorcery could be drawn using an incomplete specimen, but it was never as potent as when the parasite was whole. It was the Bound One's creature in every way, his sorcerous child. During an eight-week incubation the caul fly had fed upon the Bound One's flesh, concentrating his power and distilling his blood. Iss had read that some men who bound sorcerers to them gained access to the sorcerer's power by using other parasites such as leeches, lice, or loa worms, but Iss found the caul flies much to his liking. They stayed close to the skin and could be easily tracked and extracted, and they lived two of their three life cycles within the host.\n\nThe caul fly was now in view, pushed to the surface by the action of Iss' fingers, its dark, segmented eye staring at Iss through the airhole. Good. It was close to death, but the tiny cilia on its body moved against the current of clear fluid that leaked from the boil. Iss flexed the tweezers, testing their bend. As he reached through the airhole, probing for the thorax, a soft gasp parted the Bound One's lips.\n\nIss was not disturbed. The Bound One made noises sometimes. He had no words. All speech, memories, and learning had been taken from him sixteen years earlier, during the thirty-one days of his breaking. At the end of the thirty-one days he was left with nothing but an animal's needs, and like an animal he grunted when he was afraid or in pain. A word softly spoken was all it took to calm him.\n\nThe caul fly came free with a wet pop. Already it had begun to darken and enlarge in preparation for attracting a mate. The carapace covering its wings was a thing of beauty: red toned, transparent, divided into angular shapes by a network of crossing sutures. Iss held it to the light.\n\nThis one is for you, almost-daughter. That I might see how far you reached yesterday at dawn.\n\nThe Bound One groaned as Iss withdrew his touch. Again the arm moved, and for an instant Iss thought he saw a flicker of pure hatred darken the Bound One's eye. Iss was not a man given to shivering, yet he felt his chest muscles contract all the same. Surely he was mistaken? The Bound One saw but did not perceive, existed but did not feel.\n\nIt was the way it had to be for a bound sorcerer. They had to be broken completely, both their body and their mind at the exact same instant. Iss had learned the danger of breaking the body first. Thigh bones wrenched from the pelvis, spines forced backward around a wheel, and needles inserted into the inner ear to misalign the tiny hammer-and-tong bones there, were not enough to destroy a mind. Iss knew that. He had lost two men learning that lesson, had the enamel burned from his teeth as a drawing leaving his mouth was forced back.\n\nIss snapped his head, sending the memory away. His pale hare's eyes focused upon the Bound One's face, searching for signs of sentience. The Bound One's good pupil was dull and unfocused, a black hole with nothing spilling out.\n\n\"Do you know who I am, Bound One?\" Iss asked. \"Do you know all that I have done?\"\n\nThe Bound One's hand moved again, this time toward the package of beans sealed in waxed linen that hung from Iss' belt Feeling a strange mixture of affection and relief, Iss nodded his head. \"Hungry, eh? Of course, of course. That's the beast I've come to know.\"\n\nTurning his back on the Bound One and his iron pen, Iss took a moment to still himself before he began the drawing. The close, curving walls of the iron chamber reminded him of a dry well. Even this deep the stone cutters had worked to maintain the gradual tapering of the spire's walls. Iss only had to close his eyes to imagine the spire's form: a stake into the heart of the mountain. A perfectly rounded stake.\n\nRobb Claw, Lord of the Fourth Spire, builder of Mask Fortress, and great-grandson to Glamis Claw, was rumored to have begun excavation on the Inverted Spire five years after the Splinter was built. The city of Spire Vanis was new then, one-tenth the size it came to be. The four Bastard Lords had crossed the Ranges a hundred years earlier and wrested Mount Slain from the Sull. Robb Claw had taken the timber-and-stone stronghold the Quarterlords had erected and built a city around it. Spire Vanis was Claw's creation. The plans were his, the vision was his, and it was rumored that the curtain wall that contained the city would have been raised to twice its height if Robb Claw had lived to see an end to his work.\n\nIss let out a long breath. Robb Claw feared something. A man does not spend thirty-five years of a fifty-year life building a fortress unlike anything the world has ever seen if he does not believe he is in danger. Theron and Rangor Pengaron, Torny Fyfe, and Glamis Claw had no such fears. They had simply ridden north and conquered. And despite the glorious tales of impaled beasts, fields steaming with blood, and battles that lasted ninety days and ninety nights, Iss suspected they had taken Mount Slain and the Vale of Spires with ease. The Quarterlords erected their first strongwall a mere seventy days after they crossed the mountains with their warhost. Seventy days.\n\nIt was a tantalizing fact. The Sull, who were known throughout the settled world for yielding land to no one and defending their borders with cold fury, had barely wetted their blades in defense of Mount Slain. Oh, the historians would tell you otherwise, and Iss could name a dozen terrible and bloody battles that had supposedly taken place during the Founding Wars: battles where the sky turned as dark as night with the weight of Sull arrows, where the moon disappeared from the midnight sky, snuffed by foul Sull magic, and where dread halfbeasts walked the battlefield, their exhaled breath cold as death, their touch enough to burn the light of sanity from a fighting man's eyes. Iss had read the tales along with the rest... yet he wasn't sure he believed them.\n\nTwo thousand years ago the Sull had yielded Mount Slain to the Quarterlords. And a thousand years before that they had yielded the land that became known as the clanholds to the fierce, animal-skinned clansmen who were driven out of the Soft Lands by Irgar the Unchained. Historians claimed that the Sull had sanctioned the Great Settling of the clanholds because the clans were not a threat; they kept themselves to themselves, had no interest in converting or persecuting the Sull, and they took the hard, inhospitable land in the center of the continent that the Sull had no love or use for.\n\nThe reasons blew like false notes through Iss' ears. He had been reared in Trance Vor. He knew all about the Sull. He had stood by and watched as Sull warriors shot his father a dozen times in the back. Four warriors. Three arrows apiece. It was over in less than an instant.\n\nBreath shot from Iss' throat like a pellet of white ice. His father had been a fool! Slowly encroaching on borders, stealing hair-thin slices of farmland each season, was no way to take land from the Sull. They had a sixth sense about these things, always knew the exact moment foreigners crossed into the Racklands. And they possessed deep ancestral memories of each stream, glade, heath, and wooded grove that formed their sacred borders.\n\nEdiah Iss had acted in the same way a thousand Trance Vor farmers had before him: He saw his own marshy, illdrained soil, then he looked in the distance and saw the soft, fertile loam of territory belonging to the Sull. \"They don't work it,\" he had complained, using words well worn before him. \"Good land laying fallow like that, while I'm out in these shit fields breaking my balls each day.\"\n\nThey had warned him, of course. The Sull always warned. The same four warriors who had eventually slain him rode to the Iss farm one morning at the break of dawn. Iss remembered being wakened by the sound of a metal arrowhead smashing against the claystone grate. He was eight at the time, sleeping at the foot of his parents' pallet on a dog mattress stuffed with straw. The arrow had come through a slit in the shutters no bigger than a child's mouth. Ediah Iss had been meaning to fix it since spring.\n\nIss stood at his mother's side as his father opened the door. Four mounted warriors dressed in lynx furs, wolverine pelts, and midnight blue suede formed an arc around the farmhouse. Seeing their black lacquered bows stamped with quarter-moons and ravens, their silver letting knives that hung on silver chains from their saddle pommels and tinkled in the wind like bells, and their arrows fletched with the snow white feathers of winter osprey, Iss learned what it was to be afraid as a man. He had known only child's fear till then.\n\nThe Sull did not speak\u2014it was not their way\u2014simply stood in warning for a period of time and then turned east and rode away. Iss' mother was the first to move and speak. Iss remembered her pushing her husband so hard, his forehead hit the door frame.\n\n\"You fool!\" she cried. \"You late-weaned fool! I told you they would know about the onion field the minute you tilled it. Run over there before they top the ridge and pull the new bulbs out.\"\n\nShe hadn't told him, Iss knew that. She had been the one who encouraged him to plant the onions in Sull soil ten days earlier, then stood over him as he spent four days turning a weed-choked meadow into a lot.\n\nPerhaps it was anger toward his wife that made Ediah Iss leave two rows of onions undisturbed, or perhaps he believed that those two particular rows, being nearest to his own border and hidden from the casual eye by the deep shade thrown from a hundred-year-old milkwood, might go unnoticed by the Sull. Either way he left forty-eight onion bulbs in the ground. Iss knew the exact amount, as he had pulled each one from the grainy black soil an hour after his father's death.\n\nIt had taken the Sull less than two days to return. Iss could still remember his mother screaming as the four warriors cut the used strings from their bows, discarded them as if they were soiled rags. He only had to close his eyes to see his father lying belly down on the path, a full quiver of arrows, bristling and golden like ears of wheat, growing from his back.\n\nIss sucked his lips against his cracked and discolored teeth. It was a fool's death, foolishly invited, yet it was not without its compensations. Iss had gained two things of value from it. First, his mother's family had moved quickly to be rid of him, and he was sent for fosterage to a distant uncle in Spire Vanis who held a grangedom there; and second, he had learned a lesson about the Sull that would stay with him for life.\n\n\"Poor Father,\" Iss said, turning the caul fly in the light. \"One does not take land from the Sull in small slices. One waits until the time is right and then moves to take it all.\"\n\nWith a quick snap of his wrist, he drew air over the caul fly's abdomen, shaking the creature awake. The creature's rear legs stiffened, and deep within the red-toned carapace four fully formed wings twitched to life. The caul fly knew it was no longer in its host and now sought to unfold its wings and fly in search of a mate. Iss was not displeased. The presence of such a strong and universal instinct could only add potency to the drawing.\n\nIss sat in the sorcerer's seat that had been cut two thousand years earlier by masons who were later blinded and untongued before they were killed so even their ghosts could tell no secrets. The seat was little more than a hip-size depression in the chamber wall, backed with the same pressure-formed granite that lined the entire structure of the Inverted Spire and then plated with a sheath of dull iron. Nothing of meaning had been stamped into the metal, no runes or symbols or legends. The mere presence of the seat in the apex chamber was legend enough. Iss liked to imagine that it was the final refinement Robb Claw had commanded his masons to make. \"Cut me a sorcerer's seat that I might sit as I do the work of gods.\"\n\nJabbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Iss prepared himself for the drawing. Even after all this time he was nervous. He trusted the Inverted Spire and knew the power of the Bound One as well as he knew his own, but always before taking the caul fly in his mouth, his stomach clenched as tight as a trap.\n\nTrue, there was no danger from backlash. The Inverted Spire had been constructed as an insulator. The mountain's worth of rock that lagged it, the facing tiles mined from the destroyed sorcerers' tower at Linn, and the spiking irontipped structure itself combined to make the Inverted Spire a haven from the outside world. No outside sorcery could penetrate it. No backlash could break it. No sorcery unleashed within it could be traced to its source. Any man who drew forth power here was free to act like a god.\n\nIss brought the caul fly to his lips. Even as his mouth opened to accept the bloodmeal, his stomach and lungs contracted, ready to push the power out. Relaxing his grip on the tweezers, he laid the creature upon his tongue. It twitched there for just a moment until Iss bit it in two.\n\nThe Bound One screamed and screamed, his high wavering cry bashing against the walls of the chamber like a bird trapped in a well. Bitter fluids filled Iss' mouth. Stick legs scraped his teeth. Wings cracked with the soft snap of broken wafers, and then all the power of the caul fly, stolen over eight weeks of living, feeding, and shedding within its host, filled Iss' being like floodwater, pushing his insubstance out. Iss felt a moment of pure divinity as he parted from his flesh and bones. This was what it felt like to run with the gods.\n\nPenthero Iss, Surlord of Spire Vanis, Lord Commander of the Rive Watch, Keeper of Mask Fortress, and Master of the Four Gates, ascended to a place where he could no longer hear the Bound One scream. Power pumped from the caul fly's body like blood from a cut vein. Iss looked down and saw his hair and robes blowing wildly below him. He took a breath with a body he no longer inhabited and tasted his own remains in the air.\n\nHigher and higher he rose, the roar of the drawing filling his abandoned ears. The midnight blue arc of the firmament dipped to meet him, curving with the slow guile of infinity, inviting him to come and play in the cold land beyond death. Iss shrank from its gleaming edge. Follow that road and there was no going back.\n\nAs he turned inward toward himself, seeking the dark path that would lead him to the borderlands, the color of the firmament stayed within his mind. He'd seen that particular shade of blue once before... stretched across the bellies of the Sull the day they'd sent twelve arrows into Ediah Iss' spine.\n\nA world and a half below him, Iss' body shivered upon its seat of iron and stone. Pushing his insubstance forward to meet the swirling gray shadows of the borderlands, Iss paid his own flesh and blood no heed.\n\nThe borderlands had many names. The Phage called it the Gray Marches, the priests in the Bone Temple called it No Man's Crossing, and the Sull had a name for it that was better left unsaid. The Listener of the Ice Trapper tribe called it nothing at all and said only that it was a place where a man could steal dreams. That was what Iss felt like as he approached its pale borders: a thief.\n\nA line of light, pink as newborn flesh, marked the threshold to the borderlands like a false dawn. Smoke fingered its edges, curling and uncurling, reaching and drawing back. There was no sound or smell, yet the silence was the kind that brought no peace. Without noise or odor to divert his senses, Iss found himself looking with the same single-mindedness of heretics in the Far South, who were pegged out on the desert floor and left for dead. For the sin of disbelief, the dark-skinned priests sewed the eyes of heretics open, pinning back their eyelids against their brow bones with cross-stitches of black silk, so that the heretics might see the face of God as they died. Iss felt as if his own eyelids were sewn open. Blinking or averting his gaze was impossible. He had no choice but to see.\n\nThe borderlands stretched ahead of him, a landscape of gray mists, iceberg peaks, and shadow-filled troughs stretching into distant darkness. Iss knew many things about the borderlands, knew that its outskirts could be visited by a handful of people in every generation, that different people came for different reasons, and that some, like the Listener of the Ice Trappers, could see the future written here. Even with the Bound One's power fueling his journey, Iss' abilities were limited. He was a trespasser, a thief. He had no place here, not even on the threshold. If the future hung like ripe fruit around him, he could not pluck it. If he glimpsed a pathway leading inward, he had no choice but to turn away.\n\nAsarhia March, Foundling, mountain born, spire bred, was the one person alive who could enter the borderlands without fear. It was her element. Her body was shaped for it. Her mind could perceive paths through it. Her hands could touch the Blindwall and come away unburned.\n\nIt was out there, the Blindwall, far on the other side where grayness gave way to darkness and where even the most powerful sorcerer and Listener could not tread. All worlds bordered here, all dying souls passed through on their way to final resting or ruin. Iss had once heard that people sometimes dreamed their way here in the dead of the night. Unlike the Listener, who made dreams his business, these people had no knowledge or ability to help them find their way. Their sleeping selves drifted here like mist, pushed by dreams filled with longing for a loved one now gone. The newly bereaved did not hold power here, only Asarhia March and the gods held that, but their loss brought them kissing close to death.\n\nIss floated above the threshold, held in place by power stolen from another man, and cast his gaze over all that lay below him. He did not know the borderlands well, yet he had been here a half dozen times before, and his cool Surlord's eyes saw straightaway that something had changed.\n\nAsarhia had been here.\n\nLeads had opened up in the smoke. Cold currents blew with the same intensity as before, but crosscurrents cut through them, creating a rippling mesh of flaws. The gray mass of the borderlands swelled and shifted, sending great lobes of matter rising above the surface and dragging other things under so quickly that they left comet tails of smoke. Beneath the surface, pockets of quiet existed as dark smudges in the grayness. And beneath them, writhing like the hide of a vast and muscular serpent, ran a river so dark that it swallowed light.\n\nIss shivered. Averting his gaze, he looked out across the expanse of the borderlands. The leads Asarhia had opened stretched inward toward the center of the grayness. Iss searched the visible horizon, straining to see some detail of the Blindwall beyond. How far did you reach, almost-daughter? There is not a sorcerer in the North who did not feel your power yesterday at dawn. No one can stand against you, I know that now, not the Phage or the Sull or the First Gods themselves. For sixteen years I kept you from them, treasuring and protecting you, and now you think you can run away and leave Spire Vanis behind. Yet know this, Asarhia March. No matter how quickly you run and how far you travel, when you reach you will be doing my work.\n\nAs Iss spoke the word work, a gust of wind sliced deep into the grayness. Smoke parted. For one instant his eyes focused upon a solid form. It was huge, towering, the wall of an ancient fortress, completely smooth, and dark as night... .\n\nIss gasped. Back in the apex tower, his body slumped forward as the Bound One's power wavered sharply. Iss forced his jaws together, sucking the caul fly dry. He had the Blindwall in his sights. It was vast, breathtaking, but had he seen a tiny flaw at its base? He had to know.\n\nThe Bound One screamed, higher and higher, as if he might shatter glass. Iss crushed the head of the caul fly with his teeth, releasing a broth of blood and curds. A rush of air and light stripped away all he could see. The Blindwall was gone. The borderlands were gone. The power released was not enough to hold him in place, and his flesh pulled him back.\n\nHe entered his body with a jolt. A clumsy limb banged against the wall. Teeth bit through tongue meat. The nausea that always came when he returned to his flesh hit him hard, and he spat out a wad of saliva speckled with fly parts. For some time he could do nothing but sit with his head slumped over his knees. Minutes passed before he could look up. With a gaze slower and more ungainly than the one he'd left behind, Iss contemplated the Bound One.\n\nHe lay lifeless in the iron apex, his body bathed in sweat. His eyes were open, yet his eyeballs were rolled back and nothing but white showed. Pressure sores from the manacles around his wrists were slick with blood, and the metal walls of the apex were streaked with claw marks. His chest moved... barely.\n\nIss struggled to his feet. The stench of his own body was unbearable to him. He smelled like an old man. The apex chamber reeked of urine and shit. Always when he returned to his body and took command of his five senses, it was the smells that appalled him the most. How could people live with them? Anger and disgust made him drive his fist hard into the Bound One's chest. The Bound One jerked reflexively, sliding farther down into the apex. A series of quick breaths animated his face for a few short seconds, and then he fell back into oblivion.\n\nIss watched him closely. What had happened here? The Bound One's power did not usually drain so quickly\u2014even in the borderlands where such things counted for less. Iss considered aiming a second blow to test him. Could he be faking his insensibility? Had he withdrawn his power on purpose? Was it possible that he had seen the Blindwall, too? Yet what if he was sickening? He was old now, his body yellow and stiff. It was natural that his power should weaken over time. Still.\n\nIss returned to his sorcerer's seat and sat and watched and waited. Only when an hour had passed without the Bound One moving as much as his little finger did Iss feel satisfied enough to take his leave.\n\nFor the first time ever, the Bound One did not grieve as Iss removed the light.\nFORTY-SIX\n\nA Journey Begins\n\nRAIF WOKE IN THE FREEZING DARKNESS before dawn. He knew he would not return to sleep, so he rose and took himself outside. He urinated against the barn wall, then scooped up a handful of snow and scoured his face. The shock of coldness passed quickly. Overhead the sky was black, but far on the eastern horizon, above the tree line and slate crags of Ganmiddich, the ice mist glowed pink with dawn.\n\nRaif turned away. He made himself busy, binding a nick on the gelding's foreleg and then tending his own stripped and bloody skin. His hands smelled like raw beef. They burned like hot coals as he thrust them into the snow to clean and numb them before he bandaged them tightly against the cold. In winter the worst danger to broken skin was frostbite. Gat Murdock had lost his bowfinger to a dog bite no deeper than a pockmark just because he'd not thought to bandage it one night when it was icy cold. And last winter Arlec Byce had spent Godsfest with pig lard slathered over his face because he'd ridden out to the Oldwood within an hour of taking a close shave.\n\nHard frosts worried Raif. Ash needed to be well protected. She was underweight, and a diet of ice hares and fishers wouldn't be enough to help her fight off the cold. A person could starve on lean meat. Two summers ago Drey and Rory Cleet had returned from a ten-day hunting trip to the balds doubled up with cramps and indigestion. The hunting had been poor, and they'd lived on nothing but flat ale and rabbit meat for a week. Raif remembered standing outside the outhouse with Bitty Shank and Tull Melon, singing, Nothing runs faster than a man with rabbit runs, at the tops of their voices while Drey and Rory relieved themselves inside.\n\nRaif smiled at the memory... and somehow, as he did so, the freezing wind brought tears to his eyes.\n\nDrey had not waited.\n\nYesterday, when Raif had walked away from the shore of the Wolf River, the final thing he did before the path veered north and hid him from sight was to turn and look at his brother one last time. Only Drey wasn't there. Drey had already moved on. Raif had caught a glimpse of his slow-moving shadow slipping eastward through the rocks, on his way to meet with the Hail Wolf.\n\nRaif stood in the snow and breathed and did not think. After a while he turned and made his way back to the farmhouse, filling his mind with the dozens of things that needed to be done before he and Ash could begin the journey west.\n\nAsh was awake, sitting tending the fire and rewarming the remains of last night's meal. She smiled shyly at him as he entered, and he did not have the heart to tell her that he had wanted last night's stock left cold so he could skim the congealed fat from the top and use it to protect their faces from the wind. The fisher meat had been cut into strips and left to dry overnight, yet Raif could tell from the look of it that it was only partially cured. It would have to do. The pelt was stiff, but there was no time to soften it with urine, so he showed Ash how to roll it on the hearth as if it were a long piece of dough and work the stiffness out with her fists.\n\nHe left her doing that while he searched the house for clothes, knives, and food. It was bitterly cold. The few rugs and blankets he found in the storm cellar were stiff and shaggy with ice. He picked the best two blankets and beat them until they were dry. In the bottom of an old bloodwood chest he found a pair of goatskin gloves. They'd been packed away while still wet and were mottled with blue black mold, yet Raif pulled them on all the same. They were barely wearable and smelled of mange, but they fitted well enough.\n\nBy the time he returned to Ash he'd found an ancient wool cloak with a kettle burn close to the shoulder, a child's sheepskin hood, a tin cup filled with lanolin and beeswax, and a handknife with a corroded iron blade. The farmhouse had been looted with great care, possibly by both Bludd and Hailsmen, and anything of use or value had been taken. No foodstuff of any sort remained.\n\nRaif watched as Ash pulled on the cloak and hood. She'd been busy in his absence, wrapping the fisher meat in dock leaves, melting a new batch of snow, and airing her boots and stockings above the fire. \"You haven't got a cloak for yourself,\" she said.\n\n\"I'll make do with a blanket. Once I put an edge to this knife, I'll cut the fisher pelt down to a hood.\"\n\nAsh frowned. \"I should have taken the supplies from the camp. All the saddlebags were there, scattered in the snow. I could have had whatever I wanted.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" he said, and meant it.\n\nHer gray eyes regarded him for a short moment and then looked away.\n\nRaif wanted to say, If anyone touches you again, I will tear them apart with my bare hands. Instead he said, \"Pour the snowmelt on the flames and kill the fire. I'll be outside saddling the horse.\"\n\nIt was full light now. The rising wind smelled of glaciers. The snow underfoot was rotten in places, part melted by a midseason thaw. Raif laid the blankets over the gelding's back, then strapped the saddle in place. His hands felt big and awkward. When he gripped the handle of the knife to sharpen it against the rise of the step, pain made him gnaw his cheek.\n\nThe metal was not sound. Rot had cut deep into the untempered iron, and the blade refused to take an edge. Raif removed all visible rust and sharpened the point as best he could.\n\nAsh came out as he was putting the finishing touches to his fisher hood, stripping fur from the two lengths of skin that would become the ties. Raif stopped what he was doing to look at her. The kettle-burned cloak was a rich rust brown and its hem skimmed snow as she walked. The wind was quick to bring color to her cheeks and a bright film of moisture to her eyes. Wisps of silver gold hair blew around the edge of her hood. The time she'd spent in Ganmiddich had improved her, and her face had a softness to it that he had not seen before.\n\n\"Did the Dog Lord treat you well?\" he asked, helping her into the saddle.\n\nHer gray eyes darkened minutely. \"He couldn't wait to be rid of me.\"\n\nThey left the farmyard in silence. Raif led the gelding through the maze of sheep runs, pens, stone walls, and outbuildings, tasting the air as he walked. The clouds were full of snow, yet that didn't worry him as much as the stench of glaciers. When the air smelled of the Want this far south, it meant only one thing.\n\nRaif set a hard pace. The farther west they were when the storm hit, the better. The Bitter Hills caught storms, held them between HalfBludd in the east and Bannen in the west. Their best hope was to reach the shelter of the western taiga as soon as possible, let the stone pines and black spruce bear the brunt of the storm for them.\n\nAs he padded alongside the horse, Raif searched for signs of game amid the ground birch and dogwood. The habit was deep within him. Last night had proven to him that he did not need an arrow to kill an animal with a blow to its heart. A fist of slate, heavy as iron and blue as Dhoone, was all it had taken to bring down the fisher. The fisher had been snooping around one of the sheep pens, drawn by the stench of slaughter that lingered there. It had smelled Raif with its keen nose, heard his boot heels crunching frozen mud with ears so sensitive, they could hear a red-backed vole breathing beneath two feet of snow. Raif's eyes caught its retreat. He plucked a rock from the mud, gaze still fixed upon the creature as it ran along the base of the pen wall. He warmed the rock in his fist. Ash needed food badly.\n\nIt wasn't the same as releasing an arrow. There was only the crudest sense of calling the creature to him. No moment of stillness joined him and his prey, no knowledge of the creature passed through him. Suddenly the heart was there, a glowing coal, in his sights. Speed was the only thing that mattered then. Without the concentrated discipline of bow eye and bowhand working in unison, he had nothing to bind the creature to him. Raif hurled the rock. Even as it left his grip, his sense of the creature's heart was fading.\n\nHe did not hear the impact. Sickness washed over him as his throwing hand fell limp against his side. Stomach juices bubbled in his throat, and he dropped to the mud to retch and spit and clean his mouth. Minutes passed before he had strength enough to rise and claim his prey. The sickness had passed by the time he returned to the farmhouse, yet a sense of shame remained. It was no way to kill a beast.\n\n\"Aren't we going to cross the hills and enter the cityhold? I thought Angus meant to steer clear of the clans.\"\n\nAsh's voice broke Raif's thoughts. He raised his head to look at her. The lanolin she wore on her face had turned waxy and opaque in the freezing wind. \"We'll make better time if we keep heading west. We'd waste half a day in those hills.\"\n\n\"But Angus said\u2014\"\n\n\"Angus isn't here. I'm here. And I don't claim knowledge of the Glaivehold. I know the clans as far west as Orrl, and I know the route we must take to enter the Storm Margin.\" He spoke harshly, yet he hardly knew why. He didn't want to explain to Ash that the only reason Angus had chosen the route through the Glaivehold was to save his nephew from encountering Hailsmen. Ten days ago Raif had been glad of that consideration. Now he did not care. Blackhail had hewn his memory from the stone. If he crossed paths with a Hailsman now, he would have to kill him or be killed. And strangely he found a hard sort of comfort in that. He knew where he and his clan stood now. All dreams of homecoming were dead.\n\n\"How did you escape from the tower?\"\n\nRaif wondered why she had chosen to ask her question now. He made no answer.\n\n\"I forced a promise from the Dog Lord,\" she said after a moment. \"He swore he would take no action against you until I was gone.\" He features moved through a smile as she thought on the past. \"He's a fierce man. Yet I think he was more afraid of me than I of him.\"\n\n\"He did not take Dhoone alone.\"\n\nAsh frowned. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"The Dhoonehouse is the most defensible stone keep in the clanholds, built by the first Clan King, Thornie Dhoone, with walls sixteen feet thick and a roof made of ironstone. The night Vaylo Bludd took it, five hundred Dhoone warriors stood within its walls, and countless more manned its borders and strongwalls. Yet somehow the Dog Lord managed to breach Dhoone's defenses, raise the Thistle Gate, and slaughter three hundred men.\"\n\n\"It doesn't mean he had help.\"\n\n\"It does when every Dhoonesman who stomached a Bludd sword didn't even bleed enough to rust his plate.\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Sorcery was used on the Dhoonesmen. It slowed their hearts, made it so they couldn't raise their weapons and defend themselves. The Dog Lord rode to Dhoone knowing the Dhoonesmen would not give him battle. He claimed victory, but no honor.\" Raif made his voice hard. He saw the way Ash was sitting forward on her horse, ready to defend the Dog Lord. He saw and did not like it.\n\nShe looked at him as if he were speaking lies. \"If he did use sorcery, as you say, then how can you be sure it came from outside? He might have had help from someone within his clan.\"\n\n\"Clan do not use sorcery.\"\n\n\"What is your point?\"\n\n\"The same person who helped the Dog Lord take Dhoone killed my father, my chief, and ten other members of my clan.\"\n\nA soft gasp escaped from Ash's lips.\n\nRaif continued speaking, firming the truth in his mind. \"There were fifteen of us altogether. We were camping in the badlands, along the old elk trails. Every year in the first month of winter when the elk are moving southeast, we go there to claim Blackhail's portion. This winter my brother and I were chosen to ride with the party. It was a great honor. Dagro Blackhail himself led the hunt; it was the first time he'd ridden the elk trails in five years. The hunting wasn't good. Tem said the elk knew a hard winter was coming and had moved south a month early to beat it.\"\n\n\"Who's Tem?\" Ash asked.\n\n\"My father.\" It almost didn't hurt to say it. \"He and Dagro Blackhail were close. Mace Blackhail had been at his foster father's heels for weeks, trying to persuade Dagro to ride north with him, but it was my father who finally convinced him to go.\" Let's you and I ride north one last time, Dagro Blackhail. Let's sit our saddles until we're arse sore, drink malt until we're head sore, and shoot elk until we drown in blood. Hearing his father's voice in his mind, Raif spoke quickly to quiet it. \"The day before we were due to return, Drey and I broke bounds to shoot hares. We were having a contest to see who could shoot the farthest and take down the most game when... when I felt something.\"\n\n\"Sorcery?\"\n\nRaif nodded. Suddenly it was. difficult to speak. \"We rushed back, but they were dead by the time we got there. All of them. There was no blood on their weapons, not a drop of it. Twelve men dead, and not one drew a sword to defend himself.\"\n\nAsh made no attempt at sympathy; he was grateful for that. They didn't speak any more about the past, and that seemed like another thing to be grateful for. There were some memories about the badlands camp he had no wish to share. In silence they traveled west along the river valley and into the territory of another clan.\n\nAt noon they came upon a stone marker, sunk deep into the snow and carved with the crossed greatswords of Bannen. Bannen was small but rich, with many well-stocked trout lakes, a series of high meadows suitable for grazing sheep, and a run of iron mines sunk hundreds of feet beneath the Bitter Hills. It was sworn to Dhoone, but it was not a long-lived oath. Past chiefs had declared themselves for Blackhail when it suited them, and Hawder Bannen had fought with Ornfel Blackhail against the Dhoone King at Mare's Rock. Bannen was known for its swordsmen. Tem had once told Raif that Bansmen trained their swordarms by moving through their positions while standing neck high in running water.\n\nRaif glanced to the north. The Banhouse was built on low ground, with its back against a sheer sandstone cliff, and it could not be seen from the river. Raif guessed it was about ten leagues north, as he could see smoke rising above the treetops. Beyond the smoke, on the farthest reach of the horizon, stormheads rolled south from the Want.\n\nSuddenly anxious to be gone, Raif touched Ash's boot. \"Are you ready to take old Mule Ears here for a run?\"\n\n\"What about you?\"\n\n\"I'll be taking myself for a run. I want to reach those trees\"\u2014he pointed to the northwest, where the headland sloped down to meet a forest of oldgrowth pines\u2014\"within the hour. We'll need cover when the storm hits.\" He slapped the gelding hard on the rump. \"Go!\"\n\nAsh had little choice but to give the mule-eared horse the reins. Snow sprayed Raif's chest as the horse took off at a fair gallop. Raif watched for a moment, satisfying himself that Ash could handle riding through snow at speed, then broke into a run himself. His body was not prepared for the shock of swift motion, and his legs trembled as they took his weight. Ribs broken and then partially mended made creaking noises as he lurched from step to step. His own weakness angered him, and he plowed through the snow, kicking up showers of blue crystals and sods of frozen earth.\n\nAsh and the gelding pulled far ahead. Winds were already working to shift loose snow southward, and snow tails blew from ridges and high ground. Noise in the air increased, and the howling, ripping lowing of the storm buffeted Raif's ears as he ran. The Wolf River meandered due north here, where it ran shallow, feeding a dozen salmon pools, wearing riverstone down into green sand, and forming a defensible line around the Banhold's southern reach. In a way, Raif was glad of the storm. Any other day and clansmen, iron miners, and trappers would be moving back and forth between the Banhouse and the hills.\n\nRaif's hands and face burned as he ran. Beneath the goatskin gloves, his fingers welled in a steambath of trapped sweat. By the time he caught up with Ash he'd bitten off the gloves and tucked them under his belt. Every breath he took pushed against his mending ribs as if it might snap them clean in two.\n\nAsh had dismounted and was leaning against the spine of a thirty-year spruce. She'd reached the trees a quarter ahead of him and had had enough time to brush down the horse, shake the snow from her cloak, and hang her hood to air over the bottommost limb of the tree. She grinned as he approached. \"I was found on a day like this,\" she said. \"White weather suits me well enough.\"\n\nHe could not disagree with her. Her eyes sparkled like sea ice. Hunkering in the snow, he fought to catch his breath. Ash had taken one of the tin bowls from the farmhouse and packed it with fresh snow. The snow was half-melted, and he wondered where she'd nursed it for the past fifteen minutes to warm it so quickly.\n\n\"What now?\" she asked.\n\nRaif glanced through the towering spires of black spruce, up toward the sky. \"We keep moving west. We can't afford to lose half a day to a storm.\"\n\nShe nodded briskly. \"You need to ride for a while.\"\n\nHe would have liked to protest, to tell her that he was a clansman, and a clansman never rode when a woman walked, but his ribs were creaking and his hands were on fire, and even the thought of standing upright made his thighs ache. To save his pride he gave her an order. \"Pull some fisher meat from the sack. We need to eat before we move on.\"\n\n\"I'm not hungry.\"\n\n\"I don't care. You can't rely on what your stomach tells you from now on. Every time we rest, you eat. You'll starve twice as quickly out here in the clanholds as you would in the walled-and-shored haven of Spire Vanis.\"\n\nAsh looked at him sharply, yet she did as she was told, taking a strip of fisher meat and chewing it with venom.\n\nRaif almost laughed, but a patch of fresh blood on the gelding's bandage caught his eye and he left her to tend to it.\n\nMule Ears suffered Raif's ministrations with the lethargy of an old horse who had seen and done everything before. As Raif cleaned the wound and felt for frostbite, he found himself thinking of Moose. He hoped the gray gelding was on his way home to Blackhail and Orwin Shank, not traveling north to Dhoone with the Dog Lord. He wanted that man to have nothing of his.\n\nAsh wandered over to watch him as he rewrapped the gelding's leg. The wind tugged at her cloak, making the rustcolored wool stream behind her like a banner. A Clan Frees banner, he thought senselessly.\n\n\"Earlier, when we were out in the open, you said Mace Blackhail rode to the badlands with his father. So why wasn't he killed along with the rest?\"\n\nIt hadn't taken her very long to get to the heart of the matter. Tying the final knot in the gelding's bandage with double the force necessary, Raif said, \"Mace claimed he was off shooting a black bear when the raiders came. Said he missed them by seconds, and that once he saw his foster father's body lying in the snow, the only thing he could think of was riding home to warn the clan.\" Raif was surprised at how easy it was to tell it. \"By the time Drey and I got back to the roundhouse, he had everyone believing that Clan Bludd had carried out the raid. Lies. All lies. He didn't know anything about the bodies, where they lay, what wounds they'd taken. He left before the raid ever started. Rode home on his foster father's horse.\"\n\n\"But you and Drey must have made the clan see the truth.\"\n\nRaif smiled bitterly, the skin on his face pulling tight. \"You haven't met the Hail Wolf. He was born a Scarpeman. His tongue moves faster than his blade.\"\n\n\"If Bludd didn't carry out the raid, then why didn't the Dog Lord simply deny it?\"\n\n\"You've met him. What do you think?\"\n\nAsh pushed a hand through her hair, thinking. \"Pride. He liked the idea of taking credit for such a thing.\"\n\nRaif tasted the bitterness in his mouth. \"Spoken like the Dog Lord himself,\"\n\n\"He told you that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Raif stood. \"What did he tell you about me?\"\n\nShe didn't blink, though the silver in her eyes quickened. \"He said you slaughtered women and children along the Bluddroad. He called you a murderer.\"\n\nRaif made no answer. He would not speak against his brother or his clan.\n\nWhen it became clear to her that he was not going to deny the charge, Ash gathered her cloak about her and began to make her way west through the trees.\n\nRaif watched her go. New snow had begun to fall, and the wind sent the heavy white flakes swirling in the spaces between the trees. After a few minutes Ash's figure was lost to the storm, and Raif mounted the gelding and wound through the spruces to catch her.\n\nThe storm followed them deep into the taiga, dislodging snow caches from branches, bending saplings double, and roaring like a river over rocks. Riding took more concentration than walking, as ruts and sinkholes hidden beneath the snow were a constant danger to the horse. Drifts were impossible to predict in unsettled snow and forced many stops while Ash ran ahead to test the snow depth with a whip-thin stick of spruce. In the end, both he and Ash decided to walk, heads bent low against the wind.\n\nLight faded rapidly, and the taiga shimmered blue and gray as it darkened. Raif became aware of Drey's tine banging against his hip from step to step. It seemed to weigh more than it should, and soon he could think of nothing at all except the piece of horn and the powdered guidestone within it. Please gods, let Drey be all right, he thought. Let the wound heal cleanly, and let it not cause him pain.\n\nIt was hard to turn his mind to finding shelter for the night. Part of him wanted to walk and walk and never stop. Only the thought of a warm fire, of holding his hands above yellow flames and feeling their heat upon his face, was enough to tempt him away from the storm.\n\nNo one lived in the taiga in winter. Trappers, woodsmen, and loggers spent spring and summer in the woods but retreated to the shelter of stone houses in the cold months. They often built summer huts, but Raif didn't hold out much hope of finding one in white weather. He settled upon a grove of newgrowth pines occupying a narrow flood basin and set about stripping the soft lower branches from the surrounding trees to use as thatching for the den. Ash saw to Mule Ears, then came to help him fix the crude thatch roof over the frame of bent newgrowth he'd erected. The wind drove against them as they worked, tugging whole branches from their grip. Every time Raif closed his hands around a shoot to strip it, pain made him catch his breath.\n\nThe storm was dying by the time they got the shelter to hold firm. Raif's mitts were sticky with white resin, and beneath the goatskin gloves his fingers were raw. Ash's hood was no longer protecting her head and lay against her back, filled with snow. She was breathing with quick shallow breaths so Raif ordered her to rest while he built a long fire across the. entrance to the den. The fact that she didn't protest, merely sat on the pine needle floor without saying a word, worried him. The skin around her eyes looked bruised.\n\nHe packed the fire loosely in his haste. Built well, a long fire could burn through the night, with timbers packed on poles so they could drop into the flames as the poles burned down. Yet Raif was more worried about Ash than he was about a full night's warmth, and he kindled the fire quickly, blowing to make it take.\n\nShredding the fisher meat with the bald knife, he set about turning snowmelt into a stock. He talked to Ash as he worked, anxious that she stay awake long enough to eat and drink. It was winter and it was cold, so he spoke of spring, telling her about the Hailhold after first thaw, about the carpets of white heather that pushed up overnight and the rings of darkwood violets that flowered amid the melting snow. He told her about the birds, about the blue herons that stood as tall as men, and the horned owls that could take to the air with full-grown rabbits in their beaks, and the little dun-colored swifts that hung upside down from branches like bats.\n\nHe didn't know how long he spoke, only that once he started he kept remembering other things that seemed important to tell her. Ash listened in silence, and after time her breathing grew shallow and her eyes began to flicker, then close. Raif took the stock from the fire. Leaning over, he touched her arm. \"Here. Drink this before you sleep.\"\n\nShe took the bowl from him and held it to her chest, letting the steam roll over her face. After what seemed like a very long time she said, \"I don't believe what the Dog Lord said about what happened on the Bluddroad. I don't think you killed anyone in cold blood.\"\n\nRaif nodded. He told himself he felt no better for hearing her say it, yet it wasn't the truth.\n\nThey spoke no more after that and ate and drank in silence, the flames of the long fire dancing before them and the tail end of the storm sending gusts of winds to rattle the den. Ash fell asleep while Raif was nursing the last of the stock in his cracked and aching hands. He covered her as best he could, making sure that no part of her skin came in contact with snow, and then settled himself down before the fire.\n\nHe could not sleep. He was weary beyond telling, yet he could see the night sky through the flames. A moonless, starless night in midwinter; not the sort of night a sane man would choose to be out in. Then perhaps he wasn't sane, for Raif found himself rising from his place by the fire, pulling on his goatskin gloves and leather boots, and leaving the warmth and dryness of the den. It took him less than a minute to find a wedge of greenstone to his liking: jagged and shot with lead. Brushing it clean of snow, he entered the dark cathedral of the forest. The storm had passed and the night animals were feeding and he was Watcher of the Dead.\n\nTHE LISTENER WOKE TO the hiss of the runners. His heart beat like a snow goose in his chest. His old mouth was as dry as tanned hide, and his eyes, once a dark brown color and now turned blue with snow blindness, took a very long time before they allowed him even the dimmest view of the surrounding world. The sky above the sled was dark and full of stars: The long night of winter had begun.\n\nHe'd been having the old dream again, the one where Harannaqua guided him to a dark place where the old Sull Kings were waiting. Lyan Summerled and Thay Blackdragon and Lann Swordbreaker were there, along with the Sull Queen Isane Rune. Not his kings, the Listener reminded himself, yet they haunted him all the same. They were not dead, not truly, for flesh still hung to their bones in places, and they moved like men, not ghosts. Isane's smile had been beautiful to behold until the instant her spread lips parted, revealing a mouth of bloody teeth. Lyan Summerled, he who had once been the most glorious and golden of all kings, had laid a skinned hand upon the Listener's shoulder and breathed a single word in his ear.\n\nSoon.\n\nSadaluk shivered. \"Nolo,\" he said, turning around and calling to the man who drove the sled. \"We must stop and turn back. This is not a good night to ask for blessing from the god who lives beneath the sea ice.\"\n\nNolo's brown face registered not one mote of surprise; perhaps he had felt the badness, too. Calling to his team, he pulled on the standers and began driving the sled in a great turning circle on the gray shore-fast ice. Sadaluk, sitting at the front of the sled, wrapped in bearhides and wearing a squirrel cap, watched as the dogs slowed and changed their course. They were fat dogs\u2014Nolo fed them too much\u2014yet the Listener felt less inclined to criticize now than when he and Nolo had set off. Overfed dogs were a sign of a kind heart, and after the darkness of his unasked-for dream, the Listener found much to value in the kindness of a man who loved his dogs as if they were kin.\n\nThe sled, formed from a ladder of driftwood and horn and bound with seal sinew, skimmed to a halt as it completed its turn. The dogs, harnessed together in a line, broke formation and began worrying on their traces. The edges had been filed from their teeth, so they could do little but suck and gnaw.\n\nNolo pulled off his heavy sled gloves and walked to where the Listener sat. He was out of breath, and his chest rose and fell rapidly. \"Are you ill, Sadaluk? You were quiet for a very long time.\"\n\nThe Listener shook his head. \"I dreamt,\" he said.\n\nSilence followed. Nolo looked guilty, as if his sled were to blame for the dream. The Listener saw no reason to argue otherwise: Perhaps if the sled hadn't run so smoothly and silently, he might well have stayed awake. Instead he said, \"Once, many lifetimes ago when the winter lasted many seasons and the Gods Lights burned red, our people had to eat their skins and tents to survive. All the dogs were slaughtered. Mothers killed their children to relieve them of the hunger that ate from inside out. Old men like me walked out onto the sea ice and never came back. Young couples, newly wed, sealed themselves in their ice houses and starved in each other's arms.\n\n\"By the time the warm winds came and the sea ice broke, only twelve were left alive. One man, Harannaqua, who had lost his wife and his three children, was angry at the gods for not sending a warning. We could have stored more food if we had known, he cried. We could have eaten less at summer's end.\n\n\"The gods listened to him, for even though they hate flesh men pointing out their failings, they knew that he was right. From this day forth you shall be the warning, Harannaqua of Four Losses, they replied. We will strip your body from you and carry your soul with us, and whenever hard times come to the Ice Trappers we will send you down to warn them in their dreams. And so the gods took him and kept him and bound him to this task.\"\n\nThe Listener looked sharply at Nolo. A cloud of frosted breath lay between them like a third man. \"Yes, Nolo of the Silent Sled, today I dreamt of Harannaqua, him and four kings.\"\n\nNolo nodded slowly. He thought long before he spoke. \"What must we do, Sadaluk?\"\n\nThe Listener made an impatient gesture with his hand. \"Watch ourselves. Be vigilant. Feed our fat dogs less.\" The words made Nolo blush, but Sadaluk found little satisfaction in his young friend's distress. He was afraid, and the dream worried him, and he had spoken from fear and spite. \"Run the sled.\"\n\nThe dogs took much whipping and cursing before they would re-form themselves into a line. Nolo had to put on a harness and pull like one of them to remind the beasts what they must do. Sadaluk drew his bearskin close as the sled shuddered into motion.\n\nFour Sull kings. Not his kings, he told himself again, as if that could make it so. They shared blood, but that blood was old, old. Blood could thin to water over the space of thirteen thousand years. True, the Ice Trappers and the Sull came from the same place beyond the Night Sea, but that was far in the past. The great glaciers had receded, deserts had been baked to glass, and iron mountains had risen from seeds of rock and stone. All this and more had come to pass since the Sull and the Ice Trappers had once called themselves kinsmen. Why then should their fates still be linked?\n\nThe Listener frowned at the stars, the snow, the shimmering blue landscape of sea ice. Where were the Far Riders? A raven had been sent two moons past; they should be here by now.\n\nThis was their fate unraveling, not his.\n\n\"Lash the dogs, Nolo. Lash them!\" The Listener tried to set aside his dreams as he watched Nolo punish his team. Eloko had promised to show him the third secret use for whale blubber on his return and had set her stone pot to warming over the lamp even as he and Nolo packed the sled. Sadaluk had liked the first two secret uses very much, and he could think of nothing more pleasant than being introduced to the third. Yet even as he tried to conjure Eloko's wide, smooth face in his mind's eye, the face of another came to him.\n\nThay Blackdragon, the Night King, looked at him with eyes that were the perfect Sull blue: dark as the sky at midnight and shot with veins of ice. Strips of flesh hung from his cheeks, and the Listener could see white ridges of bone beneath. He was riding a horse that was all shadow, a dark beast made of muscle and black oil that quivered with every touch of its rider's hand. Thay Blackdragon pulled the reins, and the beast opened its mouth, revealing a bit of razored steel. The Night King smiled as Isane Rune had before him.\n\nSoon, he hissed. Our thousand years have all but passed.\n\nFor the first time in his hundred-year life, the Listener didn't know if he was sleeping or wide awake.\nFORTY-SEVEN\n\nClothes off a Dead Man's Back\n\nTHEY WERE ON THE MOVE before dawn, walking through the hills and valleys of snow that had formed around the bases of pines like skirts of spent wax around candles. Light came slowly, sparkling for brief moments on pine needles scored with hoarfrost and the whites of Ash's eyes and teeth. A wind, soft and cold, blew south. Somewhere beyond the horizon a ptarmigan screamed at a rival who drew too near to its roost.\n\nRaif carried the two fox carcasses slung over his back. They were gutted but not skinned and were now freezing rapidly in the cold dry air. He would have liked to strap them to Mule Ears' cantle, but the old gelding had no liking for the smell of fox.\n\nAsh led the horse by its reins. Uneven snow cover made riding difficult, and she had chosen to walk instead. Raif did not like the look of the dark patches beneath her eyes and the yellowish cast to her skin. Gradually he was leading her to the taiga's southwestern edge, where settled snow would make riding easier.\n\nHe suspected that they might already be in the Scarpehold, yet any markers that might have proclaimed that fact were buried deep beneath the white. Bannen and Scarpe were close neighbors, though there was little love lost between the two. Scarpe was sworn to Blackhail, yet its oath did not prevent it from encroaching on Blackhail's southern reach. Its chief was Yelma Scarpe, and in the ten years she had led the clan she had annexed land from Bannen and Dregg and taken control of an escarpment that Clan Orrl had held for eight decades and was a prime site for hunting and spotting wild sheep. The Scarpe badge was a black weasel with a mouse in its jaws. The Scarpe boast was, Our words cut as sharply as our swords. Yelma Scarpe had fought no battles with Bannen, Dregg, and Orrl. No. She had simply talked them out of their land.\n\nAnd now one of her clan was Blackhail's chief.\n\nRaif almost smiled. Inside his mitts, skin split as he bunched his hands into fists.\n\n\"Look!\" Ash said, pointing to the northwest sky above the treetops. \"Smoke.\"\n\nRaif followed her gaze. Smoke, greasy and thick with burned matter, billowed up in great clouds several leagues north of their position. The Scarpehouse. It had to be. Scarpe's roundhouse was situated close to the Bannen border, on a greenstone bluff surrounded by a moat of poison pines.\n\nUnease cooled Raif's face. Who would attack Scarpe? Bludd had pushed no farther west than Ganmiddich, and now they were in retreat. Blackhail would not attack one of its own war-sworn clans, most especially when that clan was birthplace to the Hail Wolf. Was it Bannen or Gnash, then? Or dispossessed Ganmiddich? Or was it dispossessed Dhoone?\n\nNone of the possibilities were good. Any one of them meant an escalation in the Clan Wars. And for someone to attack a clan sworn to Blackhail meant Blackhail itself must respond.\n\n\"Raif! Stop! Why are you heading north?\"\n\nRaif had to glance over his shoulder to see Ash. She was many paces below him, on the trail they had been walking since dawn. He stared at his own footprints in the snow, following their course as they cleaved north away from the path. He shook himself hard. What am I doing? The torching of the Scarpehouse means nothing to me. Angry at himself, he headed down the slope and back onto the trail.\n\nHe set a grim pace after that. They emerged from the taiga at noon and traveled west along the frost fields north of the river. To the south, the rocky balds and escarpments that formed the tail end of the Bitter Hills cast dark, shifting shadows upon the water. The Iron Caves lay somewhere beneath them, excavated by Mordrag Blackhail, the Mole Chief, and seized by the Forsworn some hundred years later when all the iron seams had been mined out. According to Tem, the walls of the Iron Caves were black and sparkling, and no man could carry a knife there for fear of it flying from his hand. The Forsworn claimed the caves as a holy place. They believed the One True God had slept there the night after he Remade the World. It took Aran Blackhail, Mordrag's grandson, twenty years to drive them out.\n\nDirectly ahead the pale blue peaks of the Coastal Ranges rode the western horizon like ships made of ice. Raif found himself staring at them for much of the day. It was easier to look forward than back.\n\nFrom time to time they passed bits of freestanding wall, broken arches, and blocks of stone. Ruins. And they had stood in the clanholds longer than any roundhouse. Raif had seen such things on the Hailhold, made of the same milky blue stone that always felt cool to the touch, even on the hottest day. Tem had said that in the great white forests of Dhoone and Bludd whole cities stood buried beneath the snow. Clan Castlemilk was rumored to have taken its name from one such place.\n\nRaif farmed the landscape as he walked, searching the grassbeds and shrub groves for bearberries frozen on the vine, rosehips, field mint, and the little wood ear mushrooms that grew on rotting logs. They had meat, but foxes were musty on the tongue, and Raif didn't much like the thought of eating them on their own. Once or twice he spotted a glossy white ptarmigan hiding in the snow, yet he left the birds undisturbed. Ash knew he could kill game with a rock, she knew, but it didn't mean he wanted her to see him do it.\n\nWhen they came upon a grove of old willows, Raif called a halt while he cut himself a staff. The knife he'd taken from the Ganmiddich farmhouse was little use against the hard, finely grained wood, and it took many long minutes of sawing and twisting to cut a branch free. Ash, who had been riding since they'd broken free of the taiga, did not dismount as he stripped the stave of side suckers. She slouched in the saddle, her chin almost touching her chest. When she noticed Raif looking at her, she straightened her spine and made an effort to smile. Raif could not smile back. He was remembering what Heritas Cant had said about her, about how the power within her would press against her organs until they leaked.\n\nPerhaps she read the thoughts on his face, for she said, \"I'm fine. Just a bit tired, that's all.\"\n\n\"And the voices?\"\n\n\"I fight them.\" Her clear gray eyes met his, and Raif suddenly wished the voices were real men he could fight and kill, not shadowy nothings he could not see.\n\n\"You need to eat,\" he said after a while. \"Here. Take these.\" He handed her a stem of frozen bearberries and a few of the rosehips he had collected. All clansmen who rode to the badlands for a season's hunting carried a pouch of dried rosehips in their packs. The hard pink fruits stopped the shaking sickness from coming, even when there were no fresh greens to eat.\n\nAsh grimaced as she bit into one of the buds.\n\n\"You'll get used to them quicker than fox meat,\" he promised. The smile she gave him warmed something deep and very cold inside his chest. \"Let's get going. There's still an hour of daylight left.\"\n\nThat night they camped in the lee of a hill, digging a burrow into old drifted snow. Raif hunted while Ash slept, bagging an ice hare he flushed from its den and a fat white ptarmigan who burst into flight when Raif stumbled upon its roost. Feeling pleased with his prizes, he returned to the dugout with plans for a midnight roast. The fox supper he'd prepared by boiling the dark, purplish meat in snowmelt had not been a great success.\n\nHe sensed something was wrong when he topped the hill. The night seemed suddenly dark and small, as if it had shrunk to half its size. The dugout looked the same as when he'd left it, and the fire was burning as well as an unattended fire could, yet something had changed. The air was colder. A nearby grove of aspens rustled and clicked as a gust of wind drove their trunks together like wooden sticks. Suddenly the night's kills felt like ghost weight against Raif's back, and he let them drop to the snow.\n\nAsh.\n\nClutching the cold ivory of his raven lore, he raced the short distance to the dugout. The snow surrounding the entrance was clean except for his own footprints, yet even though no man or animal had entered the shelter he knew Ash was gone. Her body lay on the mat of willow switches he had spread to protect her from the cold. Muscles in her shoulders and upper arms were convulsing, causing her body to buck against the dugout's floor. Her mouth was open, and something dark and tarlike moved within it. Oh, gods.\n\nRaif squeezed his lore. An instinct he wasn't prepared for made him want to run. He could smell the power inside her the way a dog smelled disease. Heritas Cant was right: It was something that wasn't meant to be.\n\nKill an army for me, Raif Sevrance.\n\nRaif shook his head, alarmed at how quickly the thought of killing her entered his mind. It would be a mercy, a small voice said. The world would thank you for it in the end.\n\n\"No.\" Raif spoke the word out loud. He had no brother, no clan, and no memories stored in stone. But he had Ash, and he had sworn to protect her. And who was he to judge the value of another's life?\n\nThinking of Angus, imagining what he would do if he were here in the river valley west of Scarpe, Raif stripped off his gloves and knelt by Ash's side. Angus had thrust a wad of wool in her mouth whenever she began to draw sorcery, so that's what he would do. Swiftly Raif cut a handful of wool from Ash's cloak and packed it in his fist. He tried to be gentle as he pushed the wad of fabric into her mouth, but his hands shook, and the desire to be rid of the dark thing on her tongue made him thrust the gag deep into her throat. Her stomach sucked into a hollow the moment the gag was in place, and he laid a hand on her rib cage and pushed hard to counter the reflex action to vomit. Despite the coldness of the dugout, droplets of sweat rose like blisters on Raif's face.\n\nAsh's legs jerked. Cords of muscle in her neck rose as she fought the muzzle. Raif held her down, hard as he could, until her muscles fell slack under his hands. He stayed pressing her long after, his breaths ragged and his heart hammering against his ribs. Finally he released his grip, but only so he could tear the foxhides into strips to bind her. There was a taste in his mouth that might have been fear. He kept seeing the rippling blackness of the thing upon her tongue... the way it shifted and ran like liquid metal.\n\nHe was not gentle as he bound her.\n\nLater, when he sat at the entrance to the dugout, turning the fire over with the tip of his willow staff, he wondered what would have happened if he had not returned when he had. Ash was silent now, her arms resting easy in their sheathing of blankets and rope. A Reach, Cant had named her. Yet Raif did not know what that meant. He had heard Can't words, yet they seemed like shadowy things, concealing more than they showed.\n\nRaif put down the staff and held his hands above the flames to warm them. He tried to send his mind elsewhere, to the ice hare and ptarmigan that were lying unclaimed in the snow, to the dwindling stock of firewood, to clothes that needed airing, yet he made no move to start any of those tasks. Better that he stay here and watch over Ash.\n\nTime passed and the fire burned low, sending little red flames to eat the insides of logs. Raif thought he would not sleep. The pain in his ribs ran deeper tonight than any other night, and his hands ached and wept. Still, his eyes closed and his thoughts stopped coming and he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.\n\nHe awoke in darkness hours later, sore all over but strangely well rested. Before he stepped outside to relieve himself or feed the fire, he cut the lashings that held Ash's arms to her side. The gag was drenched with saliva, and he had to force her teeth apart to pull out the expanded wool.\n\nShe opened her eyes as he removed his hand from her jaw.\n\nRaif slid the gag behind his back.\n\nAsh lifted her right arm and rubbed the section where the ties had dug deep. \"How long?\"\n\n\"Overnight. Just overnight.\"\n\nShe looked away from him. He thought he saw her lip tremble, but a fraction of a moment later it was still.\n\nHe helped her to sit up. Already he was counting days. Another two to reach the Storm Margin. A week to reach the base of Mount Flood. \"How are you feeling?\"\n\n\"Tired. My arms are aching.\" She made a face. \"And something tastes bad in my mouth.\"\n\n\"I'll fetch some water.\"\n\n\"Raif.\"\n\nHe turned to look at her.\n\n\"Do you think we'll make it? I was lucky this time... I woke.\" She shook her head softly, her eyes darkening as memories filled them. \"They're so hard to fight. They're stronger now. That day at the pass changed them. They came so close to breaking through they could taste it.\"\n\nRaif didn't know how to reply. Ash needed to be told that she would make it to the Cavern of Black Ice alive and well. Yet Tem had not taught him how to lie. In the end he said, \"I will slaughter the horse for blood and meat, carry you on my back, and walk until my feet turn yellow with ice before I give up or turn back.\"\n\nHe bowed his head and walked outside to a frost so hard, each breath stung like acid in his throat.\n\nThey left the dugout while it was still dark. If there had been a moon, it had long set, yet the ground snow glimmered blue and gray as if light from some distant source shone upon it. On Raif's insistence Ash rode the gelding at a trot. Raif ran for short bursts to keep pace. Often he fell behind, as his mending ribs would allow him to take only so much air. When the sun rose in a brilliant blue sky, the granite peaks of the Coastal Ranges seemed close enough to touch. The winter sun made Raif nervous, especially when he saw Ash tugging at the collar of her cloak as if she were warm and needed air. It wasn't warm. It was cold enough to freeze tears. And there were men and women in Clan Blackhail who could tell you all about the danger of believing that sun-shine meant warmth. As many clan ears had been lost beneath a blue sky as in the deepest, darkest night.\n\nRaif monitored his own body closely. His hands ached constantly... but at least they weren't numb. \"It's when you can't feel them there's a problem,\" Tem would always say, \"not when you can.\"\n\nThe terrain changed gradually over the course of the day. The great dark body of the taiga extended all the way to the Coastal Ranges, but the trees living within it altered as they neared the divide. They were smaller now, stunted by late spring frosts, midwinter thaws, and the black blight of snow mold. Hemlocks and spruce gave way to the twisted bones of whitebark and limber pines. The ground underfoot grew harder, and giant boulders riven with frost cracks studded the valley floor. Scraggy beards of bladdergrass and yellow moss occupied niches in the rocks, and prostrate willow hugged the ground like something spilled, not grown. The snow underfoot was as hard and dry as white sand.\n\nThe area reminded Raif of the badlands. He felt the same sense of cold drought.\n\nBy the time the sun reached its highest point he was no longer sure which clan's territory he was in. He guessed they might be traveling through the Orrlhold, which was the most westerly of the border clans, but he also knew that a small creek named the Red Run lay somewhere out here, beyond whose banks Blackhail claimed all land west to the Ranges.\n\nThe Wolf River flowed to the south here, and Raif glimpsed its black oily surface at intervals throughout the day. Most of its tributaries were dry or frozen, and its mass remained unchanged as it flowed toward the sea. The Wolf River and its valley cut straight through the Ranges, and Raif knew it would provide the quickest, safest route to the Storm Margin.\n\nThey stopped briefly at midday and ate the last of the roasted bird. Raif watched Ash closely. Her skin was markedly yellow now, and there was something wrong with her face. The change was subtle, yet Raif recognized it for what it was straightaway. The tiny crinkles around her eyes and mouth were gone. Fluid beneath her skin was filling out wrinkles and depressions and making her cheeks swell. He had seen symptoms like these before, on Braida Tanner, elder sister to Lansa and Hailly, whose body had been laid in a hollowed-out basswood the month Drey took his yearman's oath. It was poison, Inigar Stoop had said. The girl's body had poisoned itself.\n\nRaif made Ash ride the gelding at a gallop for long periods during the afternoon. He ran behind her, his feet pounding over frozen earth, his ears burning in the rushing air. At sunset she surprised him by calling a halt. He was some distance behind her, catching his breath against a massive snout of limestone, when he heard her call his name. By the time he reached the horse she had dismounted and was approaching a crop of rocks that lay on a ridge north of the path.\n\nA small movement of Ash's body turned him cold. She continued walking forward, yet she drew her arms to her sides and closed her mouth. Raif took a second look at the rocks. They were colored a delicate shade of blue gray, coated with hoarfrost and granules of snow, and they were not rocks at all. They were corpses. Six of them. Orrlsmen, judging from the strips of white willow plaited into their braids, and the pale, shimmering fabric of their cloaks. From the depth and condition of the surrounding snow, Raif guessed they had been here for less than two weeks, yet already the cold dry air had begun to mummify their remains.\n\nRaif took Ash's hand. His gaze was drawn to the dark shadows beneath the hoarfrost crust: a blue eye, perfectly preserved, a mouth open wide enough to show the pink hump of a frozen tongue, a fist clenched around a column of air.\n\n\"What should we do?\" Ash's voice was a whisper.\n\nAs she spoke, Raif noticed a cap of beaten silver discarded a short distance from the bodies. \"Nothing.\"\n\n\"But shouldn't they be blessed, buried, something?\"\n\nHe could tell she was upset, yet he still shook his head. \"My clan brought this death. It's not for me to deal with the corpses they left behind.\"\n\n\"How do you know it was Blackhail who did this?\"\n\n\"That piece of silver over there belongs to Blackhail and no other. They killed these men, and when they were done, one of their number flicked the cap off his tine and drew a circle in the frost.\"\n\n\"To honor the dead men's memories?\"\n\n\"No. You do not honor the memory of a man you've just killed. The circle was made to draw the eyes of the Stone Gods, so they may know there are souls to be claimed.\"\n\nAsh pulled free of Raif's grip. \"Why kill these men here, where no one lives?\"\n\n\"Because we are on Blackhail land, and a state of war exists in the clanholds, and something has happened to make the Hail wolf angry or nervous, or both.\"\n\nRaif dragged his hands over his face. Orrl was sworn to Blackhail. The two clans had shared borders for two thousand years, and for as far back as he could remember all disputes between them had been settled at the hearth. Now this. What was Mace Blackhail doing? What had happened to make him order such a killing? Orrl's chief, Spynie Orrl, was no fool. He was the oldest living chief in the clanholds, outliving four wives, two sons, and a daughter. Dagro Blackhail had liked him well enough to invite him to hear vows at both his weddings, and when Spynie's first great-granddaughter had been born five years back; Spynie had sent Dagro ten head of blackneck sheep in celebration. Raif could not imagine Spynie Orrl attacking Blackhail. No man lived as long as he did by taking chances.\n\nClan Scarpe. The memory of smoke rising above the Scarpe tree line cooled Raif's face as quickly as if it had been stroked with ice. If something had happened to bring the two clans into dispute, and Clan Orrl had crossed swords with Clan Scarpe, then Mace Blackhail would make sure that it was Orrl that paid the highest price. He might call himself the Hail Wolf, but he was a Scarpeman through and through.\n\nRaif closed his eyes. He felt tired enough to lie on the frozen ground and sleep with the dead.\n\nHe knew there was no way of knowing for certain if the torching of the Scarpehouse was connected to the mummified bodies on the ridge\u2014Scarpe collected enemies like flat roofs collected rain. Yet even if the two events were unrelated, there was still a hard truth to be learned here. The Clan Wars were spiraling out of control. Mace Blackhail had ordered the killing of Orrlsmen. The Scarpe roundhouse had been torched. Ganmiddich had been taken first by Bludd, then by Blackhail. Dhoone survivors were still unhoused and scattered, yet it was only a matter of time before they massed for a strike against Bludd. When would it end? When every guidestone was smashed to rubble and every clansman dead?\n\nRaif looked northeast toward Blackhail. After a few minutes the lines around his mouth hardened, and he went to strip clothes from the corpses.\n\nHE FOUND NO GAME to kill that night. The thought of Ash sitting alone while he hunted kept him close to the camp. The night was dark, and there was no moon showing, and the sky seemed close enough to touch. Wind moving down from the mountains froze the saliva on his teeth and made his eyes stream with stinging tears. His breath glaciated upon his fisher hood within minutes.\n\nHe returned to the camp dragging numb feet in the snow. They had not traveled far from the Orrlsmen, just enough to put the sight of death behind them. Camp was a dry storm channel thatched with willow switches and laid with willow leaves and moss. The clothes Raif had stripped from the Orrlsmen had been beaten free of ice and were now laid over the gelding's back so they would be warm and dry by morning. Ash had offered to help, but he had set her the task of building the fire and preparing the dried fox supper instead. Skin had peeled off with the dead men's clothes, and although it bore little resemblance to living flesh, Raif had not wanted her to see it.\n\nAsh was awake when he entered the shelter, sitting with her knees tucked close to her chest. Smoke choked the air\u2014too much to escape easily from the smoke hole\u2014and Raif could tell by the length and fierceness of the flames that Ash had been feeding the fire.\n\nHe stripped off his gloves and came to kneel beside her. She was shaking as violently as if she'd been pulled from freezing water. \"Here,\" he said, tucking the blankets around her shoulders. \"You need to cover yourself properly.\"\n\nShe smiled weakly. \"No kill tonight?\"\n\n\"No.\" His gaze took in the pile of willow branches he'd collected for firewood; there was no longer enough to last the night. Ash had burned more than half their stock. \"Did the voices come again?\"\n\nShe lowered her head as she nodded. \"They never leave me now. Sometimes they're not strong, and I can push them back. Other times it's as if they're standing right beside me... and I can smell them... and they're cold and their eyes are black and dead. It's so easy, they say. So easy. All you have to do is reach.\"\n\n\"Do you know what they are?\"\n\n\"Men. At least they once were men... it's as if the shadows on the outside have found a way in.\" Ash swallowed hard. \"They hate us, Raif. They've been shut away for so long, and all they can do is imagine what it's like to be free. It's cold there, and no light ever touches them... and they're in chains, and the chains are made of blood. They call me mistress and say they love me, but their words are all lies. There's thousands of them, thousands upon thousands, and each and every one of them is waiting for me to reach.\"\n\nRaif leaned over and fed more willow to the fire. He understood her need for warmth now.\n\nAs yellow flames dripped onto the new wood and the frozen clay walls of the shelter shivered in the changing light, Ash said, \"Why do I exist, Raif? If what I can do is so terrible, why was I born?\"\n\nHer eyes were bright in the firelight. A patch on her bottom lip was red and tattered where she had chewed on it Raif wanted to take her in his arms and crush her until she was warm and safe and unafraid. He wanted to say, It doesn't matter what you are capable of. If you breached the Blindwall this night and let loose an army from the Blind, I would stay by your side and protect you. You are clan to me now. Instead he said, \"All of us are born with the ability to bring death and suffering. Some of us have to fight harder than others to cause no harm.\"\n\nIt was not the answer Ash wanted, yet he could see her thinking as she pushed smoke away from her face. \"You fight it too, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe edged closer to him, so that their shoulders and arms were touching, yet kept her gaze on the fire as she said, \"Why do you stay with me, Raif? You don't want anything from me. There's no reward for taking me to the cavern. We could both die in the cold and the snow, and by the time someone came upon our bodies we'd be like those Orrlsmen on the ridge, blue and white and frozen.\"\n\nRaif sat still and did not speak. How could he answer? Staying with Ash was all he had, yet he could not let her know that. She might pity him... and that was something he had no need for. After a time he leaned forward and stoked the fire with his staff. \"I think we'd better sleep.\"\n\nAsh looked at him without blinking, yet he pretended not to notice as he shouldered down beneath his blanket, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to take him.\n\nThe screaming of the wind woke him before dawn. The fire was long dead, and the temperature in the shelter had dropped below freezing. Ice smoke hung in the air above Raif's body, like a small piece of his soul. He lay still for a while and listened to the wind, as Tem had taught him. The high-pitched whistling told of air forced through mountain passes and needle-thin fissures in rocks. The undertone of white noise, a sound as soft as a mother shssing a baby to sleep, spoke of ice. The wind was full of ice.\n\nAlthough he didn't much feel like it, Raif rose. Pain shot through his hands as he contracted muscles locked by cold. His left eye was frozen shut, and when he rubbed his beard, dead skin and ice crystals flaked into his hand. He needed to heat water and render the last drops of fat from the fox, yet the idea of going outside and collecting more fuel for the fire rested like an undigested meal in his belly. He rubbed his left eye until it ached and scarlet colors bloomed against the inside of his eyelid, and then pried the eye open. Some portion of ice held fast, and as he forced back the lid a handful of eyelashes were plucked clean.\n\nRaif damned the cold.\n\nGathering his blanket around him like a cloak, he crossed to where Ash lay sleeping against the back wall of the shelter. Breaths so shallow they hardly raised her chest exited her mouth with little scraping noises. Raif spoke her name, loudly, afraid she might not wake.\n\nHer eyes blinked open.\n\nRaif concealed his relief. \"It's morning. We must be ready to leave within the quarter. Wrap up well. There's ice on the wind today.\"\n\nHe left her alone then, as he always did, aware that women needed time for themselves after waking. Breaking up the roof thatch, he pulled himself free of the shelter and entered the ice storm beyond. The land was white and shifting, driven by winds that could be seen and touched. Great webs of ice hung from bent and crippled pines, and hoarfrost grew on everything that lived like a plague. The snow underfoot was so hard and dry it snapped like panes of glass beneath Raif's feet.\n\nHead down, arms crossed over his chest, he made his way toward the prostrate willow where he had tethered the horse.\n\nThe gelding was in a bad way. It had not fed during the night. Veins around its mouth and eyes were chilblained and broken, and despite the many blankets and articles of clothing spread over its back, it was shivering violently. As soon as it heard Raif, it whickered softly and came toward him on uncertain legs. Raif stroked the old horse's nose, oddly touched by its desire to be near him.\n\nAsh came out to join them sometime later, huddled in every scrap of skin and wool she could find. The harsh, shadowless light showed up the yellow tones in her skin and made her lips look the same color as her face. She smiled weakly. \"I see now why they call this land the Storm Margin.\"\n\nRaif hardly knew how he managed to smile back. He didn't have the heart to tell her that the Storm Margin didn't begin true until they'd crossed the mountains and entered the strip of land that ran the length of the coast.\n\nAsh motioned to the pile of clothes tucked beneath the gelding's blanket. \"You need to put on some of those things, the ones you took from the...\" She let her words trail away.\n\nDead men, he finished the sentence for her in his mind. Ash shivered as if he had spoken the words out loud. Raif felt like shivering too, but he turned and began unloading the horse instead.\n\nThey fitted well, the dead men's clothes, sitting over his back like garments tailored for him alone. The Orrl cloak he had taken was the same white blue color of snow, and Raif found some small measure of satisfaction in being rendered invisible in the storm. Orrlsmen were famous white-weather hunters, able to feast on fresh meat in the dead of winter when all other clans were grinding their teeth on cured elk. Their badge was the ice hare, and Tem said that no one moved as swiftly and silently through snow as an Orrlsman. Raif touched the cap of his tine out of respect for their skills. Orrl was a hard clan, with a hard clanhold, and it had been loyal to Blackhail for a thousand years.\n\nHe pushed the thought away. What Blackhail did, what any clan did, was not his business now. Forcing his mind into the present, forcing his senses to deal with the storm, he saddled the gelding and prepared for the journey west.\n\nThe dead men's clothes warmed his back.\nFORTY-EIGHT\n\nA Night at Drover Jack's\n\n\"THAT NEW GIRL OF YOURS is a witch,\" said Clyve Wheat.\n\n\"No. An angel,\" corrected Burdale Ruff. \"The ability to know what a man wants before he knows it himself comes from the heavens, not the twelve sheepless hells.\" Burdale Ruff spoiled the eloquence of his words somewhat by belching with great satisfaction at the end of them. With a smile made sloppy by drink, the great hairy eweman apologized, then belched again.\n\nGull Moler could appreciate the compliment inherent in a goodly belch as much as the next man, but the current subject of discussion was of too great an interest to him to risk being diverted by one of Burdale Ruff's infamous aftersupper performances. Before blond-eyebrowed Clyve Wheat and little rat-faced Silas Craw could spoil the conversation by snickering at Burdale's antics, Gull said hotly, \"I'd hardly call Maggy a girl. She's long past the days of pink ribbons and shoes that pinch. She's a widow, you know. A widow.\"\n\nClyve Wheat, who was not as drunk as Burdale Ruff yet no cleverer for it, nudged Silas Craw with such force that the little eweman nearly fell from the beer cask he had taken to sitting upon in light of the shortage of chairs. \"A widow, he says! A widow! Well, all I can say to that is she must have wed before she was weaned from the teat. For I tell you now that woman is no older than my sister Bell.\"\n\nSilas Craw, who had righted himself with the quick, ferrety action of a man well used to being pushed, grunted in agreement. \"Bell!\" he said with feeling. Everyone waited, but he said no more.\n\nGull Moler frowned as he looked from man to man. They were blind stinking drunk, the lot of them. What did they know about women and women's ages? With a sniff he judged fitting to his position as owner-proprietor, Gull squeezed his well-fed body between Burdale Ruff's and Clyve Wheat's chairs and began rounding up the empty tankards, pitchers, and serving bowls sitting on the table.\n\nBurdale Ruff caught his arm as he withdrew. \"Taken a fancy to our Maggy, have ye, Gull?\"\n\nHaving been owner and sole proprietor of Drover Jack's for fourteen years, Gull Moler was well accustomed to drunks and drunken talk. Experience told him the best way to deal with a man who was overpotted and overopinionated was to purse your lips in deep thought and then proclaim loudly, \"Aye! You might well be right.\" Nothing took the fight from a man like agreement. Yet in this instance Gull could not bring himself to agree. Not about Maggy. It just wasn't right.\n\nHe cleared his throat. \"Maggy's a decent woman, Burdale Ruff. Keeps herself to herself. I won't have you upsetting her with drunken comments and low talk.\" As he spoke, Gull tried to keep his voice low, but as always happened in taverns when conflict between men erupted, wind of it passed from patron to patron like the scent of a good pork pie. By the time he'd finished his last sentence, he was speaking in a silent room. Gull was suddenly aware he was hot. The three dozen patrons of Drover Jack's, many of them still wet and steaming from exposure to the storm that raged outside, waited to see what Burdale Ruff would do.\n\nBurdale Ruff was not the largest man in the Three Villages\u2014that honor went to dim-witted Brod Haunch, who broke rocks for a living\u2014but by far he was the most feared. He was an unpredictable drunk: the worst kind. He could switch from jest to threat in less time than it took to draw a pint. Gull could feel Burdale's big, sausage-shaped fingers pressing into his arm. The eweman's small eyes shrank to pinpoints, and suddenly he did not look drunk. Without releasing his grip on Gull's arm, he kicked out the table to give himself space to stand.\n\nGull spared a thought for the table legs; they would need to be sanded then polished. Burdale Ruff's wet, peaty-smelling breath brushed Gull's cheeks. The knuckles on Burdale's free hands cracked one by one as he curled a fist. Gull feared broken chairs and broken tables. Blood on his fine oak floor. Bent pewter. Spilled beer. Patrons who might leave without paying full due. It was only as Burdale Ruff's right arm\u2014muscled like a bull's throat from the machinelike action of shearing sheep\u2014made the small retraction necessary for a big punch that it occurred to Gull Moler to fear for himself.\n\nHe closed his eyes. Prayed to the spirits of tavernkeepers past to save his chairs, his tankards, his hide.\n\nWith eyes closed he did not see what happened next. Footsteps tapped across the wood floor, their rhythm coming to an abrupt end with a woman's cry of pain. A chair toppled with a mighty crack. A clamor of noise followed as metal tankards bounced off tables and hard objects dropped to the floor. Clyve Wheat hissed loudly, \"Damn it!\"\n\nGull risked opening his eyes. Maggy Sea stood to the side of him, bending over to rub her ankle, an empty tray pressed to her chest. \"Forgive me, gentle sirs,\" she said in her most golden-toned voice. \"I twisted my ankle on Farmer's Lane this morning. I never thought it would betray me tonight.\"\n\nGull followed her gaze to where Clyve Wheat and Silas Craw sat at Burdale Ruff's table, soaked to their skins and dripping ale. Their hair was plastered to their heads, their eweman's mustaches dangled over their lips like limp bits of rope, and puddles were forming where their elbows touched table wood. Gull blinked in astonishment. Maggy Sea had flung a whole tray's worth of beer at them. Miraculously, it would occur to him only later, without spilling one drop on Burdale Ruff.\n\nGull's attention snapped back to Burdale as a queer puff of sound exited the eweman's lips. Burdale was not looking at Gull. Burdale was looking at his two drinking companions. His fist was still clenched, but there was air between his fingers. For one frozen moment all was still. None of the thirty-six patrons in the tavern moved or spoke. Burdale Ruff stood, breathed, deliberated.\n\nThen laughed. It was like watching a volcano erupt. Burdale's large mouth flew open, his nostrils flared, his head came back, and a sound like rocks exploding from a summit came forth from his lips. Most importantly to Gull, he released his grip on Gull's arm and slapped his fist on his own large belly as he rocked back and forth in merriment. Within seconds everyone in the tavern was laughing. Tears came to one man's eyes. Another laughed until he choked, and another still fell under the table, where he laughed until his wife put her boot to his throat.\n\nGull Moler never laughed at customers; it wasn't good for business. Instead he frowned at the puddles of ale on the table and floor, while attempting to work out his losses. For some reason, though, the sums that usually came so easily to him got muddled in his head, and all he could think of was Burdale Ruff's fist.\n\nMaggy Sea wasn't laughing, either. She had put down her tray and was now, very discreetly, mopping up the mess. In the ten days she had worked at Drover Jack's, Gull had never known her to spill as much as a thimble's worth of ale. Now this. Gull looked at her more sharply. Had she done it on purpose to divert Burdale Ruff's attention?\n\n\"Aye! Maggy,\" said Burdale Ruff. \"Let me give ye a hand with that. You need to rest that ankle. I was on Farmer's Lane myself two days back, and it's as potholed as my father's arse. It's a wonder you didn't break a leg.\"\n\nGull Moler watched in astonishment as Burdale Ruff bent down on all fours and began collecting the pewter tankards that had rolled to the floor. The small speech he had made marked the end of the entertainment, and patrons turned back to their own tables with the swiftness of rats bailing ship. Gull, suddenly realizing he had been standing and staring for far too long, shook himself and headed to the back to fetch towels.\n\nTen days Maggy Sea had been here. Ten days without a single fight. Business had never been better or run smoother. The beer taps were clean enough to pump mother's milk. The oak floor shone like a serving platter, and the wick oil in the lanterns had been forced through a wire cloth so fine that it burned almost entirely free of smoke. All Maggy's doing. She had improved the quality of food served, rising before dawn each day to cook fresh beans, pea and bacon soup, and lamb shanks crusted with mint\u2014she even baked her own bread! She had cleaned and varnished the Drover Jack's sign, unclogged the storm drains, located an old and mysterious leak in the roof and mended it with cordage as a sailor would a ship, and even taken to distilling the barrel dregs and making a rough but surprisingly palatable wheat liquor from them that she had christened Moler's Brew. All in all the woman was a wonder.\n\nWhy then did Gull feel an itch of unease as he took the warm towels from the kettle and turned to face the tavern once more?\n\nShe was so quiet; that was the thing. The words she had spoken just now to Clyve Wheat and Silas Craw were the most she'd said all night. And then there was the queer business of her appearance. Fancy Clyve Wheat calling her a girl! Why, she was at least as old as Clyve Wheat's mother and very probably older than Gull himself. Or was she? It was so very hard to tell.\n\nHer plain face inspired no male admirers, but her skill at hearth and beer keg was becoming something of a local myth. It was already drawing patrons from the Ewe's Feet. Good ones, mind. Men with trades. The kind who brought their wives and elder daughters with them and always paid in coin there and then.\n\nGull Moler only had to look around his tavern to see the way things were changing for the better. Maggy was a treasure. Just tonight she'd stopped a fight that had threatened not only his tables and chairs, but his own good health as well. And looking down upon the puddles of spilled ale, Gull saw that it was yellow-oat: the least expensive brew that Drover Jack's offered. Unease forgotten, Gull congratulated his own good luck. Maggy Sea even spilled ale with good sense!\n\nAs he handed over warm towels to Clyve Wheat and Silas Craw, he noticed that Maggy was speaking to a patron who had just walked through the door. The fact that it was clearly Maggy who was doing the talking, not the newcomer, took Gull by surprise. A small twinge of possessiveness bent muscles in his chest as he watched Maggy's lip graze the newcomer's ear.\n\nA hand came down upon Gull's shoulder with considerable force. \"Gull! Friends, eh? I canna say what came over me, great fool that I am. I wouldna hit ye, ye know that. And if I had, I surely would've missed.\" Burdale Ruff stepped into Gull's line of vision, grinning like a charming and very naughty child. He pressed coins into Gull's hand. \"For beer lost, my friend. Better that than friendship, eh?\"\n\nGull pulled himself together. Burdale Ruff was a troublemaker, yet where he drank all the other ewemen in the Three Villages drank, too. Gull made a show of refusing the coins but ultimately accepted them: When a man offered you a gift it was an insult not to accept it. Gull knew this. He also knew that Burdale Ruff would have hit him and would not have missed. Yet he was owner-proprietor of Drover Jack's and as such could afford to bear no grudges. He made an effort. \"Aye, Bear. You're a good man to think of my loss. Step over to the counter wi' me and let's share a dram of malt.\" The malt would cost him more than Burdale Ruff's coins, but that was the way of things in tavern life.\n\nOnly when he had filled two wooden thumb-cups with liquor did he remember Maggy and the man she had been speaking with. He glanced toward the door. The man was sitting with a crew. Now that his face was better situated to catch light, Gull recognized him as one of the patrons newly come from the Ewe's Feet. Thurlo Pike. Tradesman. A roofer, if Gull remembered rightly, one with fat pockets and a mouth to match. Gull struck cups with Burdale Ruff. Thurlo Pike was speaking with another of the Ewe's Feet crew, laughing loudly at a jest of his own making.\n\n\"That Thurlo Pike's in for a good season,\" Burdale Ruff said, following Gull's gaze.\n\nGull finished his malt before striking an expression pf mild interest. \"How's that, Bear?\"\n\n\"Roofer, ain't he? What with the winds and late thaws we've been having around here, he'll be lining his pockets with master's gold. Near everyone's roof is rotted or missing tiles. Take me own roof\u2014leaks like a woman on the rag. 'Cording to Silas, Thurlo's the only roofer in the Three Villages who has a ladder tall enough to reach anything higher than an outhouse. And he's known for his tools. When his mother died and left him four gold pieces, he buried the poor woman in an apple crate and spent the money saved on a good set of hand chisels and a lathe. Never looked back since. 'Cept to watch for his mother's vengeful spirit, o'course.\"\n\nSmiling in appreciation of the jest, Gull sat and waited for Burdale to finish his measure of malt. Idle tavern talk was exchanged, and much nodding and agreement passed between the two. Then, when Gull judged the mutual show of goodwill sufficient, he poured Burdale a second dram of malt and bade him sit and savor it while he rose and tended to business.\n\nBurdale surprised Gull by catching his arm for the second time that night. \"You're a good man, Gull Moler. And you run a good tavern. If I ever take a strike at you again, may the door of the dark house come tumbling down and the wralls ride out and take me.\"\n\nGull felt ice slide down his spine. Burdale's words were old ones, said by people of the Three Villages for generations. Gull did not know where they came from or what they meant, but to hear them sworn in oath in his tavern made him afraid. Words had power, everyone knew that, and once something was spoken it could not be unsaid.\n\nIt cost Gull much to hold his smile as he disengaged his arm from Burdale's grip. The malt rested as uneasy as sour vinegar upon his stomach, and even the knowledge that Burdale Ruff and his crew were more closely bound to Drover Jack's than ever before did little to repair his spirits.\n\nWhen he came upon Maggy Sea by the soup kettle, where she was skimming the fat, he spoke more harshly than was his wont. \"Maggy. Run upstairs and fetch me my wool coat. It's passing cold in here tonight.\"\n\nMaggy Sea regarded him with eyes that might have been green or gray. With fingers that were never dirty despite the hard nature of her work, she rubbed the faintest sheen of sweat from her brow. Gull felt his cheeks color. Yet even though her actions demonstrated the warmth of the kitchen area, she simply nodded and said, \"Aye. 'Tis a bite cold near the door.\"\n\nWhere Thurlo Pike is sitting, added Gull to himself with a second guilty flush. He looked up, half expecting Maggy Sea's knowing gaze to be resting on the Ewe's Feet roofer, but she had already turned for the stairs. Gull felt a tiny bit of relief. He did not like deception and knew quite well he was not good at it, yet his position as owner-proprietor often called for small lies. A man could not manage thirty-six drunken patrons on truth alone. Still. This was different. Gull knew that, yet it did not stop him from hastening toward Thurlo Pike the moment Maggy Sea's small neatly shod feet disappeared from view.\n\n\"Gentlemen! May I take the liberty of welcoming you to Drover Jack's on this bleak and stormy night.\" As Gull spoke, the small crew of Ewe's Feet regulars ceased speaking among themselves and turned to look at him. Gull smiled warmly and then continued. \"I'm Gull Moler, owner-proprietor of this humble establishment, and if there's anything I can do to increase your comfort or your bellies' girth, speak up and let me know.\"\n\nThurlo Pike leaned back in his chair. \"Aye! You can tell us where Drover Jack is!\" A hard burst of laughter united the Ewe's Feet crew. Thurlo Pike, who was dressed in expensive fabric cheaply dyed and wore a beaver collar to warm his red and pimpled neck, smirked in satisfaction at his own wit.\n\nGull was well used to such teasing about the name of his establishment, yet for some reason he found it difficult to retain his normal good humor. \"There never was a Drover Jack, gentlemen. 'Tis but a name my late departed wife picked on account of its favorable sound.\" Back in the days when me and Peg still hoped of having a son and dreamt of naming the two the same.\n\nThurlo Pike sucked air until his cheeks hollowed. \"Let me get this settled. Your name's not Jack, and no offense, friend, but you look too well fed to be a drover. So what you're really saying is that there's no truth to the sign above your door.\" One of the Ewe's Feet crew snickered. Thurlo polished his fingernails on his beaver collar as he delivered his final sting. \"How then can we be sure that when we ask for best dark stout we're getting it? And not last night's slops instead.\"\n\nGull had to force his teeth together to stop himself from crying, \"Outside!\" Jests about his tavern's name he could stand. Comments about his girth were something that pained him less with each passing year. But when someone brought into question his integrity as owner-proprietor of Drover Jack's, it was like a dagger in his heart. He was not by nature a violent man, but for an instant he entertained the wild image of smashing Thurlo Pike in the teeth. Drover Jack's was an honest tavern, where a man could purchase an honest beer and an honest supper and take warmth from the hearth for free. And its owner-proprietor had never topped a barrel in his life. Now this roofer from the Ewe's Feet was sitting before him, as cocky as a trapper with a mink in his snare, suggesting just that.\n\nGull cleared his throat. \"I'd never take it upon myself to thatch a roof, Thurlo Pike, and unless you fancy stoking my fire and cleaning my taps, then I suggest you leave the business of tavernkeeping to me.\"\n\nA murmur of approval rose from the Ewe's Feet crew. The crewman who had snickered moments earlier\u2014a small but muscular apprentice potter named Slip\u2014said, \"Aye, Thurlo. The man has the right of it.\"\n\nThurlo Pike said nothing. Gull watched as he finished his ale with slow insolence, wiped the foam from his lips, then stood. \"I think I'll be heading back to the Ewe's Feet. At least there a man's free to make a jest without worry that the help may take offense.\" With that, he flicked over his pewter tankard, sending it rolling across the table toward Gull, and stalked out the door.\n\nGull stood and suffered the blast of wind and snow that accompanied the man's exit. What was wrong with him tonight? In less time than it took to bake a loaf of bread he'd nearly talked himself into two separate fights. It was all very upsetting. Very upsetting indeed. As a reflex action, Gull righted the upturned tankard and wiped away the spilled droplets with his sleeve.\n\n\"Don't mind him,\" said the apprentice potter, wagging his head toward the door. \"He's not much loved wherever he goes. Dorri May over at the Ewe's Feet won't be thanking you for sending him back. Thought she'd got rid of him for the night, she did.\"\n\nGull made a noise.\n\n\"Besides, you wouldn't want him getting too friendly with your new girl. What with her being so highly spoke of and all. He'd only bring trouble to you both.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Aye. Thurlo's got his eye on her all right. Boasting away, he was. Telling her how he's working all the local roofs, making enough money to buy himself a horse and cart. He mentioned one job up near the oldgrowth forest, you know, on the far side of Buck Stream. Said there's a house full of women up there. Last week's storms pulled part of their chimney down, and Thurlo's planning on making them pay through the nose, what with them being women and all.\"\n\nGull found his wits. \"And Maggy was interested in this?\"\n\nThe apprentice potter shrugged. Particles of clay dust sifted from his sleeves onto the table. \"With women who can tell? I think she only asked the family's name out of politeness.\"\n\nIt was tavern talk then\u2014a man bragging and a woman listening\u2014the kind of thing that Gull Moler saw and heard every day of his life. He should have felt better for knowing it, but the memory of Maggy Sea's dry flinty teeth near Thurlo Pike's ear disturbed him in a way he had no words for. Gull suddenly wished the night were over. He was tired, and his legs felt shaky beneath him. He put a hand on the table to steady himself. Even now he found himself unable to set aside his owner-proprietor obligation of providing congenial conversation. A man, a patron, sat before him, having just said something that required a reply. Gull searched for a way to turn the conversation away from Maggy Sea. \"And who might this family who lives in the woods be?\"\n\nThe apprentice potter ran a gray and powdery hand across the table, wiping away his own dust. \"I don't think Thurlo knew. To be honest, I think it upset him that Maggy asked a question he had no answer for\u2014you know how some men are. Should have seen his chest get all bloated up as he tried to tell her something else of interest instead. To listen to him tell it, the womenfolk who work the farm are all of passing beauty, and with the husband away for the season on a whaler, the wife and eldest daughter are desperate for a man.\"\n\nGull's expression let the apprentice potter know what he thought of that. Reaching beyond the man, he collected more tankards in readiness to withdraw. \"Well. Houseful of women or not, Thurlo Pike will be hard put to practice his trade in this weather. Burdale Ruff reckons the storms won't clear for a week.\"\n\n\"Aye. Well, that won't bother Thurlo. He told the women he was full pressed for the next five days. It's one of his tricks... makes himself seem busier and more in demand than he actually is. You know how these things go: For an extra silver piece I'll fit you in between jobs.\"\n\nGull frowned. And this from the same man who had dared question the honesty of Drover Jack's! Moving away from the table, he raised his voice to address all the remaining Ewe's Feet crew. \"Well, I'll be off now to tend the stove. Can't risk it burning out on a night like this. Nay, gentlemen. Keep your seats. I'll send Maggy with a round.\" Gull glanced at the empty cups in his hands, his expert eyes discerning the exact quality of ales drunk from the scum of froth around each rim. He made a quick calculation. \"On the house.\"\n\nThat ensured him a fond farewell. It was such a relief to have patrons feeling nothing but goodwill toward him that Gull almost didn't care about the cost. Besides, only one of them had been drinking his best stout.\n\n\"Gull.\"\n\nGull turned and came face-to-face with Maggy Sea. She was so close, he could smell her. She smelled of ice and stone and other hard things.\n\n\"Your coat.\"\n\n\"Oh. Yes. Thank you, Maggy.\" For some reason Gull found himself fumbling. Maggy Sea was just so... . intense. That was the word. Her eyes seemed to focus more deeply than most, and she possessed no capacity for gaiety or humor. She smiled when conversation called for it, yet Gull had never heard her laugh.\n\nHer deeply set eyes never left him for a moment as she handed over the coat. The material was as cool as if it had not been handled, merely picked straight up from the floor. \"Should I see to the fire?\" she asked, her teeth making little biting actions as she spoke.\n\nGull collected himself. \"No, Maggy. See to the Ewe's Feet crew over there. I've promised them a round on the house.\"\n\nMaggy Sea nodded. \"Gull, I'd like half a day to myself next week. I need to go to market and purchase some good winter boots. I should be back in time for the evening trade\" Teeth, dry as fingernails, flashed in the firelight. \"I'll expect my wages to be duly docked.\"\n\nSo put, Gull Moler had no choice but to consent.\nFORTY-NINE\n\nIce Wolves\n\nTHE MULE-EARED HORSE COLLAPSED on the fifth day. Without a sharp knife or a stout length of rope, it was not going to be easy to destroy it.\n\nFreezing winds blasted Raif's face as he stroked the animal's neck. The high mountain valley they had come to was choked with compacted ridges of ice. It was not a glacier, for the field was not deep or old enough to be named so, but the creak and rumble of grinding ice filled the air. Directly below, the Wolf River ran slow and narrow beneath a partially frozen crust. The sheets of ice floating upon its surface were as black as night, smoothed to glass by the continuous movements of river currents and wind. Overhead, the sky was white with suspended snow.\n\nRaif met eyes with Ash. She sat with her body pressed against the gelding's naked belly, sharing what little warmth she had with the dying horse. The journey through the mountains had visibly weakened her, and she could not hold Raif's gaze for long without dropping her head and looking down. Raif searched his mind for some new way to help her, to keep her warm and protected and out of reach of the voices that hounded her. Yet there was nothing to do but deliver her swiftly to the Cavern of Black Ice.\n\nAbruptly he bit on the tip of his mitt to remove it and then pulled the elkhide belt from his waist. With a twist of his wrist he tied a hard knot beneath the velvety flesh of the animal's chin, binding its jaw closed. The old horse jerked its head in protest, but the frozen snow beneath its flank was leeching away its will to fight, and it did not strain for long. Raif filled his fist with snow and began packing it around the gelding's nose. Gradually, over the course of many minutes, he blocked the creature's nostrils, running his scarred hands over the snow until meltwater glistened on the surface. Within seconds it hard-froze to ice.\n\nThe effort of drawing air through the ice pack proved too great for the failing horse, and it died within the quarter. Raif watched its huge dark eye turn dull and gelid, then rose to fetch his knife from his pack.\n\nAs his hand closed around the limewood hilt, he heard Ash's boots crunching snow at his back. \"No, Raif. Don't butcher him. Not with that dull knife. Not like that.\"\n\nRaif turned to face her. \"Look away. I have not made a kill in three days. We have no food save for a few berries and a scrap of smoked meat.\"\n\n\"Please.\" The light in Ash's eyes wavered as she spoke, and for a moment he was reminded sharply of the dying horse.\n\nRelaxing muscles in his hand, he let the knife drop. He had not intended to butcher the horse\u2014his blade was not keen enough for that\u2014but he had wanted to bleed the animal while it was still warm and collect its blood in a skin. Horse blood was rich in goodness and fat.\n\n\"Let's just leave him here. He was a good horse.\" Ash made a small motion with her hand. \"It wouldn't be right to open him.\"\n\nNo, he thought. We'll leave the wolves to do that. Aloud he said, \"We should be moving on. It'll be dark soon. I want to camp by the river tonight.\"\n\nShe looked at him for a moment, trying to decide if there was anger in his voice, then nodded slowly. \"I'll fetch the blankets from the horse.\"\n\nRaif spared no time wondering if she considered his actions cruel. It was too cold for thought. Any clansman would butcher a fallen animal in the same conditions. There was tragedy in eating one's own horse, but no shame.\n\nPulling his mitts over the hard chilblained flesh of his hands, he watched as Ash moved around the gelding. The voices might take her at any time. Twice in the night he'd had to shake her until bones in her neck cracked. It was becoming harder to wake her, and he lived in fear of the day when no amount of shaking would bring her back.\n\nStooping as he walked into the wind, he went to reclaim his belt from the horse. Ash was sitting in the snow. She had begun the work of unleashing the blankets but had stopped short of pulling them free. When he approached her she smiled like a sleepy child. Gently he helped her to stand. In a soft voice he bade her stamp her feet until he was done with the horse. His face betrayed no worry to her, yet he recognized the first symptoms of cold sickness. The smile she had given him was one of contentment. Left on her own, she would have curled up by the horse's corpse and slept.\n\nKeeping an ear to the sound of her stamping feet, he rethreaded his belt and hung his antler tine in place.\n\nCold sickness could kill a man as surely as a fall through broken ice yet keep a smile on his face as it did so. Sleep, it said. Rest for a bit, just here in this soft bank of snow, and I promise all your hurts will pass. With the sickness upon him a man could swear to the Stone Gods that he was warm, believe it so completely that he loosened his collar and tugged down his hood. And all the while his heart was slowing like a failing clock and his feet were turning yellow with ice. \"Cold sickness is like a whore with a knife,\" Gat Murdock was fond of saying. \"Drugs you with sweet words and sweet feelings and then stabs you with her knife.\"\n\nRaif stayed at Ash's side during the descent from the high meadow. He asked her questions about her life in Mask Fortress, the city itself, Penthero Iss. She was too tired to speak for long on any subject, yet he pressed her for details, forced her to remember, think. He considered laying one of the horse blankets over her back for extra warmth, but he wasn't sure she could bear the weight Many times she slowed and asked to rest, yet he shook his head and told her, \"Just a little more.\"\n\nWhenever they came upon a wide expanse of snow, Raif tested its depth with his willow staff. One fall and they would both be done.\n\nThe ascent to the pass had been easy up to a point. The Wolf River retained walkable gravel banks for a fair portion of the way, until a hundred-foot wall of granite rose from its waters, sheer as the tallest cliff. They had been forced to climb for half a day to reach the top of the wind-carved bluff and take the pass. The west side of the pass was a breaking ground of split rock, frozen waterfalls, gravel beds, and drifted snow. Most surfaces were stippled with hoarfrost. All edges had been scoured by the wind.\n\nRaif fought hard to keep his mind in the now. Ash was weaker than he; the sickness that poisoned her blood and robbed the color from her skin made her more susceptible to the altitude and the cold. But that did not mean he was immune. Several times he caught himself drifting away from the present on the wave of a collapsing thought. So far he had managed to pull himself back, but the fear of lethargy was present and real. He could not afford to let his mind drift.\n\nAsh was what mattered. Keeping Ash safe.\n\nA path of sorts, a game track used by horned sheep in high summer, wound down through the cliff to the river and the Storm Margin below. Through chinks in the clouds, Raif spotted the dark body of a bloodwood forest far to the south. The mighty red-barked trees were the tallest living things in the Territories, and they grew only in the wet, foggy slopes of the southern margin. Every summer men and women from the clanholds made the journey west and then south to purchase timber from the Cold Axes who lived in their high timber halls amid the trees. Croser was the only clan that had riverboats capable of hauling the raw timber upstream. All other clans paid freightage to the Master of Ille Glaive.\n\nWhen Raif turned his gaze north, he saw nothing but white snow clouds. Mount Flood and the Hollow River were out there, yet he could not be sure where either of them lay. Clan knowledge ended here.\n\n\"I miss Angus,\" Ash said. \"I wish he were here with us.\"\n\nRaif dragged his hand over his face. Her words robbed a portion of his strength. \"We've come so far without him. We'll manage the rest of the way.\"\n\n\"He will be all right, won't he?\"\n\nRaif forced himself to reassure her. How could she know that the mention of Angus' name cut him\u2014she who had no kin?\n\nThe last hour of the descent was undertaken during a long bloody sunset that turned the surrounding mist pink and made west-facing snowbanks look like killing fields. The Wolf River ran dark and silent, unaffected by the failing light. The wind died and the air cooled, and the first wolf cries rose above the grinding of the ice. Raif wondered how long it would take the pack to find the horse.\n\nHe and Ash did not speak much after the words about Angus. They were a good two hundred feet below the high meadow, and the risk of cold and altitude sickness was now less, despite the drop in the temperature. Besides, the final descent was tricky, pitted with bog holes and wet ice, and concentrating on avoiding falls seemed mental exercise enough.\n\nRaif watched Ash every second. Her cloak was weighted with frost, and the fur around her hood was stiff and white. Every so often she swayed with the wind, and Raif would reach over and steady her, disguising the gesture as a casual touch or a gentle reminder to stay on the path. Toward the end of the descent her legs began to buckle and she started missing steps, and it seemed natural to put his arm around her shoulder and take her weight as his own.\n\nBy the time they reached the river, ice smoke steaming off the surface made it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The air was colder than the black, oily water, and the river would steam through the night. Raif could not find the will to search for a proper campsite and settled upon the first bluff that afforded shelter from the wind. Ash slipped in and out of consciousness as he hacked at the resin-preserved remains of a frost-killed willow. The only thing that kept him from stopping what he was doing and tending her was the cold certainty that she needed heat from the fire more than any words of comfort from him.\n\nIt took forever for the fire to catch. Raif couldn't stop his hands from shaking as he cupped and blew on the pine needle kindling. When the fire finally took and bright little fingers of light shivered around the wood, he set snow to melt over the hottest part of the flames, then turned his attention to Ash. She had fallen fast asleep, bundled up in the roughest horse blanket, her hooded head resting against the smooth belly of a basalt boulder. He meant to wake her; she needed to drink, to eat, to take off her boots and beat the ice from her stockings and the inside of her collar and hood. Yet somehow he didn't. She was resting easy, and for the first time that day the muscles in her face were fully relaxed. Quietly he set about securing the camp for the night. The fire would warm her soon enough.\n\nAfter a portion of the night had passed, he wrapped himself in the second blanket and slept.\n\nWhen he woke Ash the next morning, she did not know who he was. Her eyes were as dull as gray clay. Skin around her mouth was shedding, and the yellowing of her flesh had spread to her tongue and gums.\n\nRaif felt the fear rise within him. He shook her. \"Ash!\"\n\nHer eyes flickered at the sound of her name. Raif fought the desire to shake her harder. Instead he pulled her up by her shoulders and spoke in a firm voice. \"You must ready yourself to leave now. We have to make our way north, to Mount Flood.\"\n\nLips shrunk by dehydration mouthed the word, \"Flood.\"\n\nRaif's breath drained out of him. She was standing, that would have to be enough. Holding on to her with one hand, he reached back until his fingers found the warmth of the tin bowl that contained the snowmelt. \"Drink this.\"\n\nShe took the bowl from him and drank it dry. Water spilled down her chin, but she didn't seem to notice and made no effort to wipe it away when she was done.\n\n\"Stay here while I roll the blankets and store my pack.\" Raif guided her back to the basalt boulder where she'd slept. He could feel the heat of her body through a double layer of wool. \"If you need to relieve yourself, do it here in the warmth... .\" Heat of a different kind burned his face. \"I won't look.\"\n\nHe did not know if she understood him. Her eyes were focused somewhere else.\n\nWhen all was done and the fire was kicked cold, its remains buried beneath the snow, he came for her again. She was sitting with her chin slumped against her chest. Her hands were dropped against her thighs, mitted fingers curled tight. He took her arm. \"Ash. We've got to go now. Remember?\"\n\nIt was like leading a ghost from the grave.\n\nThe day began like the last one had ended: with ice mist peeling off the river and the hidden sun turning everything red. The wind was sharp but not unbearable, breaking up grease ice on the river's surface and shifting drifts back and forth between the trees and raised ground. The air stank of snow. Raif kept an eye to the thick featureless clouds as he traveled: This was no time for a storm.\n\nAsh walked, in a manner. She shivered uncontrollably, her body too weak to counter the reflex action, yet somehow she retained the will to keep moving. Raif wrapped an arm around her waist and took as much of her weight as he could, but it was her own determination that placed one foot in front of the other and made her walk.\n\nRaif wondered how much she was aware of. He spoke to her, but she made no reply. He looked into her eyes, but the shadows he saw living there soon made him look away.\n\nWithin an hour of breaking camp, they parted company with the river that had led them this far. The great channel of black water headed west toward the sea, where choked ice in its channel formed a delta each spring. Raif was sorry to leave its banks, but his route took him northward, and there was no time to spare on sentiment for the river that was known throughout the clanholds as the Sum of All Streams.\n\nMist lifted over the course of the morning to reveal a landscape of black basalt spires, sheared cliffs, valleys pocked with frost boils and hummocks, floodways blocked with ice rubble, and dead and calcified pines sunk half into the ground like beached whales. No bloodwoods grew this far north, or if they did they were no longer recognizable as the sure and towering trees that were more highly valued than livestock in the clanholds. The trees that did grow were beaten to their knees by the wind, their trunks smooth as polished stone, their limbs webbed with mistletoe, whose pale fruits shone like opals and were poisonous to man.\n\nHard granite mountains rode the east and northern horizons, and Raif's gaze traveled from peak to peak, looking for the glacier-pressed form of Mount Flood. The wind stung tears from his eyes, and inside his gloves his hands hurt like all the hells. According to Angus and Heritas Cant, the Hollow River lay at the base of Mount Flood, fed each spring by a flow of snow and glacier melt so great that it broke mountains. Raif wasn't sure what state the river would be in now. Rivers fed by a single source often froze or ran dry by midwinter, but nothing was certain this far north. Sudden changes in the weather, hot springs, or swift currents could keep a river flowing through to spring.\n\nRaif stripped off his gloves and massaged his hands. The cold made his eyes slow to change focus from the distant mountains to the nearness of his fingers. Weariness tugged him down. If he could just rest for a little while... sleep...\n\nHe snapped back with a start, suddenly aware that Ash's weight was no longer upon him. She had slid to the ground and was now kneeling in the snow. Raif cursed his own weakness. How could he have been stupid enough to close his eyes for even a moment? Anger made him rough with himself, and he thrust his gloves over fingers that were shadowed yellow and gray with early frostbite.\n\n\"Ash\" His throat was raw as he spoke her name. Crouching, he touched flesh as cold and rigid as tent hide pegged out in a storm. A chill took him, and he placed a hand upon the back of her neck and drew her head against his. Her eyes were closed, and her throat muscles were pumping, and he smelled the sorcery upon her like liquor.\n\nThe coolness of her skin was slowly replaced with something else. Raif heard the murmur of voices. Reach, mistresses , they whispered. So dark here, so cold. Reach.\n\nHe could not help but pull back. Clan had no word for the sound of those voices. They were the hissings of insane things. What sort of men were they, these creatures who lived in the Blind? Heritas Cant had spoken about shadows and other vague things, but it seemed to Raif that he'd left too much unsaid. Shadows could not hold a sword and kill a man, yet why did he think these things could?\n\nRaif let the thought go. He could not think about that now. Forcing numb hands to grapple with his pack, he searched for something to use as a gag. Wind howled, rushing under Ash's cloak and whipping it hard against her back. Suddenly rocks and trees grew shadows, gliding across the snow like living things. Ash's lips parted, and the power massed upon her tongue turned day into night.\n\nNo. Raif moved so quickly he crashed into her, sending them both falling back into the snow. He had a whole blanket in his hand, and he pushed what he could of it into her mouth, shoving the pool of blackness back. When he could no longer fit any more wool into her mouth, he spread his weight full out upon her, pinning her arms and legs.\n\nRaif did not know how long they lay there, their bodies forming a cross in the snow. He knew only that his breath slowed and his body cooled, and when the first snowflakes fell upon his eyelids they roused him to a world where day and night had merged into the grayness of a false dawn. Ash's hood had slipped during the fall, and pale strands of hair blew around her face. Raif spoke her name, knowing that she would not respond yet unable to stop himself. He rolled off her, brushing ice crystals from his shoulders and elbows. Working cold cramps from his muscles, he fixed his pack to his back, jammed his willow staff under his belt, and settled his dead man's cloak in place. A lone wolf howled beyond the horizon.\n\nWhen he was ready, Raif knelt in the snow and lifted Ash to his chest... then continued the journey north.\n\nMAGDALENA CROUCH WAITED in shadows the color of slate. Thurlo Pike had told her to meet him inside the Ewe's Feet, not outside in the storm-darkened street, but for reasons of her own she chose not to enter the tavern at this time. Besides, no one ever told the Crouching Maiden what to do.\n\nShe knew him from his footsteps. The man spent money on clothes, not shoes, and the uneven tread of mismatched soles, poorly mended, gave him away before he turned into the street. The maiden was ready for him with a soft word sure to please: \"Thurlo.\"\n\nAll men liked the sound of their own names, but some especially so. Thurlo Pike was one of the latter, and turned his head so quickly that for a moment the pale skin around his neck was bared, ready to take a knife. The maiden smacked her lips so softly it sounded like a kiss. She waited a moment, for she knew nothing interested a man more than mystery, then stepped into the light. \"Over here.\" A slim finger, closely sheathed in leather so highly polished it looked wet, beckoned him forth.\n\nThurlo Pike, roofer, joiner, and rogue, recognized Maggy Sea, then frowned. \"Get inside, Maggy. It's cold enough to freeze arse hair.\"\n\nMagdalena took a step forward, but only because she wanted to. \"I can't go in there, Thurlo. Gull would send me packing if I did. You saw what he's like.\"\n\nThough in fact all Thurlo Pike had seen of Gull Moler was a man mildly affronted when the good name of his tavern was brought into question, he was quick to nod his head. Men always made monsters of their enemies; Magdalena knew that. It was one of her tricks. Thurlo snorted air. \"All right. All right. But you'd better make this quick. If you had balls swinging beneath that skirt of yours, not fresh air, you wouldn't be so quick to do business outside on a day like this.\"\n\nThe maiden smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. As the roofer approached she moved farther back into the dark space between buildings. The walls of the Ewe's Feet were dry-laid flint, and it was a testament to the man who'd built them that even without aid of mortar or sand he'd managed to construct such flat, ice-resistant plains. Magdalena Crouch appreciated good workmanship, no matter what the trade. She continued edging back until Thurlo Pike's beaver pelt mitts caught and held her arm.\n\n\"What you playing at? I'm not going no further than this.\"\n\nMagdalena Crouch had killed many times, but only once out of anger. It was something she wished never to do again. With a quick, almost powerless movement, she moved her arm toward the roofer's chest, causing his wrist to twist to such a degree that he was forced to let her go. After he released her, she continued flaying her arms in panic, as if unaware of what she had done. \"Very well,\" she said. \"Tell me your secrets here.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she glanced into the street. All was quiet. The hour of gray light that occurred before a storm was in some ways better than true darkness itself. Smugglers, thieves, prostitutes, unfaithful husbands, and procurers all came out at night. No one ventured out in a storm.\n\n\"Have you got the means?\"\n\nThe maiden tapped a bulge in her loom-woven coat. \"Tell me what you've found out.\"\n\nThurlo Pike's eyes ranged from the bulge, to the storm clouds, to Magdalena's face. He was dressed in a brown wool coat edged with beaver fur and fastened with pewter buckles. Sweat and dirt had caused the fur around the collar to clump and shed, and it looked as if a mangy cat had the roofer by the throat. \"There's four of them all right. The mother. A daughter about sixteen\u2014all plump and ready for splitting. 'Nother girl, young. No tits. Then the baby.\"\n\nA single droplet of saliva wetted the dark desert of the maiden's mouth. \"Did you catch their names?\"\n\n\"Real close, they were. The mother bundled the children into a back room the moment she saw me coming. 'Course you know what children are. Specially young-uns. The baby starts crying for its mother, and the oldest daughter tries to hush it. Then the middle daughter starts up. Well, all the while I'm talking to the mother about stone struts and what backing she'd prefer on the flue, I'm listening to this wi' my second ear. Then I hear the middle daughter cry out as plain as day. Calls her sister Cassy. You're hurting me, Cassy. Let me go!\" Thurlo Pike wagged his head. \"Should have seen the mother's face. Couldn't wait to be rid of me. In her haste she agreed to two layers of baked brick on the stack. Two layers! That'll cost her a master's penny.\" The roofer showed his teeth. \"And who's to say what's beneath that first layer of brick.\"\n\nThe maiden whispered the word, \"Aye.\" She disliked petty crimes and the people who committed them. She was not the kind of woman who sought to justify her own actions. She was an assassin, and she knew her place in hell was assured. Yet she also knew that there was more honesty to be found in killing a man swiftly than in duping him and continuing to smile in his face. The world was full of Thurlo Pikes; Magdalena Crouch depended on it. Their greed made them easy to use.\n\nShe maintained eye contact with the roofer as she said, \"Where exactly does this farmhouse lie?\"\n\nThurlo Pike rubbed his thumb against his mitted fingers. \"Means, Maggy. Means.\"\n\nShe took out the dogskin bag containing salt she had ground to a powder with her own hands. Pulling apart the drawstring, she showed the contents to the light. Thurlo's hand came out to grab it, but the maiden snatched it away. \"Where's the farm?\"\n\nThurlo's hazel eyes darkened. \"How do I know it will do as you say?\"\n\n\"How do I know you have told me the truth?\"\n\nThurlo Pike had no answer to that. With a dissatisfied shrug, he gave the details of the farmhouse location. Magdalena watched his eyes as he spoke.\n\nWhen he was done, she weighed the dogskin bag in her hand. \"Follow me. A deal is a deal.\" Without waiting for his response she headed down the alleyway to the back of the building.\n\n\"Hey! Where d'you think you're off to? Give me that now.\" Thurlo snatched at her arm but found himself grabbing air instead.\n\nThe maiden continued walking, increasing her pace from step to step. This was the point where any other female assassin would use the promise of sex. A downcast glance, a lick of the lips, perhaps even a handful of soft flesh pressed into a waiting hand.Let's do it out of sight. I'd be beaten if my father saw us. Magdalena raked her tongue over teeth that were perfectly dry. Seduction was not her stock in trade. She said, \"I have to show you how the drug works. I need water for that.\"\n\nThis statement intrigued him; she could tell from the subtle change in his breath. \"Wait here, then. I'll get a pitcher from the Feet.\"\n\nMagdalena shook her head. She was free of the building now, in what had once been the Ewe's Feet courtyard but was now no more than a paved square with broken-down walls, littered with beer kegs, iron hoops, chairs with missing legs, women's underthings, crates, and several dead crows. It stank of semen and sour ale. Magdalena headed for a break in the walls.\n\n\"Where you going? There's no damn water out there.\"\n\n\"Yes there is. In the pond, behind the basswoods.\"\n\n\"That pisshole! It'll be frozen hard as brass balls until spring.\"\n\n\"No it's not. I passed there along the way.\" The maiden hiked over the rubble of stone blocks that had once been the courtyard wall, forcing Thurlo to keep up with her if he wanted his voice heard.\n\n\"Why'd you be passing there?\" Suspicion was clear in his voice.\n\n\"Children,\" she said. \"I heard one of them crying as I crossed the road in front of the Feet. I ran to the back, quick as I could. They'd been playing on the pond when the ice cracked. One of them got a soaking.\"\n\n\"Brats!\" Thurlo said with feeling.\n\nThe maiden was facing away from him, striking out toward the stand of stout-trunked basswoods that surrounded the pond, so he was unaware of the shift in the color of her eyes. There were no children, and if he had thought to look at the snow as he trod it, he would have seen that no footprints led to or from the courtyard and the pond. Magdalena had been at the pond an hour earlier, but she had come and gone from a different route. The ice pick and hammer she had used to break the ice were two items she had no wish to be seen with.\n\nIt had not been a pleasant job, making the first crack in the ice. She'd had to lie with her lower body on the bank and upper body over the ice as she'd hammered down the pick until it hit water. The pond was small, and its water was frozen to the depth of half a foot. Magdalena had blackened her knuckles in the process. After the initial crack had been made, she'd bellied her way back to the bank and worked on the shore ice there. By the time she'd finished, the armpits of her good widow's dress had become a pulp of wool and sweat. After throwing the pick and hammer into the body of open water she had created, she'd brushed the ice from her coat and hood and left the way she'd come.\n\nPreparation was everything to the Crouching Maiden.\n\n\"You'd best not be playing games with me, Maggy Sea.\"\n\nMagdalena looked back. Thurlo Pike was crab-walking down the slope, his arms held stubbornly at his sides. He did not look happy. To make him feel better she feigned a stumble. \"Come on. We're nearly there.\" For good measure she tapped the dogskin bag.\n\nHe was out of breath and red-faced by the time he cleared the trees. The maiden positioned herself on the bank of the pond, directly in front of the break. Water exposed to the air an hour earlier was already quickening with ice.\n\nThe roofer wiped his nose on his sleeve. \"Right. Show me how it's done then, and let's get the piss out of here before the storm hits and blows that skirt of yours up around your neck.\"\n\nFrom a pouch sewn inside her coat, Magdalena produced a soft leather cup. It did not hold water well, having being waxed in haste and tarred only around the stitching, but that mattered little to the maiden. She bent over the water and scooped it full of the icy gray slush. As she stood she slipped two other items from her coat. The first was the dogskin bag. With a gloved finger she agitated the cup water. \"See, you have to get the water moving before you add the powder. And it must be very cold. Like this.\" Magdalena did not look up as she spoke, but every hair on her body was aware of the roofer drawing closer to the bank. \"Now, you must add only enough powder to salt a roast. Too much and the women will sleep like dead dogs for days.\"\n\n\"Will it harm 'em?\"\n\nMagdalena almost smiled. \"No. But there are degrees of sleep. You want the entire family insensible, yes?\" Again, she did not need to look at Thurlo Pike to feel the air he displaced with his nod. \"Then you have to be careful with the dosage, for what's enough to lay a full-grown woman on her back might prove too much for a baby or a child. You wouldn't want the two young girls to sleep too long past the waking of their mother and elder sister.\"\n\nThurlo Pike grunted. He was so close now Magdalena could smell the excitement on his breath. \"I want 'em all asleep until I'm finished and gone.\"\n\n\"One cup of this in the well before they wake and draw water for the day will be enough for that.\" Magdalena added a pinch of salt to the cup. \"You should have at least three hours to do what you will. A man could uncover much hidden gold and precious stones in that time.\"\n\nThurlo shifted his weight. When he spoke his voice was low and tight. \"Aye.\"\n\nMagdalena's distaste for him deepened. Profit was not his motive here. He did not seek to drug the family in the woods to rob them, though he wouldn't be above poking around teakettles and forcing locks when he was done. He had seen a household of women and girls and now had rape on his mind. She had read the desire in him three nights ago in Drover Jack's, when he spoke with bright eyes and a mouth wetted by saliva and ale. All she had done was offer him the means: drugs to render the family senseless in exchange for information. Now the deal was nearly done, and Magdalena Crouch was eager to be parted from this man.\n\nShe raised the cup. \"Taste it, so that you may know the strength of the drug.\"\n\nThurlo Pike thought himself no one's fool. \"You taste it first\"\n\nThe maiden was more than happy to do so. The taste of salt was not unpleasant to her, but she still made a face. \"Here,\" she said, thrusting it toward him. \"I didn't promise it would taste like mother's milk.\"\n\nThurlo Pike took the last step he would ever take. As he raised the cup to his lips and sniffed, the Crouching Maiden warmed her knife.\n\nIt was over in less than a instant: a blade thrust through the rib cage, lungs, and heart, in that order. Magdalena preferred to do her killing from behind. The back bled so much less than the soft flesh of the abdomen and chest. The cup rolled into the water with a plop as a gust of wind shook the basswoods and ruffled the roofer's collar. Magdalena held the body upright until she felt the soft slump of unsouled flesh, then yanked her knife free and let him go the way of the cup. The hole she had made in the ice fit him perfectly, and he slipped through to the cold black waters below. Within an hour the surface would be completely refrozen, and an hour after that the storm would dust it with snow. Thurlo Pike wouldn't be found until spring.\n\nMagdalena sincerely doubted he'd be missed.\n\nTurning her back on the pond, she cleaned her knife, not with water or snow, but with a soft rag moistened with tung oil. She was particular about such things, and although her knife was plainly wrought and of little value, she had no wish to replace it. Its steel carried the sum of lives she had taken.\n\nWith a small movement she removed the blade from sight before her own reflection had chance to settle there and catch her eye, then started up the slope. If she was lucky she would arrive at Drover Jack's one step ahead of the storm.\n\nTHE WOLVES WERE DRAWN by the smell of sickness. Raif heard them call to each other, long notes that wailed in the darkness like the calls of children lost, then dropped away with the wind. Once, when he had looked back, he had seen one\u2014high upon the basalt ridge, its eyes burning like blue fire. An ice wolf.\n\nThey smelled Ash: the wrongness in her body, the blood that had rolled from her nose to her mouth and had now dried to a black crust on her lips. She stank of weakness to them, like a lame elk, or an aging moose, or a horned sheep riddled with lasp worms. The smell meant easy prey. Raif tried not to think about it, tried to force every last bit of his strength into carrying Ash across the barren, snow-dressed valley he had entered. But the howling of the wolves took something from him. The creatures hunted, and as Raif stepped from a trench onto a shelf of hard rock and saw a second pair of ice blue eyes watching from the shadows, he knew they were sizing their prey.\n\nThere was nothing for Raif to do but continue walking. \"Wolves will not attack a full-grown man,\" Tem had said more times than Raif had fingers to count. \"They know men from the scent they leave on carcasses and traps, and wolves learn quickly to pair this scent with death.\" Raif held on to these words as he trekked through the falling snow. Sometimes his lips moved as his mind repeated them.\n\nAsh lay motionless against his chest, her breathing so shallow that it hardly seemed as if she were alive at all. Raif watched her face. Air continued to whiten as it left her mouth: That was what kept him moving. He could not tell how many hours he had walked or what sights he had seen since Ash fell unconscious. He knew only that he couldn't stop. The cold was something he no longer gave mind to. Within his gloves his hands were numb, their circulation slowed by the weight of Ash's body upon his arms and chest. Another time it would have mattered; he would have paused to wrap them in a second layer or tuck them in the warm pockets of flesh beneath his arms. Now he thought only of walking until he could walk no more.\n\nHe had broken First Oath and failed his brother. He would not break the second and fail Ash.\n\nExhaustion was something he could not give in to. He kept his spine rigid as he walked, his mind farming the pain it caused, using it to keep him awake. He could not feel his feet and could not recall the last time he had been aware of the slow-working coldness of snow around his boots. His lips were dry to the point that to stretch them in a smile would draw blood. Good thing he had nothing to smile about.\n\nGood thing too that he had passed no tree or rock formation tall enough to supply south-facing shelter. He did not know what he would do when faced with the decision between continuing on and halting for the long night of darkness to come. Halting would help him, but it would not help Ash.\n\nRaif thrust the thought from him. Glancing up, he saw snow clouds the color of furnace metal. Good. There's still an hour of daylight left. His mind was quick to allow the lie.\n\nOn he walked, forcing his body into the wind. He stumbled often, stepping into snowdrifts whose true depths were hidden by shadows or uneven ground or placing his weight on a prostrate tree only to find its dead bark turn beneath his feet. Ice was a constant danger. Clan had no knowledge of this valley, and the thick snow cover made reading the land for frozen streams, muskegs, and ponds near impossible. Sometimes Raif would spot a line of willows closely following a depression in the valley floor. Stream, he said to himself with little satisfaction. Knowing that was as good as knowing nothing at all. Mostly he kept to head ground: basalt plateaus, rocks, and moraines. The many small climbs were hard on his legs.\n\nHe had reached the midway point in the valley when he first heard the sound of wolf paws breaking snow. It was silvery dark now, with midnight blue shadows crouching behind pines and on the east side of rocks. Snow continued to fall, but a drop in the wind slowed its descent. Already newly settled flakes were hardening to ice. The wolf cracked this frozen crust as it padded downwind of Raif. Raif stiffened for an instant, then continued walking. The desire to increase his pace ran like heat through his body, and it cost him dear to control it. The massacre on the Bluddroad had taught him all he needed to know about predators and their prey. Like men, wolves preferred their victims on the run.\n\nHe could not resist glancing back. Three pairs of ice blue eyes glowed from the darkness behind him. Two other shadows moved far to his flank: long-legged, loping, their great shaggy necks thicker than their heads. Aware the eyes of their prey were upon them, the pack hesitated, drawing their forelegs beneath their bodies and lowering their heads. They wanted him to run.\n\nRaif cracked his lips in a grim smile. He was so far past running, he doubted if he could manage to break into a trot if the devil himself were at his heels.\n\nSlowly he brought his head forward and continued on. A crop of rocks, blunt as cornerstones and half-sunk into the snow, broke the line of the valley floor ahead. The tallest was perhaps as high as Raif's chest. It would do.\n\nThe pack began to close distance.\n\nRaif thought of nothing but reaching the rocks. He was too exhausted to feel fear. His arms were numb to the elbows, and his thigh muscles ached with the kind of pain that only sleep could cure. As he neared the rocks, he prepared himself to face the pack. Slowly, over the course of many steps, he turned a half circle in the snow so that his back was against the rocks and his eyes met gazes with the pack. The wolves were close now, and Raif could see the black guard hairs that ringed their eyes and their muzzles and the snow white fleece of their throats. The hackles on the first wolf rose as Raif looked at it, and its ears dropped flat against its skull. The second wolf bared yellow teeth. Another growled, a long, vibrating rumble that skimmed the snow. All slowed... waiting to see what the pack leader would do.\n\nKeeping his gaze fixed upon Pack Leader, Raif dropped slowly to his knees. The wolves were nervous, excited by the smell of blood and weakness, but fearful of the creature who would turn and look them in the eyes. Raif suspected fear would hold them only so long. Pack Leader's belly was narrow beneath its coat of silver fur, its cheeks sunk to the depth of its eyes. Watching it, Raif knew with cold certainty that his father was wrong. This one would attack a man.\n\nThe wind drove a flurry of snow into Raif's face as he lowered Ash's body to the ground. Her weight had been a part of him for so long it was as if he were peeling away his skin. She sank motionless into the foot-deep snow, her chest sinking to the lowest point. Raif risked glancing down to check that the bare skin of her nose and cheeks was not in contact with snow or ice. The pain in his freed arms made his eyes tear as he reached out to draw the hood around her face.\n\nPack Leader snarled, its blue eyes shrinking to slits. Lowering its neck, it pounced forward and snapped its jaws at the air.\n\nRaif flinched. The wolves saw it, and the air thickened with their calls.\n\nRising, Raif reached back and pulled the willow staff from his belt. His hands felt huge and numb, and the wood hardly registered in his grip. It nearly rolled from his glove as he stepped over Ash's body and put himself between her and the pack.\n\nThe wolves were claiming space. Teeth bared, they charged forward, making swift imaginary strikes. The two wolves bringing up the rear were now only a short distance behind the lead three, and Raif saw dark patches of matted hair, a white ridge of scar tissue on a foreleg, and a torn and bloody snout.\n\nPack Leader ran at Raif. It was all snout and teeth and maw. Strings of saliva shivered between its fangs as its eyes winked out to darkness. Raif cursed the aching stiffness in his arms that made them move so slowly. He barely had time to draw the staff across his chest and no moment to brace for a blow. The heat of wolf breath pumped against his throat as Pack Leader charged at his belly. Raif wheeled back, trusting in the strength of his legs more than his arms. The wolf's teeth hit wood and the shock of impact caused both predator and prey to jump back.\n\nThe two guard wolves moved forward as Pack Leader shook its great head and edged back into the pack.\n\nRaif barely had time to curse the dead flesh of his arms. A second animal came for him, launching its long gray snout at the unboned flesh at Raif's waist. Again Raif had no choice but to step back. His nostrils filled with the rangy aroma of wolf musk. Gagging, he forced his arms to raise the staff. The clack of teeth meeting wood split the night.\n\nAngry at his own weakness, Raif forced the cold meat of his hands to buttress the staff. The second wolf retreated, and this time Raif made a show of chasing after it, sending every wolf except Pack Leader scampering back.\n\nKill an army for me, Raif Sevrance. Raif's jaw tightened. What was one wolf compared to that?\n\nHe made his stand twenty paces from the rocks. Stripping off his gloves, he bared hands mottled blue and yellow to the night. Swiftly he closed his fingers in a new arrangement around the butt of the staff. All around him wolves' eyes burned with sliver blue light that looked borrowed from the moon. Raif had mind for only one pair. Pack Leader stood at the head of the formation, its snout bunched, its lips pulled back revealing the hard purple substance of its gums.\n\nRaif dropped his gaze from its eyes to the muscled bow of its chest... and within an instant sighted its heart. Big as a man's, but beating twice as quickly, it rested against the wolf's ribs: a fist of gristle and meat. Blood heat and blood stench mingled in Raif's mouth, and he had no way of knowing if they were his own or the wolf's. Pack Leader's heart was his, and it was all dancing after that.\n\nSnarling, the wolf hunkered for an attack. Raif raised the butt of the staff high above his head. As the animal pounced he waited... waited... until the darkness at the center of its open maw was all that he could see. And then thrust the staff down its throat. Bone crunched. Breath hissed like steam. Blood shot from the cavity in a fine mist that wetted the upside of Raif's face. Down the staff went, down the gullet to the heart.\n\nThe wolf hung there, its paws no longer touching earth, spitted upon a branch of willow like a suckling pig ready for the hearth. Raif watched as the blue ice in its eyes melted and the curled bullwhip of its tail fell flat. Watcher of the Dead. Abruptly he threw the staff from him.\n\nThe wolf's body slumped into the snow, raising a cloud of white ice. Blood seeping from its mouth and the break in its chest fed the frost a meal of scarlet. The other wolves padded forward nervously, haunches low to the ground, nostrils twitching as they pulled knowledge from thin air. Raif ran at them, roaring.\n\nIt was enough to scatter the pack. One by one they turned and ran, leaving their leader to the cold embrace of death. None looked back.\n\nShivering, Raif turned. His strength was gone. He could not lift his feet free of the snow and had to force his way through it to return to Ash. Wolf blood drying on his face tightened like a mask as he approached her.\n\nShe was still, perfectly still. Her hood was twisted back behind her neck. Dark liquid rolled from her nose, ears, and mouth. Streams of it. And her head now rested in a pool of red ice.\n\nMadness came swiftly to Raif. Thought shedded from him like old skin. Sense and understanding drained away as quickly as water down a slope, and all that was left was Ash, the darkness, and the faces of nine gods.\n\nShe could not die.\n\nHe would not let her.\n\nWith hands long past feeling, he plucked Drey's tine from his belt. The elk horn was as smooth as teeth, cold as the night itself. The silver cap popped softly as he flicked it free with his thumb. A thin stream of powder blew free with the wind, the color of ashes and stone. Turning the tine on its side, Raif walked a circle in the snow.\n\nGanolith, Hammada, lone, Loss, Uthred, Oban, Larannyde, Malweg, Behathmus, Raif so named the Stone Gods. Powdered guidestone trailed behind him like a plume of dark smoke, scattering a line of charcoal upon the ice. The night deepened and hollowed like a pit, and Raif felt himself falling, falling, falling...\n\nCircle completed, he stepped inside it. And howled like the wolf he had just slain.\nFIFTY\n\nFar Riders and Old Men\n\nMAL NAYSAYER AND ARK VEINSPLITTER were riding in silence through a valley of smooth snow when they heard the call of the gods. The two warriors had known each other for so long that they had little need for talk. Ark could tell what the Naysayer was thinking from the slightest shrinking of his pale ice eyes. A moment before the cry, Ark had considered calling a halt, but Mal's eyes had warned him off. They were overlate as it was.\n\nA dead raven had called them north. Meeda Longwalker, heartborn daughter of the Sull and mother of He Who Leads, had excavated the frozen carcass from the snow. By her reckoning it had been there eleven days... which made Mal Naysayer and Ark Veinsplitter eleven days out of time. Normally such considerations were nothing to Far Riders\u2014they were Sull, and all men waited upon them\u2014but a summons from the Listener was different. It carried the compulsion of blood and gods shared. Ice Trappers were Old Blood, like the Sull.\n\nArk Veinsplitter barely had time to thrust his hands into the ashes of the Heart Fire before the summons had come. Blood from his horse was still wet upon his letting knife, as He Who Leads had pointed his opal-tipped arrow north. \"The Listener calls us north to speak of war and darkness. Staunch the wounds of your horses and ride forth. You speak in my voice and act in my image, and the sons and daughters of the Sull will fast from dawn to moonrise to mark the sacrifices you must make. May you find a bright moon to guide you.\"\n\nMal Naysayer and Ark Veinsplitter had drunk their horses' blood and left. Neither had kin to see them off, yet even so when they halted that first night on high ground above the Heart Fires, they found freshly fletched arrows in their cases of wolverine and bone, and new-roasted caribou tongues in the packs that rode their horses' rumps. Hungry as they were, they honored the fast and did not eat until the blind eye of the moon rose high above the trees.\n\nThey were Sull. The blood of their horses was enough.\n\nWinter was too deeply set to head north and ride through the Want. The Want was a wasteland of frozen ground. Its pocked and broken earth bore the scars of ancient magic and ancient battles. And even the Sull's ancestral tellings of its terrain were sparsely worded in parts. The Want was Sull land. They had won and claimed it at the cost of a whole generation of warrior sons and daughters, yet still it remained an unknowable place. Things older than the Sull had lived there in the Time Before.\n\nInstead the Far Riders had headed west through the clanholds, weaving a path through the territories of twelve separate clans, seen by few save old cragsmen, drovers, and clanswomen tending their traps. The Far Riders skirted the margins, traveling in the mists created by open waters, in the troughs left by dry streams, in the shadows raised by tree lines, and over ice, frozen marshes, and wetlands that no clan horse could dance. The clanholds had once been Sullholds, and the memories of the land still burned with cold fire in their blood.\n\nThe pass they had taken west through the Ranges was known to none save the Sull. The path slipped beneath the rock in places, and both Ark and Mal had to unmount. The tunnel walls had been chiseled smooth by Sull hands, and ravens and the moon in all its phases were drawn there in silver and midnight blue so dark it looked almost black. The Far Riders gave thanks to the stonecutters who had formed the tunnel and paid a toll of hair and blood.\n\nThat was in the final hour of daylight last night. This morning they had awakened from their cold camp on the west face of the mountain and made good pace to the Storm Margin below. The thick snows that were born in the Wrecking Sea and held within the margin by mountains that would allow none but the highest clouds to pass did little to slow them down. The blue and the gray were bred for white weather and their dams had birthed them upon ice. Even with a day of hard travel behind them, the two stallions and the packhorse showed no sign of tiring, and their heads were erect and alert.\n\nBoth stallions responded to the cold howl that seemed to crack the very substance of time. Ark's gray shook its head and fought the bit. Mal's blue lowered its ears so they touched the back of its skull and snorted a great cloud of air. Ark spoke a word to calm his stallion. All about, snow swirled in whirlwind forms, rising and flickering like white flames. The wind murmured softly through the lynx fur at Ark's ears and throat, and for the first time since journey's start the Far Rider felt fear.\n\nHe turned to face Mal. The Naysayer was a large man, made huge by the bulk of his furs. His face was hardened by white-weather travel and white-weather fights. He could use more weapons than any other living man, and his eyes were the color of ice. He had needed no word to calm his horse.\n\nYou speak in my voice and act in my image... . Ark Veinsplitter counted those words through his head like prayer beads as he decided what to say to his hass. The howl of a creature who was not a wolf had broken their journey, and every scar on his body where blood had been let ached with the knowledge of God.\n\nThe Naysayer waited, his pale eyes blinking only when snowflakes touched them. He could be patient, this man whose anger when stirred was enough to stampede caribou herds and send entire villages inside to lock their doors.\n\nArk breathed deeply, then spoke. \"What think you, Mal Naysayer? Should we continue our journey as if we have not heard the cry that halted us, and ride north sure in the knowledge that what we do is right in the eyes of moon and God?\"\n\nMal Naysayer made a move that caused his lynx furs to ripple, a move that anyone else but Ark Veinsplitter might easily have mistaken for a shrug. He said just one word: \"Nay.\"\n\nIt was enough to turn the two men west, and change the course of fate.\n\nSPYNIE ORRL, THE ANCIENT chief of Clan Orrl, faced the Dog Lord over the chief's table at Dhoone. A storm pushed clouds and snow against the Dhoonehouse's blue sandstone walls, but inside the chief's chamber all was still. The dogs were chained to their rat hooks by the hearth, but harsh words from Vaylo Bludd moments earlier had forestalled the normal hostilities they showed to uninvited guests.\n\nThe Dog Lord poured malt in silence, giving the ambercolored liquid the respect it was due. Two wood cups, plainly turned with neither handles nor embellishment, were filled to the exact same mark. Pushing the first in the Orrl chief's direction, Vaylo said, \"What brings a Blackhailsworn chief to Dhoone this night?\"\n\nSpynie Orrl made no response, save to retrieve his cup and drink. He was an old man, the oldest chief in the clanholds, and his body was all knots and bone. A few white hairs clung to his scalp, but apart from that he was bald in the way newborns were bald: eyebrowless, pink, and shiny. His eyes were dark and shrunken, but they were still as sharp as picks. Placing his wooden cup on the table, he nodded toward it. \"Good malt. I've tasted Bludd liquor before now, and no offense to your malters and distillers, but this stuff must belong to the Dhoone.\"\n\n\"So you think ill of our Bludd's own brew?\"\n\n\"Ill's not the word. Let's just say I wouldn't feed it to my sheep.\"\n\nVaylo Bludd snorted with laughter, slapping his hand on the table and stamping his booted feet. At the hearth, his dogs tugged nervously on their leashes. They had not heard their master laugh in months, and the sound disturbed them deeply. Vaylo reached for Spynie's cup. \"Well, coming from an Orrlsman, I'll consider both myself and my clan reprimanded. Here. Let's drink to brewers with nimble fingers and distillers with surgeon's hands.\"\n\nSpynie Orrl was more than happy to drink to that.\n\nWhen the second cup had been drunk and an agreeable silence had settled between the two chiefs, Vaylo decided to try his hand again. He had been too arrogant the first time; he saw that now. This man before him might be a chief from a lesser clan, but he had lorded that clan for fifty years, and for that alone he demanded respect. \"I hear there's trouble between you and Scarpe.\"\n\nThe Orrl chief nodded absently, the gooseflesh on his neck continuing to wobble after the movement stopped. \"Aye. And trouble with Blackhail as well.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord knew this, but he also knew it was better to let a man tell his own story in his own words. So he nodded and said nothing and let the Orrl chief speak.\n\n\"It's Mace Blackhail. The Hail Wolf, they call him now. Any other man or woman in that clan would have been a better choice to lead it. His foster father was a good man. I say that because I knew and respected him, and named a grandson in his honor. But Mace Blackhail shares neither blood nor mettle with the man who fostered him from Scarpe, Mace is a Scarpeman. Yelma Scarpe is his mother's cousin. He can't help but favor her claims. When she came to him asking for his help against us, he should have done what Dagro always did. Told the sharp-toothed bitch he never so much as pissed between his war-sworn clans.\" Spynie Orrl wagged his ancient head. \"Of course, Dagro would have used words sweeter than those. But then sweet words didn't save him in the end.\"\n\nHe looked at the Dog Lord sharply, and Vaylo got the distinct feeling that the old chief had long since guessed that Clan Bludd wasn't responsible for Dagro Blackhail's death. Vaylo was too much of an old dog himself to allow his face to betray him, but his dogs picked up on the change in his scent and growled accordingly at Spynie Orrl.\n\nThe Orrl chief tipped his head in their direction. \"Nice dogs. When you're done with them send them to me. I've got some sheep I'd like to scare hairless. Not to mention a few of my wife's kin.\" Before Vaylo had chance to react, Spynie leaned across the table and said, \"Mace Blackhail has as good as declared war on our clan. Twelve Scarpemen were slain on our border, and it suited Yelma Scarpe to point her finger our way. She's always wanted that borderland. My hunters take down a hundred head of elk there each season. It's good ranging land, and Yelma Scarpe went running to Mace Blackhail to get it. You know how Scarpes are: She didn't want to fight. There's more muscles in their tongues than their guts. We'll pardon you for the killing of our men if you relinquish the land they died on.\" Spynie Orrl's breath exploded from his mouth. \"And Mace Blackhail thought this fair! Take the land, he said, quick as if it were his Stone God-given right to grant it. I'll send a score of hammermen to keep the peace.\"\n\nVaylo frowned. No Bludd, Dhoone, or Blackhail chief had any business intervening in conflicts between their war-sworn clans.\n\nSpynie Orrl continued, his head shaking softly as he spoke. \"I had no choice but to defend my borders against Scarpe- and Hailsmen. Orrl against Blackhail, I never thought to see it in my lifetime. Before they rode north, I warned my axmen to slay only those men showing the colors and badges of Scarpe. But even then I knew I was giving an order that could not be obeyed. You cannot order men to cherry-pick their foe.\" He sighed heavily. \"Two Hailsmen were slain along with a score of Scarpemen. All men of mine who venture outside the Orrlhold now risk death. I've lost two border patrols, and a party I sent east to treat with the Crab chief.\" There was a pause. \"And I'm waiting on the return of my firstborn grandson and the five men who traveled west with him for the hunt.\"\n\nThe Dog Lord stood and turned his face toward his dogs. He knew all about grandchildren and their loss. When he spoke he kept his voice hard. \"Yet you torched the Scarpehouse.\"\n\n\"Aye. And I'd torch it again if I could. We are Orrl, we hunt our enemies and our game alike.\"\n\nThe Orrl boast. Vaylo had never thought much of it until now. Bending joints that creaked like old wood, Vaylo reached down to handle the dogs he had left. The wolf dog forced its large streamlined head into his hand, demanding to be scratched and tussled first. The burns on its ear and scalp were dry now, but the healed flesh was hard and raised, and fur would never grow there again. Not for the first time, Vaylo found himself thinking back to that last night in Ganmiddich. If the dogs had not been shackled and housed, they would have provided fair warning of the Blackhail attack. As it was, Vaylo had barely had time to assemble his men and raise an attack on Blackhail lines. Strom Carvo was dead, his skull smashed by a Blackhail hammer. Molo Bean was dead, his arms hacked off at the elbows, his face burned black by the flames that had rained from the sky. Others were gone. Good men, who all took pieces of the Dog Lord's heart to the Stone Halls beyond. Two of his dogs were burned beyond recognition. One made it as far as Withy before Vaylo broke its neck.\n\nThe sight of his two grandchildren, running toward him across the courtyard at Dhoone, nearly made his hurts go away. Cluff Drybannock had taken them north two days ahead of the raid, and they and Nan were safe. Drybone didn't say it but both he and the Dog Lord knew that if half the Bludd force hadn't been sent north from Ganmiddich to escort the children home, Blackhail would have won nothing but death that day.\n\n\"You know the Hail Wolf refused to relinquish control of the Ganmiddich roundhouse until the Crab forswore his oath to Dhoone, and gave word to Blackhail instead?\" Spynie Orrl's dark eyes glinted like pieces of coal. Could he read thoughts? Vaylo wondered.\n\n\"I have heard that. 'Tis a bad business. Ganmiddich has been sworn to Dhoone for as long\u2014\"\n\n\"As Orrl's been sworn to Blackhail,\" Spynie finished for him. The old clan chief met and held the Dog Lord's gaze. Silence in the room deepened and stretched, and Vaylo felt it press against each of his seventeen teeth.\n\nWhy had he come here, this chief from an enemy clan? Why had he risked the lives of eleven of his best men by riding east through territory that encompassed three separate warring clans? And then there was the greatest risk of all: presenting himself at the Dhoone border and demanding an audience with the Dog Lord himself. It took jaw to do that. Vaylo almost smiled to think of it. Spynie Orrl was as tough as a mountain goat.\n\n\"I haven't come here to offer my clan to Bludd,\" the Orrl chief said, once again snatching the thoughts straight from Vaylo's head. \"Only a fool would do that. I've got Blackhail-sworn clans on two sides, and playing piggy-in-the-middle suits me about as much as a truss made of ice. No. I'll keep my oath to Blackhail as best I can. A thousand years of loyalty should not be easily set aside.\"\n\nThe look in Spynie's eyes left no doubt as to what he thought of oath breakers. Suddenly angry, the Dog Lord said, \"Say what you came here for, Orrl chief. I will not be preached at. The Stone Gods bred war into us, and I would not be a clansman if I did not see an advantage and take it. Battle is in my blood.\"\n\nSpynie Orrl was not ruffled in the slightest. Before he spoke he winked at the wolf dog. \"Aye, I don't deny it. But I did stop to wonder what you saw when you reached the top of the Ganmiddich Tower and turned your gaze north. There have always been wars in the clanholds, but can you honestly say you have ever known or heard of one like this? Bludd against Dhoone, Blackhail against Bludd, war-sworn clans fighting amongst themselves. And now that the Hail Wolf has forced a Dhoone-sworn clan to turn, Blackhail will have to cross axes with Dhoone.\" The ancient pink-skinned clan chief clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. \"There are outside forces at work here, Bludd chief. I know it. You know it. And the question that now remains is, Are you content to let it be?\"\n\nVaylo Bludd breathed deeply. Knowing he needed a moment to think, he fished in his belt pouch and pulled out a chunk of chewing curd, tough and black as Nan could make it. As he pushed it into his mouth, he was aware of Spynie's eyes upon him. Vaylo hated scrutiny. \"Why come to me with these words? Why not search out the Dhoone chief in exile, or the Hail Wolf himself?\"\n\n\"You know why, Bludd chief. We are the oldest chiefs in the clanholds, you and I. Together we have close to ninety years of chiefdom between us, and that cannot be lightly said. We come from the two opposite ends of the clanholds, and today we meet here, in its heart.\n\n\"I know you're an ambitious man, and no one can fault you for that, but I wonder if you sleep well at night. You're cut from different timber than the Hail Wolf. Oh, I know you both fancy yourselves Lord of the Clans, but you've led Bludd for thirty-five years and he's led Blackhail for less than one. His ambition is blind. He has not learned what it is to be a chief in the true sense of the word, to put his clan, not himself, first. You have. No one stays chief for as long as you have without learning that sword strength alone is not enough.\" Spynie Orrl paused for a long moment, and when he spoke again he sounded tired and very old.\n\n\"The cities are planning to take the clanholds. They're behind this war, stirring the pot, keeping it on the boil until such a time that so many of our clansmen are dead, they can just hike straight over the Bitter Hills and shatter our guidestones to dust. We're waging the war for them. And unless we shake ourselves out of this senseless slaying, we'll destroy ourselves for them, too.\"\n\nVaylo Bludd took breath to speak, but Spynie waved him to silence. The Orrl chief wasn't done yet.\n\n\"And there's one last thing for you to think on, Bludd chief, you whose clan boasts, We are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders. Death is our companion. A hard life long lived is our reward. The Sull are preparing for war.\"\n\nThe words hung in the air like dragon smoke, heavy and black and scented with the fragrance of old myths. When the Dog Lord breathed he took them in. Deep inside his lungs they worked on him, stirring memories so old he wondered if they belonged to his father, or the man who had fathered him. Fear touched him like the swift nick of a knife. No, he told himself, quick to turn fear into anger. Gullit Bludd passed no memories to me. He barely spoke five words to me in all the years I grew to manhood at his hearth.\n\n\"How do you know this to be so?\"\n\n\"I'm an old man. I do little these days but listen and watch.\"\n\nIt was no answer, but seeing the hardness in Spynie Orrl's eyes, Vaylo knew it was the best he was going to get. \"Do they mean to make war on the cities or the clanholds?\"\n\nThe Orrl chief raised the ridges of pink skin where his eyebrows had once grown. \"They're Sull. Who's to say who or what they will fight?\"\n\nAgain, fear pricked at Vaylo's neck. \"Are you playing games with me, old man?\"\n\n\"Perhaps if you had wintered at your own roundhouse and not blue Dhoone's, you might have seen the signs yourself.\"\n\nVaylo spat his wad of curd onto the floor. \"Damn you, Orrl chief. Speak plainly. If you know more, say it!\"\n\n\"I know only that while the clans are busy butchering themselves, the Sull are cleansing and fasting and growing their proudlocks for war. Five nights back one of my cragsmen saw two Far Riders passing west. The week before that an Ille Glaive trader came and purchased all my stocks of opal and jet. Opal and jet. Moon and night sky. The Sull use both in their bows.\" Spynie Orrl let out a thin breath as he waited for the Dog Lord to meet his eyes. \"Tell me, Bludd chief, have you ever wondered what your clan boast means?\"\n\nThe question disturbed Vaylo deeply. He said nothing rather than speak a lie.\n\nSpynie Orrl watched the Dog Lord's face for a long moment, his eyes pulling, pulling, at Vaylo's thoughts. Abruptly he stood. \"It's time I started my journey back. Send for my escort. I trust you didn't order their slaying. It would be quite an inconvenience to me to have to war against Bludd as well as Blackhail and Scarpe.\"\n\nVaylo did not take the bait. Unease was too deep upon him. \"They have been treated as guests. Their weapons were ransomed but not removed from their sight.\"\n\n\"Aye. I thank you for that courtesy.\" Spynie Orrl reached the door. Standing, the Dog Lord towered over him, a bear beside a goat. \"You must not let your hatred of the Hail Wolf poison you against Blackhail. There are good people in that clan. Raina Blackhail, Corbie Meese, Ballic the Red, Drey Sevrance\u2014\"\n\nThe word Sevrance was too much for Vaylo Bludd, and he shook his head until his braids whipped against his face. \"Say no more, Orrl chief. You come close to crossing bounds.\"\n\nSurprisingly, Spynie Orrl nodded. \"Aye. Perhaps I do, but you cannot blame a man for the actions of his brother.\"\n\nVaylo growled. The noise was so low and terrible, the dogs shrank back in the hearth.\n\nSpynie Orrl shrugged. \"Think on what I have said, Bludd chief. When an old man travels through the darkness of four nights and three warring clans to see you, you'd be a fool not to take note of what he said.\" With that the old man left.\n\nIt would be a full five days before Vaylo received word of his death.\n\nTHE NAYSAYER SPOTTED the clansman first. He was crouching in the shelter of granite rocks, his back bent over a bundle of bloody rags. Ark named him an Orrlsman, as he was wearing the shifting, snow-colored cloak of a hunter from that clan. Well before they reached him, the two Far Riders dismounted and entered the ground he had claimed on foot.\n\nNeither Mal nor Ark drew weapons. They were Far Riders, and both knew that while there was much to fear here, the clansman was unarmed and in no state to fight. Ark watched as the clansman became aware of them, as his head rose and his eyes long focused and his expression shifted between anger and fear.\n\nArk Veinsplitter, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider, was well used to being the object of fear. He had ridden these lands for twenty years, fought battles with men and beasts, borne messages across frozen seas, iron mountains, and desert floors baked as hard as glass: Fear was his due. What he didn't expect was his own fear, fluid as liquid mercury, rising in the back of his throat. The clansman's eyes pinned him with a look he would remember for always. And a question he would ask himself for the rest of his life murmured in his ears like the wind: Have I done the will of the gods?\n\nThe clansman stood to meet them, his cloak spreading in the wind, his bare hands yellow and frozen. Ark's whole being was so completely focused upon him, he nearly missed the carcass embedded in the snow. A full-grown wolf, big as a black bear, with two feet of willow jammed down its throat. \"Heart-killed,\" said the Naysayer, the words dropping like stones from his mouth.\n\nArk closed his eyes and sent a prayer to the Sender of Storms. When he opened them he knew the world he lived in had changed. A clansman had heart-killed a wolf.\n\n\"Help her.\" The clansman spoke Common with a clannish lilt. As he spoke he jerked his right hand in the direction of the bloody rags. No greeting. No questions. No fear.\n\nAt Ark's side, Mal Naysayer reached for one of his wolverine-skin packs. With a tiny jolt of realization, Ark understood that the clansman was not alone and that the bloody bundle of rags he stood over was a person... a girl. And Mal meant to tend her, because that was the nature of Mal Naysayer. He would not turn his back on a cry for help.\n\nArk almost cried for him to stop. Too late he saw the pale circle of powder in the snow, too late he realized that blood should be let and a price paid now, not later, for entry into territory that had been marked by clannish gods. Transfixed, Ark Veinsplitter watched Mal Naysayer break the circle and drop to his knees by the girl. Already he had a sable blanket bunched in his hands, ready to place under her.\n\nThere was nothing for Ark to do but raise the tents and build a fire.\nFIFTY-ONE\n\nSnow Ghosts\n\nEFFIE STAYED AWAKE UNTIL her eyes were sore, but there was still no sign of Drey. Anwyn Bird had sworn he would return from Ganmiddich today, but it was long past midnight now and the roundhouse was dark and creaking, and Bitty Shank was drawing the iron bar across the greatdoor and securing the pullstone in place.\n\n\"Hey, little one. You should go to bed. The storm's slowed Drey down, that's all. He'll be here in the morning, I promise.\" Bitty Shank tied greased rope as thick as his wrist around the brass claws that were sunk deep into the stonework on either side of the door. \"I spoke to him myself only ten days ago. Said as soon as the Crab chief reclaims that tall green roundhouse of his, he'll be back to scrub your face and pull your hair.\"\n\nDespite herself, Effie smiled. Bitty Shank was funny. Like all the Shanks, he had a shiny red face and pale hair. And he loved Drey. All the Shanks loved Drey.\n\nDone with sealing the great roundhouse door, Bitty turned to look at Effie, who was sitting at the foot of the stairs. Bitty was the second youngest of the Shank boys, a yearman of two winters who'd lost one ear to a Bluddsman's sword and the tip of two fingers to the 'bite. His blond hair was already thinning, though he swore that since he'd lost his ear it had started growing back of its own accord. Effie didn't see it herself, but she never offered opinions unasked.\n\n\"So. Would m'lady care for an escort to her chamber?\" Bitty flourished his arm in the air and then bowed with exaggerated grace. \"Though I do say it myself, I have a sword forged for guarding maidens and the kind of walk that scatters rats.\"\n\nEffie giggled. Part of her felt bad doing so, but Bitty was so very funny, and she was wound up so tightly inside with worry and fear that it sort of broke out on its own. Like wind. That thought made Effie giggle even more. All the while Bitty stood by the door, smiling and then laughing right back. It felt good to laugh. It banished the blindness for a while.\n\n\"Come on, little one. I best get you off to bed 'fore you wake Anwyn and get us both spoon-bled and kettle-whipped.\"\n\nEffie didn't think such a thing as spoon-bleeding existed, and she knew for a fact that no amount of laughing in the entrance hall would rouse Anwyn, because the barrel-shaped matron slept in the game room at the rear of the building, guarding her butchered meat. Still, she stopped laughing and rose to her feet. Bitty Shank was a yearman, wounded in battle, and he deserved her respect.\n\nHe put out his good hand for her to take, but Effie ignored it and took his frostbitten one instead. Effie Sevrance was not squeamish. The two stubs, with their shiny pink flesh and smooth, nailless tips, were things of wonder to her. Bitty, first embarrassed and then pleased with her interest, demonstrated his range of movements as he led her downstairs. \"See,\" he said, pausing a third of the way down to waggle his fingers in the light of a burning lunt. \"I can still hold a halfsword and draw a full bow.\"\n\nEffie nodded gravely: She was clan; she knew that no matter how casual his voice sounded, nothing mattered more.\n\nBitty was one of a dozen yearmen and sworn clansmen who made it their business to watch over Drey Sevrance's little sister while Drey was away from home. Effie knew what they were up to and guessed that Drey asked everyone he rode with to keep an eye on her when he was gone. Oh, they thought they were being as clever as grown men could be, always arranging to bump into her late at night when it was long past her bedtime, or checking in on her when they thought she was asleep, or sometimes even sleeping right outside her door and claiming drunkenness had made them pass out then and there.\n\nThe proud part of Effie knew she should resent it; she was nearly grown-up now, a full eight years of age, and certainly didn't need any old clansman watching over her. But ever since she'd lost her lore, only the sight of men such as Bitty, Corbie Meese, Rory Cleet, and Bullhammer could make her feel safe inside.\n\nShe was blind without her lore. Blind.\n\nNo one had seen it or knew where it was. Anwyn Bird had ordered some of the older children to search the roundhouse from wet cell to dovecote; Raina Blackhail had addressed the clan and commanded the person who had taken it to drop it outside her door, no questions asked. Even Inigar Stoop had fallen down on his hands and knees and raked through the ash, rock dust, and gravel that had accumulated on the guidehouse floor. Losing one's lore was bad luck of the worst kind. Effie knew it. Inigar knew it, and that's why when the guide found nothing the first time he searched, he went back and searched again.\n\nTrouble was, she hadn't known how much she relied upon the little ear-shaped chunk of granite until it was gone. Always when she was worried or afraid, she reached up and touched her lore. It didn't always show her things\u2014not proper things, not things that she could make sense of\u2014but it always made her feel something. In the past, when Drey was late home from scouting or raids, all she had to do was take her lore in her fist and think of him. As long as it didn't push, it meant he was safe. Bad things only happened with her knowledge... like Da, like Raina, like Cutty Moss. Now bad things could happen and she would know nothing at all.\n\nThree loud thuds broke Effie's thoughts. \"Open up! Open up! Clansmen wounded!\" The call of returning war parties.\n\nEffie looked at Bitty, and before she knew it the blondhaired yearman had grabbed her by the waist and swung her over his back. For the first time in her life Effie saw the ceiling above the staircase close up. Green-and-black mildew grew there, in the fuzzy bits between stones. \"Drey and the Ganmiddich eleven are back!\" Bitty cried as he raced up the stairs, Effie bouncing like an animal hide on his shoulders. \"They're back! They're back!\"\n\nEffie wasn't sure what she felt about heights, but at that moment she supposed she wouldn't have minded if the entire Shank family had stood shoulder upon shoulder and balanced her right on top. Drey was back. Drey.\n\nThe hue and cry at the door roused the roundhouse, and all those clansfolk who had waited with Effie most of the night but given up and gone to bed before her suddenly came rushing into the hall. Effie hardly spared a thought for the river of clansmen descending from the Great Hearth, their leather-and-metal armor jouncing loose against their chests, or the miraculous appearance of Anwyn Bird, who was suddenly there at the top of the stairs, a tray of fried bread in her hands and a barrel of hearth-warmed ale at her feet.\n\nEffie's mind was on the door. Bitty had set her down on two feet and then appointed her the most important task of unraveling the cords of rope that bound the bar securely in its iron cradle. Effie's heart swelled with pride as she worked. She was helping a yearman open the door. Even when Orwin Shank, Bitty's father, came to help with the pullstone, Bitty made space for Effie's hand upon it, and together the three of them dragged the quarter-ton weight of sandstone on its greased tracks across the floor.\n\nThen the bar was raised and the door swung open, revealing its waxed and metal-studded exterior face to the hall, and there, standing in the doorway like dark gods, bodies steaming, iron armor blue with frost, mud-stained faces set into grim lines, were the first of the Ganmiddich eleven. They were the men who had held the Ganmiddich roundhouse while Mace Blackhail had ridden to treat with the Crab chief at Croser. Now the Crab was war-sworn to Blackhail and newly returned to his roundhouse and Drey and the eleven were back.\n\nLike everyone in the clan, Effie had heard the story of how Raif had been taken at the tower, only to escape that same night by wounding Drey so deeply with Drey's own sword that the bleeding persisted for two days. Effie didn't waste a single moment believing it. She didn't need her lore to tell her that Raif would never raise a hand against Drey. Ever.\n\nCorbie Meese was the first through the door. Effie called to him, \"Where's Drey?\" but her voice was small and Corbie's eyes were on his wife, Sarolyn, who was heavy with child and paler than either Anwyn or Raina liked, and the great dent-headed hammerman pushed past Effie without once glancing down. Mull Shank came next, and Effie meant to ask her question to him, but Orwin Shank stepped right in front of her, sweeping his eldest son in a hug so brutal, it almost looked as if they were fighting.\n\nEffie stepped outside into the cold. She spied Cleg Trotter, son of crofter Paille Trotter, and headed toward him, clearing her throat. Bodies smelling of horses, leather, and frost drove against her, sweeping her sideways and then back. She lost sight of Cleg Trotter, and when she saw him again his father's arm was around his shoulder, and the two great bear-size men were talking head-to-head. There was no room for an eight-year-old girl to come between them.\n\nAll around, clansmen and clanswomen were pouring onto the court. A light snow was falling, and apart from the wedge of orange light spilling from the doorway, it was as dark as a winter night could be. Sounds of laughter and private whisperings filled Effie's ears, promises of lovemaking, special potions for easing chilblains, and favorite foods steaming on the hearth. To either side of her, bodies came together violently, mud and ice from boots and cloak tails dropping in heavy clods to the earth. Horses shook their heads and snorted streams of white mist into the air. Clansmen came from the stables to tend them, and soon it was impossible to tell the Ganmiddich eleven from any of the dozens of clansmen who had invaded the court.\n\n\"Drey?\" Effie asked time and time again. \"Drey?\" No one heard, or if they did hear, they soon forgot when a loved one of their own came into sight.\n\nEffie walked farther away from the roundhouse. Ahead she spied a lone clansman tending a horse. He was tall enough for Drey... it was so very difficult to tell in the dark. Shivering, she made her way toward him. By the time she got close enough to see his face, she knew it wasn't Drey. He was dressed in the gray leathers and moose felt of Bannen, and his braids were tied close to his head. Shivering, Effie changed course. He wasn't even a Hailsman. He wouldn't even know who Drey was.\n\nCold stole slowly over Effie's body, rising up from her feet like tidewater. Crossing her hands over her rib cage, she looked out over the graze. Her heart moved in her chest. There. On the slope, a shadow within the shadows, a mansize shape standing watch. Drey.\n\nShe ran. Icy air roared against her cheeks as she scrambled over ground frozen to the hardness of stone. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her chest too tight to breathe deeply. The figure waited. It waited. It had to be Drey.\n\nWhen she reached the bottom of the slope, the figure shuddered. Suddenly she saw he was dressed in white. She stopped. \"Drey?\" Even to her own ears her voice sounded weak and uncertain. In response, the wind carried the smell of resin to her nostrils, and with a cold shock she realized her mistake. The figure wasn't a man at all. It was a snow ghost, a pine sapling completely encased within fallen snow.\n\nShould have known, she told herself harshly. Any fool knows the difference between a snow ghost and a grown man.\n\nThe snow ghost swayed and creaked with the wind, its middle branches beckoning obscenely. Effie felt tiny pinches of fear tighten the skin around her face. Quickly she turned away... and saw how far she had come.\n\nThe roundhouse was a monstrous black dome against a charcoal sky. The square of orange light that marked the door was no bigger than a speck in Effie's sights. As she stood and watched, it slimmed to a hairline, then disappeared completely. Shut. Effie's heartbeat increased. Purposely she kept her gaze on the roundhouse, her eyes searching for the stable block and more light. Only the stable doors faced toward the roundhouse, not away from it, and all she saw was a pale corona of light glowing around the stable door.\n\nEffie started toward it. She tried not to look at the dark curves of the roundhouse or the land that spread out in all directions around it. But it was hard. There were no walls to block the view. Shadows surrounded her, not small shadows, not people shadows, but shadows of slopes and hills and great black bodies of trees. And it was cold, so cold.\n\n\"Ah!\" Effie sucked in breath as something whipped across her cheek. She jumped out of its way, her eyes searching the darkness for monsters. In her mind she conjured up gray worms as big as men, with teeth like glass spikes and limbs made of the same wet substance as eyes. What she saw was a thin birch branch extending from the snow, a flag of red felt flying from its tip. It was one of Longhead's graze posts; once the snow reached a certain depth it was his only way of knowing where the graze ended and the court began.\n\nShaken, Effie quickened her pace.\n\nShe barely heard the first footsteps. The thin film of light that marked the stable was growing dimmer, and all of Effie's attention was upon it. They couldn't close the stable doors, too. Not yet. Panic swirled like thick fog in her head. Could she make it before they locked the doors if she ran? What if she fell in the snow? What if there were things lying beneath the snow, tree root things that curled around her ankles and trapped her? Her heart was beating so fast that it was many seconds before she realized that the soft crunching noise she kept hearing in between her footsteps wasn't the sound of her own rushing blood.\n\nSlowly the realization dawned on her. Someone was walking behind her. All the exposed skin on Effie's face cooled. It wasn't Drey. He wouldn't do anything to scare her. No. It was a monster, or a cowlman, or Mace Blackhail come to...\n\nCrunch, crunch, crunch. The footsteps quickened. Effie looked ahead at the roundhouse, but now the stable light had gone out and she had nowhere to head for. With a little cry, she broke into a run.\n\nCrunch, crunch, crunch. The footsteps were right at her back. Effie imagined a monster dressed in cowlman's robes, with tree roots for fingers and Mace Blackhail's yellow eyes. Faster, she ran. Faster.\n\nSnow was everywhere: in her hair, in her dress, in her boots. The monster's breath was hot on her scalp, his footsteps close enough to be her own. Effie was dizzy with fear, no longer paying any attention to where she ran. She heard the footsteps change rhythm, and then a hand jerked viciously at her hair. White pain exploded in Effie's scalp. Night turned to day and then back again as she felt herself being dragged down into the snow. Suddenly she didn't know which way was up or down. Her head hurt so.\n\n\"... teach you, little bitch. Run crying to the roundhouse.\"\n\nIt took Effie a moment to realize that the monster was talking... in a normal clansman's voice. She twisted around and came face-to-face with Cutty Moss. No monster, just a clansman with one blue and one hazel eye.\n\n\"Bitch.\"\n\nEffie tried pulling away from him, but he had wound a thick coil of her hair once around his wrist and held the length tightly in his hand. Feeling her resistance, he jerked her back. The pain made white dots of daytime dance before her eyes.\n\n\"Not got your little witch's stone this time, eh?\" Cutty Moss tapped his throat. Effie's vision was fuzzy, but she saw enough to realize that the twine suspended there was the exact same reverse-twist cord she had spun to hold her lore. Cutty laughed softly, his mouth splitting into two red strips. \"Didn't see that one coming, did yer?\"\n\nEffie didn't move. Cutty's lips were wet with spittle, his eyes two greasy stones that glittered on his face. The ties that held his braids had come undone, and his hair blew unchecked around his face in filthy kinks. Calmly he took out a knife. \"Reckon a cowlman's going to get you. Right here in the snow.\" He jabbed the snow with its tip.\n\nQuick as a flash the blade was at Effie's throat. Effie saw the trail of blue light it carved in the air, felt air puff against her skin, then something warm bit muscle in her neck. No pain, just a pinprick, then warmness. She jerked back, snapping her head away from the knife. Cutty swore. Pulling on her hair, he yanked her back down into the snow. Effie smelled the sour sweetness of his breath and the urine and man-stench on his clothes. Warm liquid trickled down her throat. Frightened more by the liquid and what it meant than by Cutty Moss, she bucked and struggled against the clansman, kicking up clouds of snow.\n\n\"Sevrance witch.\" Cutty Moss kept sticking her with his knife, and Effie felt the tip enter her cheek, her arm, her chest. Hot blood was everywhere, sliding across her teeth and the whites of her eyes. Still she struggled. She didn't want to think about what would happen if she stopped.\n\nCutty Moss shifted the grip on his knife so that he was holding it only with a finger and thumb, and then he slapped her face with what was left of his hand. \"Bitch!\"\n\nAt that moment Effie's feet found hard ground beneath the snow. Hands slamming down on the packed white surface, she vaulted into the air. For one breathtaking moment she thought her hair was coming with her. Cutty had been so focused on slapping her that he had slackened his hold on her locks. Effie felt her hair unraveling from his wrist like wool from a reel. Then he yanked her back. This time Effie snapped against him, throwing the entire weight of her body in the opposite direction. The pain was like a thousand white-hot razors slicing her scalp. Her skin ripped, making a wet sucking sound like chicken skin pulled from a bird. She lost vision, but not balance. She lost all sense of direction, but no sense of purpose.\n\nBlood running in a river down her scalp, she ran. And ran. And ran.\n\nCutty was only seconds behind her, but she was lighter in the snow than he and she was burning with animal fear. She heard him curse and grab at her, but now she had an instinct for keeping to deep snow where she could run and he would sink. It did not occur to her to scream; screaming was not something Effie Sevrance did. She needed all her breath to run and think.\n\nTwice she felt Cutty's hands clutching at her hair and dress, but both times she was merciless with hair and fabric and helped him tear both from her by pulling violently away. Her scalp was on fire, raw flesh stinging in air cold enough to freeze breath. The hurts on other parts of her body hardly mattered; the blood seeping from the cuts warmed her skin.\n\nWhen she rounded the far corner of the stable block, she saw a figure step out of the shadows. Even before her eyes could focus properly, a deeper part of her brain responded to the figure's shape\u2014the sunken chest, the bony shoulders, the man-set jaw: Nellie Moss. The luntwoman ran toward her, calling words in some foul mother's tongue to her son. Effie understood few words, but she felt the luntwoman's sense of rage against a son who had failed to carry out his appointed task swiftly and with little fuss.\n\nEffie ran wide of Nellie Moss and her clutching tarblackened fingers, careful to keep to deep snow. As she glanced ahead into the landscape of shadows and open spaces, a shiver of recognition passed along her spine. She knew the profiles of those stone pines and the mound of packed earth behind them. She knew them, and suddenly the darkness made sense. Kicking her heels through the snow, she altered her course. She had a place to run to now.\n\nNellie Moss was lighter on her feet than her son, and Effie heard her gaining. A hand clutched at her collar, but Effie's hair and dress were slick with blood, and it was easy to pull away from an unclosed grip. Too tired to feel relief, she continued running. Her legs were weakening beneath her, and it was becoming difficult to think. She was so tired... her eyelids were as heavy as stones... she knew she had to run... but it was so very hard to think...\n\nThe howl and clamor of the shankshounds cut through the haze of Effie's thoughts like a light through a storm. Shaking herself, she saw the little dog cote straight ahead. The shankshounds knew she was coming. They knew. And they were guiding her home.\n\nTears prickled Effie's eyes. She heard the deep bass rumble of Darknose, the excited howls of Cally and Teeth, the angry snarl of Cat, the low roar of Old Scratch, and the bloodcurdling growl of Lady Bee\u2014Lady Bee, who thought Effie was one of her pups.\n\nBehind her, Effie heard Nellie Moss and her son hesitate. Their footstep rhythm wavered. Angry words were exchanged. Nellie Moss called her son foul names. Effie tried not to hear them, but the wind carried them straight to her ears. They stung like the coldest air in the middle of the night. Darknose began howling frantically, and suddenly she couldn't hear mother and son anymore. Footsteps quickened, and two sets of hands began grabbing at her dress and hair.\n\nThe shankshounds shrieked and wailed like madmen trapped in a burning house. The plank door of the little dog cote rattled and strained as the weight of six dogs came against it. Tears and blood rolled in pink streams down Effie's face as hands pulled her down into the snow. She tasted ice as Nellie Moss began hauling her back. The door was so close that she could see the grain of the heartwood and the orange rust on the latch. If only she could get her arm to work properly... if only it didn't hurt so. There was a hole at the top of her shoulder, a dark red pit where Cutty Moss had stuck her with his knife.\n\nShe threw the useless arm toward the door. Pain made her teeth come down upon her tongue. Nellie Moss' hands were around her waist, pulling, pulling. Effie's hand slid down the planks. Her fingers caught on the latch. Cutty Moss gripped her thighs. Effie stiffened her fingers around the latch, and as the clansman hauled her body through the snow, the metal bar jumped its cradle.\n\nAnd the night of dogs began.\n\nDark beasts exploded from the cote, sleek nightmare forms, all snout and teeth and neck. Their growls shook the air like thunder, raising hair on Effie's back and neck. She heard terrible, terrible screams and the word No stretched over seconds until it ceased having meaning and became the sound of pure terror instead. A neck snapped with the wet crunch of a rotten log, fingers scratched at snow, something tore with a twisting-wrenching kind of sound, and then Effie knew no more.\n\nLater, when it was over, Corbie Meese and others found her lying in the center of a killing ground of blood, bones, viscera, and human hair, protected by a circle of dogs. The dogs had licked her clean of blood and were keeping her broken body warm by pressing their bellies against it. Orwin Shank had to be roused from the Great Hearth, for the dogs would release her to no one but him, and it wasn't until many hours later that the first whisper of the word witch was heard.\nFIFTY-TWO\n\nThe Sull\n\n\"DRINK THIS, ORRLSMAN. IT will thicken your blood.\"\n\nRaif heard the words, but he had just woken from a deep sleep and it took him a moment to understand them. The dark-haired warrior was cupping in his hands a brass bowl decorated with midnight blue enamel. Raif could not see what the contents were, only that they were hot enough to cause steam to rise above the rim. Pink steam. He shifted his position beneath the wolfskin blanket, then tested moving his right hand. Pain made him bare his teeth. The hand that emerged from the blanket was thickly swaddled in some kind of birdskin and greased with shale oil scented with a sharp, smoky fragrance he could not name. Underneath, his fingers felt swollen and stiff, and he was suddenly glad he could not see them. Frostbite was seldom pretty to look at.\n\nIt took him a while to shift his sore and aching body into a sitting position and even longer to align both hands in a position suitable for holding the enamel bowl. The Sull warrior waited in silence, his hard ice-tanned face giving nothing away. Raif kept his own face still when he took the cup, though its weight and heat caused him pain. In silence he drank the red liquid, realizing as he did so that horse blood was the main ingredient. Its taste was not unpleasant, but it was strangely spiced, and some of the blood had congealed in long strings that clung to his tongue and teeth. When he had finished, he placed the bowl into the Sull warrior's waiting hands and gave his thanks.\n\nThe warrior bowed his head. He had stripped off his outer clothes and was now dressed in fluid furs and soft midnight blue suedes inlaid with horn sliced so thinly, it rippled like dragon's scales. On first glance Raif had thought his hair braided, but now he saw that although it was held in thick strands by a series of opal and white metal rings, the hair itself was not woven in any way. Both men's features were somehow different from clannish features: their eye color more vivid, their lips and brows more finely shaped, and their cheekbones harder, with more obvious bone mass beneath.\n\nThe tent they had erected was made of hides and caribou felt, and it was lined with a dark fishskinlike substance that cut the wind dead. The floor was laid with an exquisitely woven carpet, showing the moon in all its phases against a field of night blue silk. A firestone formed the center of the tent, and although Raif had memories of seeing timber burned over the course of the past two nights, chunks of dark stone were now alight, burning with smokeless amethyst flames. Ash lay on the opposite side of the tent, her body entirely covered with white fox blankets, her face turned toward the wall. Her hair had been washed, and it now shone the exact same color of the white metal the Sull warriors hung in their hair and at their throats.\n\nRaif made a small movement toward her. \"How is she?\"\n\nThe Sull warrior brought a hand to his chin, and as he did so the sleeve of his lynx coat fell back, revealing dozens of bloodletting scars on his forearm and wrist. So they bleed themselves as well as their horses. Raif wasn't sure if he was fascinated or disturbed.\n\n\"The one who sleeps grows stronger, Orrlsman. Today she woke and drank broth and asked words about you.\"\n\nRaif saw no reason to correct the Sull warrior's assumption he was an Orrlsman. \"When will she be able to get up?\"\n\n\"You mean, when will she be able to travel?\"\n\nRaif nodded. The Sull warrior spoke Common with only the faintest hint of an accent to betray the fact that it was not his first-spoken language. The first night when they had ridden out of the darkness, seeming to Raif's eyes to have stepped straight from a legend of blood and war, they had spoken to each other in foreign tongue. Raif had never encountered Sull before in his life, yet he knew them for what they were the moment his eyes fell upon them. Sull. The warriors who rode the vast forests of the Boreal Sway, lived in cities built from icewood and cold hard milkstone, and carried arrowheads so fine and sharp, they could penetrate a man's brain through the orb of his eye. Their blades were a swordsman's dream, layered and folded and pale as ghosts, wrought from metals that fell from the stars. Clansmen whispered that their hard shimmering edges could take a man's soul as well as his life.\n\n\"It would depend upon where she must travel and why.\" The Sull warrior did not blink as he spoke. His letting scars glowed like broken veins in the amethyst light.\n\nRaif had not yet decided how much to tell the Sull. \"We travel north on a matter of urgency.\"\n\nThe Sull warrior nodded slowly, as if he had heard and understood a lot more than the small thing Raif had said. His sable-colored eyes glanced to the tent slit. \"The Naysayer will have answers better than mine. He has tended the girl day and night. Her life is now a weight upon his own.\"\n\nA speck of fear rested in Raif's chest. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"The Naysayer has spilt his own blood to save her.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"That is not my question to answer, Orrlsman.\" The warrior's voice tightened with something that might have been anger. He stood, the horn scales on his coat snapping like teeth. Although he was neither large nor tall like his companion, his presence filled the space of two men.\n\n\"Why did he let his blood?\" Raif persisted, unable to shake off his unease.\n\nThe Sull warrior turned and looked at Raif as if he were some bit of dirt he had scraped from under his boot. \"When we make sacrifice or pay toll, we settle in the highest currency we have. And nothing in this world of cold moons and sharp arrows comes dearer than Sull blood.\" Thrusting aside the tent slit, he stepped into the darkness beyond.\n\nRaif breathed deeply. Beneath the bandages his hands felt like raw meat. Pain had made him twist and sweat in his blankets for two nights. It was almost as if his flesh had been burned, not frozen. In his dreams he envisaged tearing off the bandages and thrusting the scorched flesh in snow. The worst time had been sunset on the second night, when the Sull warrior called the Naysayer had stripped off the first set of bandages and cleaned the black flesh. Bits of tissue had come away in his cloth. Raif had looked down and not recognized the wet sticks of flesh as his fingers. When he'd asked the Sull warrior if he would lose any of them, the man had said simply, \"Nay.\"\n\nHe'd used the same word later, in the middle of the night, when Ash had cried out in her sleep. Raif had watched as the great bear of a man had laid his hand on her head and said, \"Nay, silver-haired one. No demons will reach you here.\"\n\nThe care the warrior had taken of Ash was beyond Raif's knowledge as a clansman. The Naysayer had taken dried blackroot and barberry leaves and made a hot tea from them, which he woke Ash every few hours to drink. When asked, he'd said that the tea would take the yellow poison from her blood. There had been tinctures made from the leafy twigs of mistletoe and the golden resin of a tree unknown to Raif. Her body had been cleaned and massaged with fragrant oils, the chilblains on her face washed with witch hazel, and the cuts and frost sores dressed with purified fox grease and native moss.\n\nRaif slept through much of what the Naysayer had done. Exhaustion made it impossible for him to stay awake for long periods of time. By the time the two Sull warriors stepped into the circle he had drawn in the snow, it took everything he had to meet them standing. Raif smiled grimly at the memory. He was paying the cost of that clannish pride now.\n\nIt took him an unacceptable amount of time to struggle to his feet. He could not use his bandaged hands to lever his weight, so his legs were forced to do all the work. The more his muscles labored, the more determined he became to stand and walk. The Sull warriors had helped him and Ash, and he was grateful for that, but the thought of being dependent upon them for one moment longer than necessary stiffened his jaw. They were Sull. He was clan. For three thousand years they had shared borders, nothing else.\n\nBy the time he reached Ash, she was beginning to stir. He called her name softly, and it was enough to cause her eyes to open. \"Raif.\"\n\nHe sent thanks to the Stone Gods... and the Sull gods, whose names he did not know. \"Morning, sleepy.\"\n\nShe yawned a great big yawn, then smiled up at him apologetically. \"Sorry. That's not very ladylike, is it?\"\n\nHe didn't care. Whatever the Naysayer had done, it had worked. The skin on her face was now pink and translucent, and no sign of jaundice or swelling remained. He risked kneeling so he could be nearer to her. \"How do you feel?\"\n\n\"Sore. Tired.\" Her gaze had followed his hands as he knelt. \"What happened?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I killed a wolf bare-handed.\"\n\nShe smiled nervously, unsure whether or not he was joking.\n\nSwitching the subject, he said, \"I need to ask the two Sull\u2014\"\n\n\"Sull?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"The two men who found us in the valley and took us in are Sull.\"\n\nAbsently Ash touched the moss patch on her cheek. \"I didn't realize... I just felt warm hands touching me... voices asking me to drink.\" Her gray eyes suddenly took on the amethyst light from the fire. \"How long have I...\"\n\n\"We're two days north of the pass. On the morning of the second day you lost consciousness and I carried you until it grew dark.\"\n\n\"Carried me.\" Ash repeated the words in a small voice. \"What happened then?\"\n\nRaif looked down. He hardly knew the answer to that himself and wasn't sure he really wanted to know. For the first time in days he felt for his lore. It was tucked deep beneath his wool shirt, the twine that held it half-rotted with sweat. Abruptly he tucked it away. As quickly as he could he told his story.\n\nWhen he had finished, Ash said, \"So you drew a guide circle and the two Sull warriors came?\"\n\n\"The sound of the wolves may have drawn them.\"\n\n\"You don't believe that, do you?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I believe anymore.\" His voice was harder than he meant it to be.\n\nAsh looked at him for a long moment before saying, \"How long will it take us to reach Mount Flood?\"\n\nHe was grateful to her for changing the subject. He refused to think about what possible reasons the Stone Gods might have for protecting him. \"That's what I meant to ask you. I may need to tell the Sull warriors where we're headed. There's a mountain peak to the north of here, a great blue thing choked with glaciers, and I'm pretty sure it's Mount Flood. But what I don't know is where the Hollow River lies in relation to the base. We could lose a week just searching for running water.\"\n\nAsh thought for a while before answering. Raif could hear the rough catch of her breath, and he reminded himself that she was still very weak. Finally she said, \"You trusted these men with both our lives. At any point over the past two days they could have caused us harm, but they didn't. I think they came because you summoned them, and both you and they know it, and somehow that binds them to you.\" Raif opened his mouth to protest, but she headed him off with a question. \"Do you think the Stone Gods brought them here merely to bandage our wounds and send us on our way, like surgeons on a battlefield?\"\n\nRaif frowned. By speaking so, she was brushing too close to issues no clansman would ever dare to question. Stone Gods were not like the One God who watched over the cityholds: They did not concern themselves with the day-to-day lives of their followers. And they answered no small prayers. Suddenly aware of the pain in his hands, he said, \"I will tell them only of our destination. Nothing more.\"\n\nAsh nodded.\n\nRaif shifted his body toward the fire and set his mind on finding warm food and liquid for her to take.\n\nThe lip of the firepit was ringed with stone carvings that were meant to be held in the hand. All were the color of the night sky or the moon. Objects carved from obsidian, opal, white mica, blue black iron, and rock crystal shot with silver had all collected so much heat from the fire that they were warm to the touch. The carvings were very old, and much of the detail had been lost, but their round edges and heavy weight made them pleasing to hold. Raif had watched as the smaller of the two Sull warriors had placed one carving in a copper bowl packed with snow, then set it aside until the carving's heat had rendered the snow liquid. He had not drunk the snowmelt, Raif recalled. Instead he had used it to moisten a cloth that both he and his companion had cleansed their hands with.\n\nRaif returned the carvings to their place and reached down to take a small copper kettle from the fire's edge.\n\n\"The man who cared for me,\" Ash said, \"he reminded me of one of the Bluddsmen.\"\n\n\"Cluff Drybannock.\" Raif could not keep the hardness from his voice. \"He's a Trench-born bastard.\"\n\n\"So he's part Sull?\"\n\nRaif winced as his fingers dealt with the weight of the kettle. \"Yes. Trenchlanders haven't called themselves Sull for centuries, but no matter how many children they sire with clan and city men, the Sull still protect them as their own.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. Trenchlanders trade with the clans and the Mountain Cities. Sull don't; they trade only with Trenchlanders.\"\n\n\"So the Sull need the Trenchlanders for trade, and the Trenchlanders need the Sull for protection?\"\n\nRaif shrugged. \"Something like that.\" As he spoke a giant pair of hands parted the tent flap and the warrior named Naysayer stepped into the tent in a flurry of wind and snow. The second warrior stepped after him, carrying an iced-up chunk of meat in his fist. While the Naysayer brushed ice from his hair and furs, the second warrior dropped the meat at Raif's feet.\n\n\"I cut the heart from the beast, Clansman. It is yours to eat.\"\n\nRaif didn't have to look at it to know that it was Pack Leader's heart. He shook his head. \"Clan do not eat wolf.\"\n\nThe two warriors exchanged glances. \"So you do not heart-kill for meat?\"\n\nRealizing the object of discussion was no longer the wolf, but the man who had killed it, Raif said, \"I did what I had to, to protect Ash and myself. If you want the carcass, take it. I have nothing else to offer you in payment.\"\n\nThe Sull warrior made no reply. After a moment he said, \"The Naysayer believes you wear the cloak of a false clan. He says you are a Hailsman. Is this true?\"\n\nSo they have found the silver cap from Drey's tine. Aloud Raif said, \"I have no clan.\"\n\n\"Do you have no name also?\"\n\n\"I am Raif Sevrance.\" Watcher of the Dead.\n\nThe Sull warrior nodded slowly. \"I am Ark Veinsplitter, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider. My hass is Mal Naysayer, son and Far Rider also.\"\n\nThe two warriors stood still, awaiting a response. Raif hesitated, unsure what to do. It was Ash who broke the silence. \"I am Ash March, Foundling, born in the shadow of Vaingate. I thank you, Ark Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer, for the gifts of care and shelter you have given. As Raif said, we have no gifts to repay you, but know this: I shall carry the knowledge of Sull kindness with me always.\"\n\nThe expressions of the two Sull warriors did not alter as Ash spoke, but something within their eyes changed. The Naysayer was the first to come forward and bow to her, the lynx fur at his throat still shedding snow. Ark Veinsplitter watched his companion, the firelight casting fingers of shadow on his face, then came and bowed no less deeply. \"You have spoken well, Ash March, Foundling. May the moon always light your way in darkness and your arrows always find the heart.\"\n\nFood was cooked and eaten after that. Ark Veinsplitter pulled a partially butchered goat carcass in from the snow, while the Naysayer fed dead wood to the fire to make it hot enough for cooking. After he had gutted the carcass and presented Ash with the raw liver to strengthen her blood, Ark rubbed the meat with dark spices and sourwood and set it to roast. Within minutes the tent was filled with the fatty, briny aroma of roasted goat.\n\n\"No wolf?\" Raif said when it was obvious that no other meat was to be added to the fire.\n\nArk Veinsplitter cracked his first smile. \"Sull do not eat wolf, either. If we want tough meat we eat our saddles instead.\" He reached down and picked up Pack Leader's heart. The heat in the tent had thawed it, and now Raif could clearly see where the willow staff had split it in two. \"Of course, the Naysayer has been known to chew on their bones. What say you, hass?\"\n\n\"Wolf bones! Nay! You speak with false memories, Veinsplitter. Perhaps you have spilt too much blood today.\"\n\nLaughing softly, Ark Veinsplitter slipped from the tent. After a moment Raif pulled on his cloak and followed him out.\n\nThe wind was shocking after the stillness of the tent. Snow had stopped falling, but dry powder blew close to the ground like shifting sand. Beneath his bandages, Raif felt his hands burning as if they had been doused in pure alcohol and set alight. He watched as the Sull warrior threw the wolf heart onto the ground and pushed it deep beneath the snow with the sole of his boot.\n\n\"That mountain ahead, the dark wall on the horizon, is it Mount Flood?\"\n\nIf the Sull warrior was surprised he was not alone, he did not show it. \"It is one name for it.\" He did not turn around as he spoke.\n\n\"And do you know from which face the Hollow River flows?\"\n\nArk Veinsplitter's body stiffened. \"I do.\"\n\nRaif waited. Minutes passed, and still he waited, and finally the Sull warrior spoke.\n\n\"The Hollow River runs from the southwest face of Mount Flood. It is easily found by the dark mass of spruce that grow on its banks, and the glacier tongue that points down from the mountain toward it.\"\n\n\"And caverns. Do you know of any that lie close to the river?\"\n\nThe Sull warrior breathed so softly his breath failed to whiten in the air. Raif saw that he had pulled on no gloves, yet he held his hands unclenched. Without a word he moved around the tent to a sheltered place where the three Sull horses had been stabled beneath a canvas of caribou hide stretched on poles. All three horses wore lamb's-wool blankets, and the metal on their bits and harnesses was wrapped with fleece. They were huge animals, with deep chests, thick coats, and feathered skirts around each hoof. Their intelligent, sculpted heads reminded Raif of Angus' bay.\n\nArk Veinsplitter rubbed the gray's nose. \"The caverns lie beneath the river, not beside it.\"\n\nThe blue sniffed Raif, looking for contact or treats. With his hands bandaged and aching, Raif could offer neither, yet for some reason the horse chose to stay. \"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Kith Masso. The Hollow River. The Sull named it so.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nFinally Ark Veinsplitter turned and looked at him, his ice-tanned hands on his horse's bridle. Strangely, he was smiling. \"I had forgotten you were a clansman,\" he said. There was no malice in his words, just a deep and terrible sadness that made Raif afraid for all of them: the Sull warriors, Ash, himself.\n\nLooking into Ark Veinsplitter's night-dark eyes, Raif knew he had not made a mistake by asking about the river and its caverns, but there was something here that he did not understand. When the Sull warrior spoke, each word seemed to come at a cost.\n\n\"Kith Masso is fed by the snow and glacier melt of Mount Flood. During the moons of spring it is a deep river, fast moving with water the color of sapphires and the scent of wildflowers and iron ore. Beneath later moons its waters slow and stiffen, and a great crust of ice forms upon the surface, while the river runs silent beneath. Then the headwaters freeze. There is no more snow or glacier melt, and the fountainhead of the spring that births the river becomes blocked with gravel and ice. So the waters of Kith Masso drain.\"\n\n\"This happens to a handful of other rivers in the Storm Margin, but all except Kith Masso are broad and shallow. Their ice crusts collapse, and their headwaters find ways round the ice. Kith Masso is different. It runs deep and narrow through a canyon of its own making. When its waters drain, its ice crust stays in place.\"\n\n\"The Hollow River.\" Raif could not keep the wonder from his voice.\n\n\"So we named it.\" The Sull warrior sounded tired now. The horn and metal rings in his hair clicked softly in the wind. \"To reach the cavern you seek, you must break through the ice crust and walk along the riverbed toward the mountain. Soon you will come to a tributary that feeds the river to the west. Take it. It is the only entrance to the Cavern of Black Ice.\"\n\nArk Veinsplitter met eyes with Raif Sevrance. Snow whipped and swirled between them like clouds of tiny insects, each one delivering a sting of pure frost. Raif's heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to ask the warrior how he had known their destination, but something warned him the answer was best left unsaid. Later. There will be time for questions later, when Ash has visited the cavern and everything is done.\n\n\"The cavern can only be reached in winter when the waters that flow around it have drained. You are fortunate to have come when you did, Raif Sevrance of No Clan.\" The tone of the warrior's voice didn't make Raif feel fortunate at all. Before he could speak, Ark said, \"Come. We have stood too long under this cold, moonless sky. My scars ache like new wounds tonight.\"\n\nRaif followed him into the tent. Mal Naysayer was spreading fresh goose grease on the snowburns on Ash's face. The Sull warrior with eyes the color of ice turned to look at his companion as he entered. An unspoken communication passed between the two, and Mal Naysayer stood and left Ash. Unlike Ark Veinsplitter, who had laid his weapons in arrangement around his sleeping mat, the Naysayer had a six-foot longsword couched in a harness at his back. Raif could not see the blade, but the hilt was cast from white metal, and its two-handed grip was wrapped with leather one shade lighter than black. The pommel was shaped like a raven's head.\n\nRaif let his dead man's cloak slide to the floor. It was the first time he had seen a raven's likeness stamped on anything used by a man. All clans and cities had their badges, and many, like Croser and Spire Vanis, chose birds of prey, but none had claimed a raven for their own. Raif did not know what ravens meant in the Mountain Cities, but in the clanholds they meant just one thing: death. A ghost smile crossed Raif's face. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing to have on a sword after all.\n\n\"Raif Sevrance of No Clan, and Ash March, Foundling.\"\n\nRaif looked up as Ark Veinsplitter addressed him. The two Sull warriors were standing behind the firepit, the light from the flames glancing off the down-facing planes of their faces. They had spoken briefly in their own tongue, but Raif's thoughts had been on Mal Naysayer's weapon, and he had paid scant attention to the rough catch of their voices. Now, though, he saw that they had been discussing him and Ash, and they had come to a decision on something.\n\nInstinctively Raif crossed to Ash, and the two parties faced each other across the smoke and flames of the firepit.\n\nArk Veinsplitter spoke. \"My hass and I have spoken of your journey. Like us, you travel north, and like us also, your path leads beneath the shadows of Mount Flood. The Naysayer tells me that the new moon which rides tomorrow brings storms. He says that those burned once by the frost will likely burn again. And he ill likes the thought of the Foundling treading snow. To this end we offer to travel with you and take our axes to Kith Masso's ice.\"\n\n\"Ash March shall have my mount for the journey,\" said the Naysayer in a voice so deep it made the air in the tent vibrate.\n\n\"And Raif Sevrance shall have mine.\"\n\nRaif looked from warrior to warrior, and finally to Ash. In the bright light of the wood fire her face looked paler and more drawn than before. It was too much to ask that she walk tomorrow; he knew that. But it didn't stop him from wishing that she would turn their offer down.\n\n\"What say you, Raif? You think me incapable of walking on my own two feet?\" Although Ash made both her eyes and her face strong as she spoke, it wasn't nearly enough.\n\nHe loved that she had tried, though. Crouching down, he felt for her hand through the blanket. \"I know how capable you are of walking, but it would ease my mind if you rode.\" He waited until she nodded before giving his answer to the Sull.\n\n\"So it is settled.\" Ark Veinsplitter's face was grim. \"What say you, Naysayer? Is two days' hard travel enough to reach the kith?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" Mal Naysayer said. \"More like three.\"\nFIFTY-THREE\n\nMarafice One Eye\n\n\"SO THE HALFMAN IS GONE?\"\n\n\"Yes, and God and the devil help him if he ever returns.\"\n\n\"Are you sure he murdered Hood?\"\n\n\"Do not question me like one of your flunkies, Surlord. I know what I saw. Seven dead men cannot slit a live one's throat.\"\n\nPenthero Iss studied the Protector General of the Rive Watch carefully as they walked side by side in the black limestone vault below the Cask. Something would have to be done about his eye. He had been back only one full day, yet already the whispers had started. Marafice One Eye, they called him now. It was not a sight to warm a mother's heart; the spur he had fallen on had punctured his left eyeball and raised great welts of flesh in a sunburst around the socket. Little doctoring had been done, and Iss suspected that the Knife had simply plucked out the deflated eyeball, pressed his fist into the cavity to stanch the bleeding, doused the entire thing with alcohol, and then got thoroughly and disgustingly drunk. Iss smiled faintly as he stepped into shadow. This would certainly add to the Knife's reputation. The Protector General of the Rive Watch might become a legend yet.\n\nMarafice Eye had returned from Ganmiddich alone, telling a tale of how Asarhia had blasted his sept with sorcery in the slate fields below Ganmiddich Pass. All the sept had died, their spines snapped like sticks, their ribs smashed to pieces and driven like nails into their hearts. Marafice Eye claimed that although he was flung with equal force to the others, the soft body of one his brothers-in-the-watch broke his fall. Regrettably, that brother's boots had been kitted with steel spurs.\n\n\"I will not be sent on any more of your petty errands, Surlord. If you want that cursed daughter of yours brought back find another fool to do it.\"\n\nPenthero Iss nodded. It was obvious now that no one could get near Asarhia until she reached. Better to wait until it was done and collect her then. Besides, he needed his Knife here, with him. \"You know the Master of Ille Glaive has doubled the number of his Tear Guard, and has turned no Forsworn from his gates all winter?\"\n\nThe Knife grunted. \"He swells his numbers, as all the Mountain Cities do. The clanholds at war is a tempting target to one and all.\"\n\n\"No doubt. But if anyone is going to make first claim upon the southern clans, it will be the armies and grangelords of Spire Vanis. Not the Master of the City on the Lake.\"\n\n\"There is good land beyond the Bitter Hills. Swift rivers. Fine grazing. Roundhouses with proper battlements and defenses, not like those stone turds they build up north.\"\n\nSo the Knife had liked what he had seen of Ganmiddich. Perhaps the journey north hadn't been an utter failure after all. Penthero Iss came to a halt by a limestone column carved with the image of a three-headed warhorse impaled upon a spire and turned to look the Knife in his one remaining eye. \"A dozen grangelords are massing armies as we speak. Lord of the Straw Granges, Lord of Almsgate, and the Lady of the East Granges and her son the Whitehog are just a few who have been calling their hideclads to arms. They see the time coming when they will ride north and claim portions of the clanholds for themselves.\"\n\n\"Lord of the Straw Granges! That fool couldn't piss out of his own bed, let alone lead an army north.\" Marafice Eye punched the column with the heel of his hand. \"And as for that tub of lard Ballon Troak, who now styles himself Lord of Almsgate...\" Words failed the Knife, and he punched the column again. \"I'd sooner follow the bitch of the East Granges into battle. At least she knows how to ride a man then leave him for dead.\"\n\nPenthero Iss smiled thinly. Marafice Eye's assessment of the three grangelords might be crude, but it was entirely true. He was clever in low ways, the Knife. It was easy to forget that. \"Whatever their faults may be, meekness isn't one of them. They want land. All the grangelords do. They have sons and fosterlings and bastards and nephews, and the cityhold of Spire Vanis is hemmed in by mountains and barren rocks. North is the only way to expand. North, into those fat border clans.\"\n\nAware that his voice was growing louder, Iss worked to control it. The thick walls of the Blackvault created echoes, and broken bits of his own words floated back. \"The world is about to change, Knife. Land will be won and lost. A thousand years ago Haldor Hews rode out with a warhost and claimed the ranging ground south of the Spill and all land west of the Skagway. A thousand years before that Theron Pengaron marched north across the Ranges and founded the city where we stand today. Now another thousand years have passed, and it's time to take more. War is coming, make no mistake about it. Houses and reputations will be made. Men will be made. Fortunes will be brought home and divided amongst brothers and kin. And the only question that really matters is, Will Spire Vanis move first to claim her portion, or will we wait until it's too late and let the Glaive, the Star, and the Vor take it all?\"\n\nIss met eyes with Marafice Eye. \"What say you, Knife? It's been a hundred years since an army rode forth from Spire Vanis. The grangelords will raise their own forces and carry their own banners, but one man alone must lead them.\" He stopped there, knowing he had said enough. It was always better to leave a man enough room to reason things out on his own.\n\nMarafice Eye's face was hideous in the candlelight. His missing eye needed stitching, and weeks of white-weather travel had turned his skin to hide. Earlier Iss had detected a limp, and even now, as the Knife stood silent and still, he clearly favored his right leg. When he spoke his voice was harsh. \"So you would give me an army, Surlord? Send me to wet-nurse the grangelords and their armies and claim land in the names of their soft-arsed sons?\"\n\nIss shook his head. \"You will ride at the head of all armies. First claims and first plunder will be yours.\"\n\n\"Not enough, Surlord. If I wanted land, don't you think I would have armed myself and taken some by now?\"\n\n\"But what of your brothers-in-the-watch? Would they turn such an offer down? Clan land and clan plunder would mean riches to them.\"\n\nThat made him think. It wasn't as easy to turn down wealth for his sworn brothers as it was for himself. The Knife was deeply loyal to his men. Just this morning, the first thing he had done upon entering the fortress was walk to the Red Forge and tell his brothers-in-the-watch how he had lost eight of their men. Fool that he was, he had brought back all the dead men's weapons, and they had fired up the forge then and there. The mercury-treated metal was cooling even as they spoke. New swords had been cast. The refiring deepened the red taint and set the memories of brothers lost in steel. It was the closest the Rive Watch came to belief.\n\n\"Ganmiddich is fine land,\" Iss murmured, echoing the Knife's own words. \"They say in spring the hunting is so good that a man just has to ride with his spear sticking out, and elk and deer simply run themselves upon the tip.\"\n\nMarafice Eye snorted. Still, Iss could see the gleam of interest in his one blue eye. \"Who would watch the city if the Rive Watch rode to war?\"\n\nCareful now, Iss reminded himself. \"He who leads an army must also raise one Almstown must be smashed. Able bodies must be recruited and trained. Every man in this city who can fight must be made to do so. The grangelords can do only so much. They are known and feared only in their granges. You, Knife, are known from Wrathgate to Vaingate and the grangeholds beyond. You could raise an army and a safekeeping force single-handed.\"\n\n\"The Rive Watch has defended the city and the surlord for twelve hundred years.\"\n\n\"The Rive Watch was birthed in war. Thomas Mar forged the first red swords with the blood of his brothers-in-arms. When he and his last twelve men took them up, they wrested the northern passage from Ille Glaive.\"\n\nMarafice Eye could not deny it. Nor could he deny that it was the Rive Watch who smashed the city of High Rood, slaying the settlers and masons who had come from the Soft Lands to build a rival to Spire Vanis one hundred leagues to the east. The Rive Watch rode forth when it suited them; both Iss and the Knife knew it. And the only question that now remained was, Would they ride forth with Marafice Eye come spring?\n\nIss needed them. The grangelords and their hideclads were not enough to take on the clans. Oh, they thought they were, with their swords of patterned steel and their horses bred as tough and ugly as moose stags, but the Surlord knew differently. Without a hard man behind them, they would crumble as easily as oatcakes in the hands of a child. \"What say you, Knife? Will you lead the army north to crush the clans?\"\n\n\"My men will be given first claim on all land?\"\n\n\"And titles of holdlords as soon as roofs are raised over land held in their names.\"\n\nThe Knife stroked the dagger at his belt, his small lips pressed so tightly together that it hardly looked as if he had a mouth at all. \"There is risk here, Surlord.\"\n\n\"Name what else you would have.\"\n\n\"Your title when you're dead and gone.\"\n\nIf the branch of candles lighting the Blackvault had been nearer to the two men, the Knife would have seen Iss' pupils shrink to specks. Always there was someone who wanted his place. It wasn't enough to be surlord, not when any man with land and power could arm himself and unman you. Here, in this very chamber, Connad Hews had been held captive for thirty days of his hundred-day rule. His brother Rannock had stormed the fortress to free him, but he'd come seven hours too late. Trant Gryphon had already put a broad-blade through his heart. Hews of the Hundred Days they called him now. And Penthero Iss could name a dozen other surlords who had ruled less than a year.\n\nIt was a thought that brought him no peace. Quietly he said, \"No surlord can name his own successor; you know that as well as any man. I had to seize power from Borhis Horgo. If you want power, you must seize it yourself.\"\n\n\"Don't think I haven't thought about it, Surlord.\" Marafice Eye was suddenly close, his dead socket inches from Iss' face. \"I have lost three septs to your daughter. Three septs. One eye. And the skin off my ankle and foot. There's witchery here, and there's more to come\u2014I can smell it like a dog on a bitch. I know you, Penthero Iss, and I know you're clever enough to take the clanholds with or without me, but I also know your interest doesn't end with the clans. You have those pale, drowned-man's hands of yours in meals bloodier than clanmeat. And I don't want to find myself in a position where me and my men are sent forth to battle only to be abandoned when a brighter prize catches your eye.\"\n\nHe was so close to the truth, Iss wondered if losing an eye hadn't endowed him with second sight. Clanholds first, Sull second: That had always been the plan. Strike hard while their attention was diverted. Strike hard, claim land for Spire Vanis... and a crown for himself. Surlord wasn't enough. He hadn't come this far, pulled himself up from farmer's son to ruler, spent ten years as a grangelord's fosterling, put to work as a retainer rather than the kin that he was, then another twelve years in the Watch, working his way up, always up, until Borhis Horgo named him Protector General and made him his right hand, to have it all taken away from him by some usurper with a blade. He had worked too hard and planned too long for that.\n\nKeeping his face still, he said, \"You are crucial to me in all things, Knife. As I rise so do you.\"\n\n\"Name me as your successor.\"\n\n\"If I did it would mean nothing. A surlord must have the support of the Rive Watch and the grangelords. If I named you as my successor, the grangelords would laugh at both of us. 'Who do Iss and the Knife think they are,' they would say, 'the Spire King and his son?'\"\n\n\"They say the Lord of Trance Vor has taken to calling himself the Vor King.\"\n\n\"Yes, and they also say his brain is addled with ivysh and he takes pleasure in little boys.\"\n\nMarafice Eye sneered. \"I want to be named, Surlord. It's my business if the grangelords laugh or plot death behind my back. Today they think of me only as your creature, your Knife. Name me as your successor, and before this war is over I'll make them think again.\"\n\nIss stepped back from Marafice Eye. He reeked of meat and horses, and he suddenly seemed dangerous in the way that wounded animals were. The journey home had taken eleven days. Eleven days alone with a blind and stinking eye and the memory of eight men's deaths. Iss shivered. He did not like this new and subtle Knife. What he proposed was unheard of\u2014a Surlord naming his own successor\u2014but Iss could understand the Knife's motives and even recognize the sense behind them.\n\nMarafice Eye was nothing to the grangelords, a cutthroat with a red-tainted sword. He was not born to land as they were; he was a hog butcher's son who spoke with the words and accent of Hoargate. While grangelords' sons were learning swordplay in their wind-sheltered courtyards, Marafice Eye was learning to cut the hands off anyone who stole sausages or pork belly from the front of his father's shop. He had joined the Rive Watch when he was fourteen, after his father began to suspect that not all the thieves his son maimed had actually thieved. Marafice Eye would have their hands for just a look.\n\nAs far as Iss knew, the Knife had spent his first three years in the Watch being bullied in the usual brutal way. Perhaps it had done him some good: Iss did not know. What he did know was that by the time the Knife turned seventeen he had won himself the right to wear the red-tainted sword. Marafice Eye, a hog butcher's son from Hoargate, wearing the red alongside grangelords' bastards and third sons.\n\nIss had always assumed that the Knife had joined the Rive Watch thinking he would become one of the Lower Watch: those men who were bound without oaths and could not wear the red and patrolled only those parts of the city where no one but the poor and starving lived. Now Iss found him self wondering if ambition hadn't been within the Knife from the start.\n\nAs Protector General he had risen as high as any baseborn man could. Now, by publicly declaring his intent to become surlord, he sought to take the final step. Oh, he knew the grangelords would be incensed\u2014they'd shake their wellmanicured fists and swear they'd never accept a commoner as a surlord\u2014but that wasn't really the point. Slowly he was going to get them accustomed to the idea. In five years' time what had once seemed so outrageous would have mellowed to plain fact: So Marafice Eye wants to become surlord... well, even Iss himself thinks him fit for it.\n\nIss breathed thinly. There was gain here, but danger also. Your title when you're dead and gone, the Knife had said. Yet would he be content to wait that long? It was easy to imagine him seizing control of Mask Fortress, sealing the Cask, and taking his surlord's life. The Rive Watch was his and his alone; if he commanded them to march through the Want in midwinter, they would do it. And yet... The Knife was no fool. He needed legitimacy, and he would not get that by murdering his surlord. He needed time to remake himself as grangelord and warlord, and leading Spire Vanis to victory against the clans would be half of it. Iss' resolve stiffened. Far better to have Marafice Eye close, let him have a vested interest in this war\u2014he would fight better and longer for it\u2014and later, when it was over and done... well, who could say what might become of a general on his long march home? The Northern Territories were about to become an extremely dangerous place.\n\nComforted by that thought, Iss said, \"You do know you will have to acquire yourself a grangedom by fair means or foul?\"\n\nThe Knife shrugged. \"There's a lot of ugly grangelords' daughters out there.\" His mouth was too narrow for grinning, but he managed a fair semblance of a leer. \"Or mayhap I'll find some old fart willing to foster me, just as you did when you first came to the Vanis. I heard tell that the land you were born to was some sodden piece of farmland on the poor side of the Vor, not some fine castle-held estate.\"\n\nIss ignored the gibe. Land was land, and his father may have been a farmer, but his great-grandfather had been born Lord of the Sundered Granges. There was a world of difference between Marafice Eye and himself, and if the Knife didn't know that, then he was a fool. No commonborn man had ever ruled Spire Vanis. Never had. Never would.\n\nStepping toward the candle branch, Iss turned so the light limned his shoulders and shone through his fingertips and hair. \"Tomorrow I will begin spreading the word that I see you as my natural successor. My word alone cannot make a surlord of you, but I will do what I can to change minds. In return you will form an army for me and lead the Rive Watch and the grangelords north.\"\n\nMarafice Eye nodded. \"'Tis agreed.\"\n\nIss looked at the Knife's ruined face and trembled at what he had done.\n\nTHE CROUCHING MAIDEN CROUCHED in the shadows at the rear of the house. It was a pleasant building, its faded yellow stonework glowing warmly in the noonday sun. The wind-damaged chimney stack leaked smoke near the base, and all the surrounding roof snow had turned black with soot and ash.\n\nThe door and windows were especially interesting to the maiden, for while first glance showed the usual oak and basswood frames and rusted iron latches, second and third glances revealed other details to the eye. The windows were equipped with two sets of shutters, and although the inner ones had been painted in the same dark color as pitchsoaked wood and certainly looked like wood from a distance, they had the smooth texture of cast iron. Similarly, the door itself was a great hunk of weathered and peeling oak that apparently hung on two horse-head hinges that were crusted with black rot. Magdalena had been studying the door for quite a while and had come to admire the subtle untruth of the thing. It would take more than two rusted potiron hinges to support a block of oak a foot thick.\n\nThe thickness of the door was not in question. An hour earlier a young girl with fair hair had stepped from it, revealing the true width of the wood. The girl, whom Magdalena thought to be about seven winters old, had moved no farther than the front step. \"It's freezing,\" she had called to someone inside, \"but the sun's shining as if it were spring.\" A woman's voice had replied, telling her to shut and bar the door before all the heat fell out.\n\nMagdalena pursed lips few living had ever kissed. Shut and bar the door. The Lok farmhouse was built like a fort. Oh, it didn't look it, and the maiden was full of admiration for the person who had modified the original structure in such a way as to fool the casual eye, but the simple fact was that all the entrances and exits could be sealed. It was that fact more than anything said by the roofer Thurlo Pike that made the maiden certain she had found the right place.\n\n\"The Lok family will be living in seclusion,\" Iss had said. \"Angus Lok trusts no one with their whereabouts, not even his close-lipped brothers in the Phage.\"\n\nMagdalena knew several assassins who refused to take commissions against any man or woman who was believed to be associated with a Steep House, as the Phage named their secret lodges. But she had looked deep within herself and found little fear of sorcery or those who wielded it. She had been born in the Cloistered Tower, raised by the greenrobed sisters there, and she had known a man once who had sworn she wielded a brand of sorcery all her own. Magdalena bared dry teeth. She had killed the man, of course, but his accusations still tugged at her from the grave. She was the Crouching Maiden; all the power she needed lay within her own two hands.\n\nSuddenly uncomfortable with her position in the dogwood that grew beneath the stripped canopy of oldgrowth at the back of the house, Magdalena stood and stretched her legs. Shadows followed her like small children, and although she had little fear of being spotted by anything more troublesome than rabbits and birds, she still moved no closer to the house.\n\nGaining access was going to be a problem. Obviously the women took due care with their own safety, and at night the door and the windows would be barred. Breaking locks and hinges was noisy and troublesome and not the maiden's way. Also, if there were defenses in place on the outside of the house, it was fair to assume that there would be arms close at hand within. Iss had offered no insight into the characters of the Lok womenfolk, but Magdalena suspected that the mother and oldest daughter would likely know their way around a knife. By all accounts Angus Lok was a swordsman of high order, and it would take a foolish man not to see the sense of passing along some small portion of those skills to his daughters and his wife.\n\nNo. Magdalena shook her head. It would be too dangerous to break into the house and chance being caught in darkness by people who might be armed. It was a risk the Crouching Maiden would not take.\n\nAssassination was all about reducing risk. Those who didn't know about such things assumed all an assassin did was stalk her mark down a dark alley, slit the mark's throat, then flee by some secret route. Truth was, Magdalena had killed only one man in an alleyway, and it had been one of the most dangerous commissions she had ever taken. She had been young then, her fee a mere sparrow's weight in gold, and she hadn't realized how difficult it was to approach an unknown man and simply kill him. This particular man had lived through four other assassination attempts, and even though the maiden had approached him quietly and from behind, he had caught wind of her intent even before moonlight found her blade. He was large and brutal and had broken two of her fingers before she finally located his windpipe with her knife. His blood was all over her arms and face, and his cries had alerted people in nearby streets. It had taken all her maiden's skills to return to her safe house undetected.\n\nShe had since learned to arrange situations more carefully, to use lures and props as means to insinuate herself into others' lives and create little \"death plays\" where she was playwright, player, and stagehand in one. Take Thurlo Pike: The man had been so taken with the thought of a drug that knocked women senseless, he had walked right into his grave.\n\nAnd that was another thing few gave proper thought to: the arrangement of the bodies later. Not all assassinations called for a corpse spread-eagled on a bed. Most called for greater subtlety than that; patrons asked that the means of death be disguised as natural illness, a rogue attack by thieves, an accidental fall into cold water, suicide, or murder by a third party's hand. And quite a number of patrons requested that the corpse be permanently lost, so that no record of death remained.\n\nMagdalena stripped off her thin leather gloves and massaged the deepening chill from her hands. As the Lok girl had said, it was bitterly cold, yet the sun shone with all the absurdity of a king at a beggar's feast. The maiden was sensitive to the cold. She worried about her hands yet could not bring herself to wear thick woolen mitts. Touch was everything to an assassin.\n\nWith a small animal sound, Magdalena turned her attention back to the house. Iss had left all decisions concerning the Lok women's deaths to her, as was proper in such cases, and had asked only for \"discretion.\" This suited the maiden well enough. Whenever she took the trouble of placing herself in a tightly knit community like that of the Three Villages, she preferred to leave blameless once the commission was over and done. Thurlo Pike's death would actually help her in this regard, as it was quite possible that blame would fall upon him. If indeed there was blame to portion out.\n\nMagdalena still hadn't made a decision about that yet. She might make the deaths look like an accident.\n\nSlowly she began to work her way around the side of the house, moving in a wide-turning circle around farm buildings, stone pens, rusted plow bits, a covered well, a grove of winter-withered apple trees, and a retaining ward built in the crease where the slope of a neighboring hillside met level ground.\n\nThe front entrance was not well used; the maiden saw that straightaway. Not one pair of footsteps were stamped upon the path, and a wedge of drifted snow lay undisturbed against the door. No one ever came or went this way, and Magdalena suspected that the door was sealed permanently closed. She saw no evidence to suggest this, but she had seen enough of the farmhouse defenses for her mind to work in the same way as the person who had constructed them. A second door was an unnecessary risk; far better to board it up and perhaps the front windows as well and so leave only the back of the house vulnerable to invasion.\n\nMagdalena suppressed the cold wave of curiosity that rose within her. Why Angus Lok chose to keep his family in protected seclusion was not her affair. He feared something, that she knew, and the fact that she was here now, an assassin crouching in the shadows at the side of his house, was proof that he feared correctly... but nowhere near deeply enough.\n\nShe studied the door, its frame, jamb, and pitch weatherproofing for only a minute longer before heading back to the woods. It was her last night working at Drover Jack's, and she saw no reason to be late. She had worked under many taskmasters in her time, and Gull Moler was kinder than most. The fact that he had fallen a little in love with her was reason enough to be moving on.\n\nTomorrow. She would leave the Three Villages tomorrow, under cover of darkness, once her commission here was done. She had made her decision about the deaths: By the time she had finished with the bodies it would look as if a terrible tragedy had taken place.\n\nFire was always good for that.\nFIFTY-FOUR\n\nThe Hollow River\n\nTHE WIND HOWLED as the Sull warriors took their axes to the ice. Great bear-shaped Mal Naysayer put the full force of his body behind each blow, sending a battery of sharp white splinters into the air. Ark Veinsplitter worked on the dimple holes he had created, chipping away at weak points, thaw edges, and cracks: The river ice smelled of belowground places, of pine roots and iron ore and cooled magma. It rang like a great and ancient bell as the Naysayer's pick found its heart.\n\nRaif was standing on a raised bank that was heavily forested with stick-thin black spruce. Above him towered the massive, glaciated west face of Mount Flood. Boulders as big as barns rose above the snow cover at the mountain's base, towering over fields of rubble and dead, frost-riven trees. All surrounding land sloped down toward the river in a great misshapen bowl. Rock walls plunged beneath the surface, sheer as cliffs. A frozen waterfall hung like a monstrous white chandelier above a bend in the river's course, and countless dry streambeds funneled wind along the ice.\n\nThe Hollow River itself ran through a granite canyon and into the maze of knife-edge ridges that formed the mountain's skirt. Raif raised his bandaged fingers to his face and blew on them. From where he stood by the horses, the river looked like a sea of blue glass.\n\nIt had taken them three days of hard travel to reach here, as the Naysayer had promised it would. The two Sull warriors chose paths Raif would never have dared to take: across fields of loose shale, past seepage meadows bogged with melt holes, and over lakes fast with ice. Always they trusted their horses. Even when neither Ark nor the Naysayer was riding, they let the blue and the gray lead the way. Ash had ridden a Sull horse before, and it was easy for her to hand her stallion the reins and allow it the freedom to choose its own path. Raif found himself constantly pulling his stallion back the first day, the reins held so tightly around his wrists that for once his fingers went numb from lack of blood, not cold. The state of his hands did not help, as it was difficult to fine-guide a horse without fingers on the reins.\n\nThe pain was excruciating. Raif had dreams that his hands had been skinned, and turned and sweated in his blankets as his dream-self watched Death and her creatures pick the last scraps of meat from his bones. Raif woke shivering and filled with fear. Once he had torn off the bandages, just to see for himself that there was living flesh beneath. Straightaway he wished he hadn't. There was living flesh, pink flesh lying beneath a black-and-red jelly of blisters and cast skin, but the sight was almost as bad as the pared fingers in his dreams, and he couldn't get the Naysayer to rebandage them quickly enough.\n\nMal Naysayer saw nothing in the blistered, shedding skin to be alarmed about. In one of the few long speeches Raif had ever heard him speak in Common, he said, \"They will work again, I promise you that. I've seen worse in my time and doubtless caused worse, too. This hand here will be capable of holding a drawn bow, and this finger here able to hold and release a string at tension. They will not look pretty, and they'll be frost shy from now on and must be tended like newborns in the cold, but that is the price you pay for killing wolves.\"\n\nIt did not occur to Raif until much later that Mal Naysayer had no way of knowing that the bow was Raif's first-chosen weapon and had simply assumed it was so.\n\nBoth warriors carried fine recurve longbows made of horn and sinew, with lacquered risers and wet-spun string. The Naysayer hunted on foot as he traveled alongside the packhorse and managed to flush a few ptarmigan and marten from their lairs. Whenever he made a kill, he plucked the lacquered arrow shaft from the carcass, slipped it back into his case, and then drained the blood into a lacquered bowl and served it, still steaming, to Ash.\n\nAsh remained weak, but she insisted on walking for increasingly long periods each day. The Naysayer had given her a coat that was so long it dragged behind her as she tramped through the snow. It was a thing of alien beauty, combining lynx fur and woven fabric in a way that Raif had never seen before. Ash refused to have it cut to fit her and cinched a leather belt around her waist to raise the hem by less destructive means. She looked, Raif had to admit, just as he imagined a Sull princess would look: tall, pale, and covered from head to toe in the silvery pelts of predatory beasts.\n\nArk Veinsplitter had offered gifts to Raif: mitts made from flying squirrel pelts that had the softest, richest fur Raif had ever touched, a hood of wolverine fur that shed even breath ice with just a shrug, and a padded inner coat that was woven from lamb's wool and stuffed with shredded silk. Raif had refused them. He had no wish to be further beholden to the Sull.\n\nArk Veinsplitter had nodded his head at the refusal and said something that Raif did not understand. \"To Sull, a gift is given in the offering, not the accepting, and I will hold them for you until such a time comes when you need them, or the Sender of Storms claims my soul.\"\n\nRaif had thought a lot about that over the past three days. At first he had assumed it was just a way for the Sull to claim a debt even when a proffered gift had been refused, yet now he thought differently. Ark Veinsplitter had separated the mitts, hood, and inner coat from his other possessions and made a parcel of them, which he placed in the bottom of his least-used pack. And Raif believed with growing certainty that the parcel would be opened again only on his say.\n\nThe Sull were a different race. They thought in different ways. Raif found himself thinking back to what Angus had said about them, how it had taken Mors Stormyielder fourteen years to breed a horse to repay a debt. He understood that now. It was quite possible that Ark Veinsplitter would carry that package with him, unopened, until the day he died.\n\n\"We're through!\" The cry came from Ark Veinsplitter, and it broke through Raif's thoughts like a whip cracked against his cheek. Both he and Ash looked down to the riverbank where the two Sull warriors continued to chip at the ice. Ark Veinsplitter's bent back was turned toward them. They waited, but he said no more.\n\nRaif glanced at Ash. \"Are you ready?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Her gray eyes flickered with snowlight as she spoke. \"It's time this was over and done.\"\n\nHe let her walk ahead of him to the bank, glad for a few moments to settle his mind in place. He waited to feel fear, expected to feel fear, but there was nothing but emptiness inside him. Their journey was coming to an end.\n\nReadying himself as he walked, he pulled on his gloves and packed the spaces between his fingers with dried moss as the Naysayer had taught him. He had no weapon or guidestone to weigh his belt, yet he tugged on the buckle to check its hold as if it were loaded down with gear. The hard edges of his dead man's cloak curled in the wind as he approached the river's edge.\n\nThe two warriors stepped back, their faces reddened by exertion, their axes sparkling with ice. No one spoke. Ash shivered as she looked down upon the hole they had created. The ice was nearly two feet thick, carpeted by an uneven layer of dry snow. The hole was roughly circular in shape, its blue and jagged edges creating a trap for the light. Score lines caused by ax strokes drew Raif's gaze down through the shadowless rim to the utter darkness at its center. It was impossible to see the riverbed or anything else that lay beyond.\n\n\"How deep is it?\" Ash's voice was a whisper.\n\n\"Let us see.\" Ark Veinsplitter unhooked the coil of rope that was attached to his belt by a white metal dog hook. Swiftly he fed the weighted end of the rope into the hole and let it run through his half-closed fist until it halted of its own accord. He pulled up close to fifteen feet of rope. \"It will be deeper near the middle.\"\n\nRaif looked out across the ice. \"I'll go first.\"\n\nThe two warriors exchanged a glance. Ark said, \"Blood must be spilt before you enter. This is a place of sacrifice to the Sull.\" Almost instantly the warrior's letting knife appeared in his hand, the silver chain that linked the crosshilt to his belt chiming softly like struck glass. With his free hand he pulled back his sleeve and bared his forearm.\n\nRaif's hand shot out to stop him. \"No. If anyone must pay a toll for this journey, it will be me.\" Biting the end of his glove, he stripped it off. \"Here. Cut the wrist.\"\n\nMuscles in Ark Veinsplitter's face tightened. When he spoke his voice was dangerously low. \"Your blood is not Sull blood. It comes at a cheaper price.\"\n\n\"That may be so, Far Rider, but Ash and I will be the ones who make this journey, not you.\"\n\n\"I don't understand,\" Ash said. \"I thought\u2014\"\n\n\"Nay, Ash March,\" the Naysayer said, his gruff voice almost gentle. \"We travel with you only this far.\"\n\n\"But you will wait for us?\" Ash glanced from Raif to Ark to the Naysayer. The fear in her voice was barely masked. \"You will wait for us?\"\n\nThe Naysayer's ice blue eyes held hers without blinking. \"We cannot stay here, Ash March. We must pay a toll for the passage we have opened and ride north before moonlight strikes the ice. We are Far Riders. Kith Masso is no place for us.\"\n\nAsh looked at him, the plea slowly slipping from her face. After a long moment she matched his unblinking gaze. \"So be it.\"\n\nRaif held his face still as he listened to her speak. The hollow place inside him ached for her, and he wanted nothing more than to lift her from the ice and crush her against his chest. Instead he thrust his wrist toward Ark Veinsplitter. \"Cut it.\"\n\nThe Sull warrior's eyes darkened, and Raif saw himself reflected in the black oil of his irises. Slowly Ark raised the letting knife to his mouth and breathed upon the razor-thin edge. His breath condensed upon the metal, then cooled to form a rime of ice. With a circle of wool dyed midnight blue, he wiped the edge. That done, he grasped Raif's forearm and jabbed his fingers hard into the flesh. Raif could feel him searching for, and finding, veins. With a movement so fast it could not be followed with the eye, Ark Veinsplitter slashed Raif's wrist.\n\nRaif felt the shock of cold metal, but no pain. Blood oozed quickly to the surface, rolling in a wide band along his wrist.\n\nOnly when the first red drops landed in the snow above the river's surface did the Sull warrior release his grip. \"There. Clan blood has been spilt upon Sull ice. Let us hope for all our sakes that this angers no gods.\" Ark Veinsplitter turned and made his way to his horse.\n\nRaif breathed deeply and then jammed his knuckles into the wound. The pain in both his hands was blinding, and it made him wonder if he'd lost his mind. What had he been thinking, letting Ark Veinsplitter spill his blood? He counted seconds as he continued to press against the cut vein. Truth was, he knew what he had been thinking; it just didn't make much sense, that was all. He didn't want the Sull paying for his journey. Not this part, the last part, after he and Ash had come this far.\n\n\"Here.\"\n\nRaif looked up. Mal Naysayer held something out for him to take: a broad leaf, deep green in color and covered with rough hairs. Recognizing it for what it was and what it did, Raif thanked the Naysayer and took it from him. Bracing himself, he laid the leaf flat in his palm and then pressed it against the cut vein. Comfrey or, as some called it, wound heal: Clans used it like the Sull to stop the bleeding of small wounds.\n\nAs the Naysayer walked a small distance to retrieve the pack he had left on the bank, Ash turned to Raif. \"You knew they wouldn't come under the ice with us.\" It was not a question.\n\n\"I thought they wouldn't, but I wasn't sure until I saw their faces when we first reached here this morning.\" Raif adjusted his grip on the comfrey leaf; a thin trail of blood was still leaking from the wound. \"They know this place, Ash. I think\u2014\" He stopped himself before the words they even fear it left his lips.\n\n\"You think what?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"It means something to them, that's all.\"\n\nAsh gave him a look that made him feel like a liar. She was so pale and thin, he wondered how she stood against the wind. After a moment she nodded toward his wrist and said, \"He cut you pretty deeply, didn't he?\"\n\nRaif couldn't deny it. \"It'll heal,\" was all he said.\n\nAs if by unspoken agreement, the two Sull warriors picked that moment to converge upon the hole in the ice. Both held packs in their hand, and Ark Veinsplitter held a length of stout rope woven from flax that Raif had seen him use to raise the tent. The dark-eyed warrior handed his pack to the Naysayer. No words passed between the two men, yet Raif knew and understood what was happening. It shamed him.\n\nThe Naysayer held out both packs toward Ash. \"Here, Ash March, Foundling, I offer you these gifts for the journey. There is a stone lamp and what oil we can spare, food and blankets and herbs to ward off sickness, and other such things as one who travels beneath ice might need.\"\n\nAsh's eyes filled with tears as the great bear-size warrior spoke. With a small movement she tugged down her hood so he could see her face wholly. When she spoke her words were as formal as his, and the wind dried her tears before they fell. \"I thank you, Mal Naysayer, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider, for these gifts that you have given. Without them I would have neither light nor warmth along the way. You have saved my life, yet claimed no debt, and for that I owe you, and give you, a piece of my heart. May all the moons you travel beneath be full ones.\"\n\nThe Naysayer stood still, his ice eyes unblinking, his back straight as a black spruce, his lynx hood shedding snow, and studied Ash without speaking. His face looked carved from stone. After a moment he laid both packages in the snow, then bowed so low to Ash that the crown of his hood touched river ice. He bowed again to Raif and then walked away, and Raif knew he would not come back.\n\nArk Veinsplitter knelt on the river surface and hammered an iron stake into shore-fast ice three feet from the hole. Raif watched his bent back, feeling nothing but shame. The Sull warrior had not wanted his gifts refused a second time, so he had passed them to his hass who had given them to Ash.\n\n\"There. It is done.\" Ark secured the rope to the fixed stake and then tested its strength by tugging on it. \"It will hold well enough.\"\n\nRaif pushed his mitt over his hand, covering the bloody bandage and the letting wound, and stepped forward. Ark Veinsplitter's eyes met his. Raif knew it wasn't his place to thank the Sull warrior for the gifts he had given to another, so he said only, \"Thank you for heeding my call in the darkness.\"\n\nArk Veinsplitter nodded slowly, the flat plains of muscle on his face suddenly looking worn. \"It was Mal who gave the word to aid you.\"\n\n\"That may be so, but I've only known Mal Naysayer to give one answer to any question he is asked.\" Raif held his gaze firm, and both men stood in silence, feet apart, the wind blowing their clothes separate ways. After a moment Raif held out his hand. \"I thank you, Ark Veinsplitter, for asking the right question.\"\n\nThe Sull warrior clasped Raif's arm, his face grave. \"Do not thank me for something we both may come to regret, Raif Sevrance of No Clan. Thank me instead for the use of my horse, and my tent, and my rope.\" He smiled roughly. \"Perhaps we can both live with that.\"\n\nRaif nodded. He found he could not speak.\n\nTogether he and Ark Veinsplitter secured the rope around his chest. The Sull warrior rechecked all knots and took care to thread the rope in such a way that it removed all possible strain from Raif's hands during the drop. Fifteen feet was not a great drop, but a bad landing on hard rock could break bones. Raif had walked on dry riverbeds before, but he had no idea what he would find beneath Kith Masso's frozen crust.\n\nArk Veinsplitter pinned Raif's arms flat against the ice as Raif eased his legs and lower body into the hole. Muscles bunched beneath the Sull warrior's lynx coat as he transferred Raif's weight to the rope. Raif thought he was ready for the pain as his gloved hands closed around the flax, but he wasn't. Streaks of white fire shot up his arms to his heart. The letting wound on his wrist suddenly seemed deep enough to sever his hand, and as his fingers sprang from the rope in fear, his body dropped.\n\nThe world he entered was as cool and still as a guidehouse. The blue glow of icelight closed around his body, like water around a sinking stone. All was quiet. Raif heard his own heart beating. The sharp tang of air trapped beneath ice stole into his nose and mouth. Above him, Ark Veinsplitter lowered the rope. The flax ticked with strain, the free swinging of Raif's body making it saw against the ice edge. Wincing, Raif forced both hands around the rope and guided his body down.\n\nHis feet hit bottom with a jolt. Quickly he worked himself free of the makeshift hoist and called for Ark to pull it back. As the rope disappeared above his head, Raif pressed his mitted hands against his jaw. He hated being weak. Hearing the soft catch of Ash's voice above him, he turned his attention to the icy blue tunnel that surrounded him. He did not want to hear what words passed between her and Ark Veinsplitter.\n\nTo his left, the granite bank glittered with lenses of ice. Flecks of iron ore shone darkly within the wall like pieces of ossified bone. Beneath his feet the riverbed was a rough valley of rock, frozen pools, and desiccated litter of fish carcasses and caribou antlers, pine needles and algae. A white scum of frosted minerals lay over everything; salts and rock silt condensed as the river drained. Above it all stretched the ice ceiling. It was like nothing Raif had ever seen before: warped, folded, jagged and then smooth like a wall of transparent rock. Light and color poured from it, creating a waterfall of sea greens and silver grays and dark midnight blues. Raif felt as if he were standing in the underbelly of a glacier, in the place where ice and shadow met.\n\nDry matter crunched beneath his boots as he stepped aside to make way for Ash's descent. To either side of him darkness pooled beyond the light.\n\nAsh came down smoothly, both hands feeding rope. Raif caught her before she hit the riverbed and pulled her free of the hoist. She was shivering. The blue light reflecting off her face looked like moonlight. When he pulled his hand free of her waist, she made a small movement as if to hold it there. As they waited for Ark Veinsplitter to lower the two packs, Raif watched Ash closely. Since the night of the wolves she had not lapsed into unconsciousness, but he didn't know if she was still fighting the voices. By unspoken agreement, neither had mentioned them in front of the Sull.\n\nBy the time the packs were lowered, Raif could already perceive a darkening above the ice. This day was the shortest winter had shown him so far. He wondered what Drey and Effie would be doing now, then closed the thought off from his mind.\n\n\"You will need to remember this place,\" Ark Veinsplitter called as he let the rope drop for the final time. \"This may be your only way out, save for picking a new hole in the ice.\"\n\nRaif nodded; he had already thought of that.\n\n\"From here you head upriver until you come upon the tributary that branches west. That may be frozen, too.\" Ark's ice-tanned face finally appeared above them. \"You must take due care, Raif Sevrance of No Clan and Ash March, Foundling. The Naysayer says the riding moon will bring no thaw, but that which is cold and brittle may collapse.\"\n\n\"Then we will dance ice,\" Ash said, looking up at him, \"as all your horses do.\"\n\nRaif thought perhaps the Sull warrior would smile, but his lips barely stretched against his teeth. \"The Naysayer and I head north. We will leave such a trail as can be followed by a clansman, if you choose to take our path.\" He left them then, with no word of farewell save the sound of his footsteps beating a cold rhythm upon the ice.\n\n\"Come,\" Raif said when all was still. \"We need to use the last hour of daylight as best we can.\" He picked up both packs from the floor and slung them over his back. One was a lot heavier than the other, and metal items jingled dully within.\n\nAsh did not move or speak. She stood in the circle of diminishing daylight directly below the hole in the ice. Raif did not like the quick manner in which she was breathing. He touched her lightly on the arm. \"Let's go,\" he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. \"We've come too far to stop now.\"\n\nSlowly her gaze turned upon him. Her eyes were made brilliant by reflections of ice, and he almost didn't see the fear that shone through them like light from a second, weaker source. \"They know I'm here,\" she said. \"They know... and terror grows within them.\"\n\nRAIF FOUND HIMSELF WATCHING the ice ceiling as they walked. The mass of frozen and suspended water weighed upon his thoughts. It was a slice of the river, frozen from the surface down; smooth above, where he could no longer see; and roughly coved below, like the roof of a cave. The ice was thickest nearest the bank, where frozen white piles rested against granite and cantilevered the great weight of ice. Raif had already decided that he and Ash were safer close to the bank, yet as darkness fell and the air around them cooled, the ice supports began to creak and rumble like a roundhouse in a storm.\n\nAsh carried the soapstone lamp the Naysayer had given her, cupping it in both hands for warmth. Raif wasn't sure what kind of oil fueled it, for it burned with a silver flame and trailed the sweet, musky, not-quite-human odor of whale yeast in its smoke. The single flame produced was housed in a protective guard of mica, but it was more than enough to light the way.\n\n\"Do you think Mal and Ark know what I am?\"\n\nRaif was surprised to hear Ash speak. She had been silent since she had lit the lamp. Switching his gaze from the blue glass of the ice ceiling to her face, he said, \"Perhaps. Tem once told me that the Sull know more than any other race. He said they pass knowledge from generation to generation and some even inherit memories, like clansfolk inherit the will to fight.\"\n\nAsh hugged the lamp closer. Above the cuff of her mitt, Raif could see the white stick of bone and flesh that was her wrist. \"I think Mal gave die something that first night to make the voices go away.\"\n\n\"A warding, like the one Heritas Cant set?\"\n\n\"No. Something different... I can't explain.\" She shrugged. \"It's gone now.\"\n\nRaif glanced into the tunnel of shadows ahead. Even in the far distance light from the lamp created a corona of blue light around the ice. \"Perhaps we should stop here for the night. Build a camp. Sleep.\"\n\nAsh shook her head even before he had finished speaking. \"No. They'd have me the moment I shut my eyes. They're desperate now. And so close...\" She swallowed. \"So close I can smell them.\"\n\nA spark of anger flared within Raif as she spoke. Suddenly he hated everyone who had helped her come this far: Ark Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer, Heritas Cant, even Angus. None of them were clan. No clansman would have forced a sick girl to travel north in full winter. Tem Sevrance would have kept her warm by the stove and taken his hammer to any shadows or dark beasts who approached her.\n\nAbruptly Raif stopped. Emptying the contents of both packs onto the riverbed, he searched for something to use as a weapon. Amid the pouches of lamp oil, cured salmon, and wax, he found a slender spike of steel the length of his forearm. An ice pick. He weighed it in his hand, forced his fingers around the squared-off butt. It would do. It would have to do.\n\nAsh frowned at him. \"You can't fight what isn't here.\"\n\nRaif thought of a reply but didn't say it. Instead he began scooping the spilled contents back into the packs. Bits of river litter stuck to his mitts like frost, and deep beneath the fur he felt blood trickle along his wrist as the scab that had formed over the letting wound stretched to breaking. When he was done, he slid the pick through his belt. \"We'll travel through the night.\"\n\nHours passed in silence. No wind disturbed the air in the tunnel, and the only sound was the shifting of the ice and their own booted feet grinding dried and frozen pine needles to dust. The riverbed rose steadily as they moved upriver, and the ice ceiling grew closer with every step. Raif was constantly aware of the fragile mass above him. Tons upon tons of frozen water, suspended above his head. After a time it became impossible to walk near the bank, and Raif set a course close to the river's middle, where the ice crust was at its thinnest.\n\nFrom time to time the dark, gaping holes of tributaries breached the granite wall of the bank. Most channels were choked with clumps of gray ice that spilled out onto the riverbed in rubble heaps several feet high. Pools of frozen water lying flat beneath the rubble told of late-season thaws and water running after the channel had hard-froze. Raif dismissed each channel as he came upon it; the one he was looking for had to run from the west and be clear enough to let a man and woman pass.\n\nThe passage of time was difficult to gauge. Raif felt his body growing colder and his mind moving slowly from thought to thought. He forced Ash to eat some strips of cured salmon, but he had no stomach for food himself. The air in the drained riverbed was becoming thicker and more condensed. The river itself was shrinking, and soon Raif found himself walking with his back and neck partially bent. The ice crust was so close he could reach up and touch the hard glassy surface, see the flaw lines and pressure whorls within. Tiny bubbles of trapped air shone like pearls.\n\nOn and on they walked, following the bends and bow curves of Kith Masso as it skirted the mountain's base. Raif watched Ash constantly, finding a dozen excuses to touch her in small unassuming ways. Her face was gray and tightly drawn. Too often her eyes were focused in a place he tried to but could not see. At some point she had stripped off her mitts, and her bare hands were now closed around the lamp so tightly it looked as if she were trying to crush it Her knuckles showed white and jagged like teeth.\n\nHe spoke to her little, and received few responses, yet he feared to do much more. She was fighting the voices, and even Tem's hammer would have proven useless against those.\n\nEventually they entered a stretch of the river where the granite walls were jagged and twisted as if something had been wrenched from them at force. Stone ledges broke through the ice crust. Great piers of black iron rock jutted from the walls, and troughs gouged deep into the riverbed were filled with dark ice. Raif turned his head sharply as a cry that came from nothing human ripped through the tunnel like a blast of cold air. The flame within the soapstone lamp wavered. Ash inhaled sharply. Her eyes met Raif's and she nodded, once. \"They draw nearer,\" she said. \"Their world touches ours in this place.\"\n\nRaif closed his eyes. He had used up a lifetime's worth of prayers the night the ice wolves had attacked him, and he knew better than to ask the Stone Gods for more.\n\nIn silence they continued walking. Ash could no longer stand fully upright, and Raif wondered how long it would be before they'd have to get down on their hands and knees and crawl. Time passed. Progress was slow over the warped and concertinaed granite that formed the river's floor. Fear grew in Raif slowly, filling the hollow places in his chest. A second cry came: high and terrible, almost beyond hearing. Listening to it, Raif wished he were back on the snow plains, facing wolves. Other sounds followed: hisses and broken whispers and the wet snarls of things with snouts. As he rounded a bend in the river's course, Raif breathed in the faint odor of charred meat and singed hair. When he breathed again it was gone.\n\nNoooooooooo.\n\nThe hairs on Raif's neck pricked up all at once. Something other had spoken, yet it reminded him of another time and place. When he realized what it was it made him sick. The Bluddroad. The Bludd women and children. The sound of desperation was the same in both worlds.\n\nWith his back bent almost double and his stomach heaving, he almost missed the gash in the far bank. He thought at first it was just shadows, as there was no telltale gleam of ice on the surrounding riverbed, but the darkness ran too deeply, and the surrounding rocks were too flat to cast shadows of any depth.\n\n\"Ash. Bring the lamp.\" He waited until she reached his side before crossing the riverbed. The river was barely the length of three horses now, and the ice ceiling dipped to chest height in parts. Light in the tunnel dimmed noticeably as Ash crouched to set down the lamp.\n\nThe gash in the rock was bell shaped, tall as Ash's shoulders, and completely clean of ice. Raif stepped through to check the way. Here the air was different: colder, drier, shot with the smell of iron ore. No ice ceiling stretched overhead, just a barrel curve of rock. The tunnel led west into the mountain, disappearing into darkness so complete, it gave Raif a chill to see it.\n\n\"Raif. Here.\"\n\nRaif backed out of the gash. Ash was crouching by the lamp, her right arm extending outward, her hand flat upon the riverwall.\n\n\"Look.\"\n\nRaif quested for his lore. A raven etched in stone marked the way.\nFIFTY-FIVE\n\nA Cavern of Black Ice\n\nCASSY LOK WOKE to the smell of smoke. Beth, came the thought straightaway. She's been up making honey cakes again and forgotten how many she put on the fire. Cassy huffed in her pillow, determined to go back to sleep. I'm not saving her this time. I don't care how many honey cakes have fallen through the griddle and caught light... and I hope she gets fat from eating the ones that turned out. Fat and spotty with big rot holes in her teeth.\n\nCassy closed her eyes as tightly as she could, then scrunched up her face for good measure. Just this morning she'd caught Beth trying on the good blue dress Father had brought back with him from Ille Glaive. Her dress. And she wouldn't have minded much\u2014well, not that much\u2014if it hadn't been for the fact that Beth was prancing in front of the looking glass at the time, pretending to be a fine court-bred maiden, nibbling on sweetmeats rolled in gold leaf and sipping wine through a crust of rose-scented ice. For sweetmeats Beth had used hazelnuts coated in cinnamon. For wine she had used plum juice. Plum juice! Cassy gritted her teeth. And when this fine court-bred maiden had found herself caught in the act, the first thing she'd done was twirl around to face her elder sister, holding the cup of plum juice in her hand!\n\nIt didn't bear thinking about. Mother said the stain would come out. And Beth had spent the rest of the day following her around with a kicked-dog expression on her face. But still. Father had bought her that dress, and it fitted so well, and it was a grown-up dress, without any of those silly girlish frills that Father knew she hated, and it didn't really matter that she had nowhere special to wear it until spring.\n\n\"I'll take you dancing in it when I return from the North, Casilyn Lok,\" Father had said as he'd handed her the package. \"And that's a promise as binding as I've made to any man.\"\n\nCassy unscrunched her face. Perhaps she'd been a bit harsh on Beth earlier. The smell of burning was growing worse, and if she didn't know better, she'd imagine a whole tray of honey cakes had fallen onto the fire.\n\nThe chimney. Cassy sat bolt upright. What if more bricks had caved in and blocked the flue? It was windy enough for it. And the roofer hadn't come today, as he was supposed to, and the whole stack was held up by only a couple of pinewood struts.\n\nQuickly and in complete darkness, Cassy found her slippers and shawl. As she stepped toward the door, a sleepy voice spoke out from the deep shadows at the far side of the room. \"Cassy? Is that you?\" Beth.\n\nA small shift took place in Cassy's chest: not fear exactly, but the first stirrings of it. There were no honey cakes on the fire. \"Beth, put your coat and slippers on. Quick now.\"\n\nSheets rustled in the darkness. \"You're not still mad at me, Cassy?\"\n\nCassy shook her head. Then, realizing her younger sister couldn't see her, she said, \"No. Not much,\" out loud.\n\n\"What's burning?\"\n\n\"I think the chimney's caved in.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"No buts, Beth. Do as I say.\" Cassy was surprised at how sharp her voice sounded. Bare feet thudded onto the floor. More rustling followed. A moment later she felt Beth's shoulders knock against her arm. \"Here. Take my hand.\" Beth's hand was warm and sweaty: She always fell asleep with her fists clenched. Cassy led her toward the door. \"You didn't put anything to cook on the hearth tonight, did you?\"\n\n\"No, Cassy.\"\n\n\"Good girl.\" Cassy lifted the latch and opened the door. A wave of smoke and heat puffed through the room, making the shutters rattle behind their backs. \"Come on. Let's wake Mother and Little Moo.\" This time she made sure her voice sounded calm.\n\n\"It's hot.\"\n\nCassy felt her way through the darkness, her hand now closed tightly around her sister's. \"I know. Let's just get to Mother's room and you can tell her how you found your way in the dark.\" Even as she spoke, Cassy felt heat push against her face. A cracking noise sounded from the floor below. Beth flinched. Cassy pulled her sister firmly in the direction of their mother's room.\n\nMother and Little Moo slept in the room directly above the kitchen. Heat from the fire warmed the floor through the cold months of winter, and two large windows let in great squares of sunlight in summer and spring. Cassy felt a wave of relief roll over her as she saw the pale corona of light around the door: Mother had kept a lamp lit. Little Moo didn't like to sleep in the dark. She said something called beemies lived under her bed. No one but Little Moo knew what beemies were. Cassy suspected that Beth had frightened Little Moo with tales of beasties and monsters and other fey things, and Little Moo had taken this information and invented a whole new class of baby peril from it.\n\nCassy's fingers found the latch on first try. Warm air rushed past her as the door opened, pressing her nightgown flat against the backs of her legs. Light stung her eyes. Smoke rolled into the room, greasy and nearly black. Cassy felt its hot little fingers slip around her ankles, grasping like hands without bone. Beth began to cough.\n\n\"Cassy?\" Darra Lok sat up in bed. The beautiful honeycolored hair that she normally kept pinned in a simple knot spilled over her shoulders like dark fire. For the first time ever, Cassy noticed gray strands within the gold.\n\n\"Mother. I\u2014\"\n\nDarra Lok nodded her eldest daughter into silence, her eyes on the smoke. Reaching over, she plucked the sleeping form of Little Moo from the opposite side of the bed. Little Moo's head rolled onto her mother's shoulder, and she made a soft gurgling noise but did not wake. Darra spoke soft words to her anyway as she kicked the blankets from the bed and rose to her feet. Beth tugged on Cassy's arm, wanting to go to her mother, but Cassy held her firm. Darra Lok sent her eldest daughter a look that said many things. Cassy nodded.\n\n\"Come on, Beth. Let's go downstairs.\" It was easier to sound calm now that Mother was here. As she pulled Beth from the room, she heard Darra Lok take the lamp from the washstand and follow behind with Little Moo.\n\nBeth shivered as Cassy guided her into the smoke that rolled up the stairs like a wave of black foam. Cassy felt like shivering too, but Mother had sent her a look saying, Be strong now, for Beth and yourself. So instead of shivering she tugged her younger sister forward and said, \"This is no worse than looking for mushrooms in the mist. Remember that time you found those big brown ones under the dogwood, and everyone else had already looked, but you were the only who could see them? Remember that?\"\n\nBeth nodded. Her small face looked pinched.\n\nCassy continued guiding her down the stairs, one step at a time. \"And you said that no one could spot mushrooms better than you, and even Father agreed.\"\n\n\"He said we couldn't eat them. Said they were rabbits bane.\"\n\nCassy managed a dim smile. She could clearly hear the low roar of fire now, coming from the front of the house. Wood snapped and popped as it burned, and Cassy imagined fang-shaped flames eating away at the house.\n\n\"Cassy. We're going to the back of the house, to the kitchen.\" Darra Lok's voice was firm but calm. \"Can you see the way ahead?\"\n\n\"I can! I can!\" cried Beth.\n\n\"Good. Stay close to your sister and help her find the way.\"\n\nSmoke was gouting along the corridor that linked the front entrance to the kitchen. Scorched bits of matter sailed on the warm currents of air that blew around the house. Flaming embers, ducking and darting like little red fishes, floated past Cassy's face. The fire sounded like one long continuous roll of thunder now, a storm bearing down on the house. Still she could see no flames. Perhaps the fire was burning from the outside in. Perhaps the chimney flue had collapsed and the wind had showered sparks over the roof.\n\nLittle Moo woke as Cassy and Beth made their way through the chest-high smoke in the corridor. The baby made a frightened, snuffling sound and cried the words, \"Mize. Mize.\" Cassy hoped her eyes weren't stinging. Mother hushed her, and she was quiet for a while, but her breaths came in hard little wheezes.\n\nBeth was first to reach the kitchen. There was less smoke here than on the stairs and in the hallways, and the hardwood embers glowing in the hearth provided a second source of light. As Darra and Little Moo entered the room, a mighty crack shook the house. Hot air beat against Cassy's back. The stench of burning wood sharpened, and when she sucked in breath, crispy little cinders caught in the back of her throat.\n\n\"Cassy. Beth. Get the door.\" Darra rocked Little Moo on her hip. \"Hurry now.\"\n\nCassy and Beth ran to the door. By unspoken agreement, Cassy pulled the top bolts while Beth took care of those at the bottom. Cassy's hands felt like clumps of clay. Stupidly she found herself thinking about the blue dress. Father would never take her dancing in it now.\n\nThe heavy door needed a good shove to start it swinging, and when the final bolt was drawn both sisters put their shoulders to the wood. It gave a little, then jerked back suddenly as if something were blocking its way. They tried again, but the door would open only so far. Cassy glanced at her mother. \"It's jammed.\"\n\n\"There's enough room to squeeze through, though,\" cried Beth.\n\n\"One by one,\" Cassy added in small voice.\n\nDarra Lok looked from the door to the encroaching tide of smoke at her back. Little Moo began to cry. \"Beth. Squeeze through and see if you can find what's blocking it.\"\n\nBeth sucked in her chest much farther than it needed to be sucked. Cassy could see the outline of her ribs beneath her nightgown as she forced her way through the foot-wide opening. Her eyes were sparkling; this was now an adventure to her. \"It's so dark I can't see anything,\" were the last words she said.\n\nDarra called to her, but the roar and crackle of the fire drowned out any reply. They waited, but Beth did not return. Cassy went to follow her out.\n\n\"No,\" Darra said sharply. \"Here. You take Moo. I'll go after her.\"\n\nLittle Moo did not want to leave her mother's arms. Her pudgy fingers clutched at the fabric of Darra's dress, raising little nubs of wool as Cassy pulled her away. It was very hot now, and a great quantity of thick black smoke was pouring into the kitchen. Cassy moved so her back was to it, shielding Little Moo.\n\nDarra took the three steps toward the door, hooked the lamp on a nail hammered into the frame, then turned to look at her daughters. The lines around her mouth were the deepest Cassy had ever known them to be. Her eyes had stopped being blue and were as gray as steel. She looked strong and utterly beautiful to her eldest daughter. \"I'll be back in just a moment,\" she said.\n\nCassy almost called her back. She would remember that afterward, and it would tear her apart. She almost said, Mother, please don't go. But she didn't, and Darra Lok forced her way through the opening, and Cassy never saw her again.\n\nThere was an intake of breath, sharp, as if Darra meant to scream, then silence. \"Mother!\" Cassy called, rocking Little Moo against her chest. \"Mother!\"\n\nSomewhere inside the house hot air exploded, punching out shutters and glass. A low ripping noise sounded, as hot plaster peeled off the corridor walls. Suddenly Cassy could no longer see the glow of orange light that marked the hearth. She jigged Little Moo against her chest, saying nonsense things to her in a voice that was ragged with fear.\n\nQuickly she glanced at the door. The foot-wide opening was dark with shadows, and strings of smoke poured into it like water into a ditch.\n\nOne by one. Cassy shivered as her own words came back to her. Hardly aware of what she was doing or why, she moved from the door to the nearest window. Both sets of shutters were barred and bolted, and she had to set Little Moo down on the floor while she dealt with them. Why were there so many bolts? Frustration made her careless with her fingers, and she gouged her knuckles on a raised nailhead as she pulled back the first set of shutters. The pain was surprisingly easy to ignore. The second set of shutters proved easier, and she had them done in less than an instant. Cool, clean air wafted against her face. Outside in the farmyard all was dark and still. Shaking with relief, she bent to pick up Little Moo.\n\nOnly Little Moo wasn't there. Cassy turned her head. A wave of sickness and fear rose in her throat. No!\n\nLittle Moo had crawled to the door. Her fat little fist was in the opening, and she was calling softly, \"Mama? Mama?\"\n\nCassy moved faster than she had ever moved in her life. Her hands reached out for Little Moo's blue-socked feet, but other hands beyond the door found her first. Little Moo was pulled through the opening. Cassy clutched... and clutched... . touched the soft wool of Little Moo's socks... and then nothing but cold air.\n\nCassy stared at the space her sister had left behind. Stupidly, ridiculously, she couldn't stop clutching at thin air. Her heart was dead inside her chest.\n\nMother gave the baby to me.\n\nShe breathed in that thought, took it deep inside herself, deep into the place where her heart had ceased to be. And then she stood and stepped away from the door. Someone on the other side wished her dead. Someone had lit a fire at the front of the house and then dragged something heavy like a stone or a piece of timber in front of the back door, so the Lok family would escape one by one.\n\nLike a ghost Cassy moved through the smoke. Sweat was pouring down her face, turning the neck of her dress black and making it steam. The silver chain she wore at her throat burned like hot wire. Touching the lamp was like touching a hot coal. The little copper disk that covered the opening to the oil chamber swung back with a single flick. As she pulled a nearby chair under the window and stepped onto it, droplets of pine oil sprinkled the floor. She made no effort to disguise her movements as she hefted her body onto the windowsill: Let those hands that pulled Little Moo come for her. Let them burn in hell.\n\nShe saw the shadow moving toward her as she pushed her body clear of the frame. Dark and fluid it came, moving like spilled ink. The hands were gloved in shiny leather, and they held the plainest sort of knife. The blade was immaculate, but Cassy wasn't fooled. She had skinned rabbits and spring lambs before now. She knew how easily blood wiped clean. Time slowed as the blade slid through air. A second stretched to an impossibly thin line as Cassy swung the lamp. The knife touched her, and she was glad of it, glad because the lamp and its free-spilling oil crashed into those gloved hands.\n\nFire whooshed into existence, creating a wall of blazing light. Suddenly there was no air to breathe, only hot, stinking gas. Cassy heard her hair crackle like dry twigs as smolder fell upon it, yet she hardly cared. The gloved hands were burning in a cauldron of bloodred flames.\n\nFINALLY THEY CAME TO A PLACE where the walls were planed smooth. The corridor of rock widened and heightened, and they could pick themselves off the ground they had crawled over and stand erect on two feet. Raif pulled Ash up. The lynx coat she was wearing had shed fur at the elbows and knees, and it was matted with a greasy spume of mineral oil and ice. The palm sides of both her mitts were bald. One was torn, and there was blood around the frayed edges. There was blood on her cheek, too; sometime earlier she had stumbled into a spur of rock that had sliced a thumbnail's worth of skin from her face.\n\nRaif had lost all sense of time's passage. He no longer knew if it was day or night. How many hours had passed since they had left the Hollow River was something he would never know. If someone had told him he had spent thirty hours on his hands and knees, crawling through openings no bigger than a doghouse door and along passages so jagged that they had torn his dead man's cloak to shreds, he would have nodded and taken it as truth. His hands burned. Once during the journey he had made the mistake of biting off his gloves and probing the bandaged flesh. It was like prodding a waterskin; fluid oozed around his fingers, lukewarm and yellow as beaten eggs. He had pulled the mitts back on and not looked since. Pain alone was easier to live with.\n\nAs he worked the soreness out of his legs, he looked at the smoothly planed corridor ahead. A vision of the night sky had been tattooed into the rock. Stars and constellations glittered overhead, and night herons and great horned owls soared the cold currents beneath a moon of pure ice. Shadow creatures with fingers of charred bone and eyes as black as hell rode wraith horses from a rift cut deep into the stone. Raif switched his gaze to another section of rock, only to see a second rift with things that had no place in the world of men spilling out like maggots from an old kill.\n\nKill an army for me, Raif Sevrance.\n\nSoftly Raif said to Ash, \"Dim the light.\"\n\nShe did, and when he took her hand in his it was warm with the lantern's heat. He knew she had seen the same things he had, and his heart ached at her strength. Never once during the journey had she stopped and rested. Never once had she spoken about fear. He loved her completely and could no longer imagine a world where she was not at his side. He had to protect her for always. She was clan.\n\nIn this smooth new corridor there was enough room for them to walk side by side. Briefly Raif let himself imagine a future where he and Ash lived on a croft in some distant corner of the clanholds. Effie would be there too, and Ash would love her like a sister, and he would teach them both how to fight and hunt, and together they would plant a good bed of oats and another of onions and keep six head of sheep for wool and milk. And Drey... Drey would ride there twice a week and be closer than a brother to them all.\n\nRaif breathed hard. Bit by bit he shredded the dream in his mind until there was nothing but torn bits left. It was a childish fantasy, and he was a fool to imagine it, and the only thing that mattered was the Cavern of Black Ice.\n\nNoooooooo.\n\nAsh flinched as the scream ripped along the corridor. The voices had been quiet for some time, and Raif had hoped against hope they had gone. Yet even as the tail end of the scream faded into freezing air, a second scream came, and then another. And then the wailing began.\n\nPlease, mistressss, no, mistressss...\n\nSo cold, mistressss, share the light...\n\nWant it, give it, reach... .\n\nRaif's skin crawled. He could hear the click of fingernails against stone and smell the stench of burned things. Everything that was within him told him this was no place for a clansman to be. He had seen the moon and the night sky on the wall: This was the domain of the Sull.\n\nAnd yet. There was a raven too, and it had been guiding the way, and there had to be something in that.\n\nSetting his mouth in a grim line, he tightened his hold on Ash's hand and led her through the keening of insane things to the cavern that awaited her at the end.\n\nThere wasn't far to go, not really. The voices had known she was close. Suddenly there were no more decorations on the walls, only symbols carved in a foreign hand. An archway cut from mountain rock marked the end of the journey. It was another Sull-made thing, dark and shaded with moonlight, with night-blooming flowers at its base and silverwinged moths suspended in the stone. A roughly carved figure leaped over the cantle of the arch, his features turned toward the rock so his face was unknowable, a sword of shadows in his hand.\n\nAs they passed beneath the arch Raif noticed a mated pair of ravens had been carved within the deepest recesses of the rock. Their bills were open as if frozen in midcall, and their clawed feet danced a jig upon the stone. Without thought, he raised his hand to his neck and pulled out his lore. Touching it, he entered the Cavern of Black Ice.\n\nClan had no words for this place. The world of the clanholds was one of daylight and hunting and white ice; it had boundaries and borders\u2014dozens of ways to separate one clanhold from another and one clansman's holdings from his neighbor's. This place was thin around the edges, like a sword turned side on. Its boundaries bled into another world, and Raif doubted they were true boundaries at all. It hardly seemed to exist before his eyes, like something conjured up out of moonlight and rain, yet even as he thought that, he was aware of the weight and the sheer mass of the place.\n\nThe ice steamed like a great black dragon emerging from a frozen lake. It glittered with every color ever seen at night. Once, many summers ago, Effie had gone trapping with Raina. She was only a baby at the time, barely able to walk on her own two feet, yet somehow she had returned home with an egg-size granite pebble in her fist. She was excited about it in her own quiet way, and to please her, Inigar Stoop had taken it to his mill-saw and broken it in two. Raif could remember watching the cooling water spill over the granite as the saw bit sliced into stone. He remembered frowning at the waste of a good skimmer. Then it had split in two, and inside was a heart of pure quartz. Dark and smoky and flashing like the brightest jewel, encased in a rime of hard rock. Raif thought about that now as he looked upon the cavern. It was like standing in the center of such a stone.\n\nHe could not begin to guess what liquid had cooled to form the ice. Slabs of it, some so smooth he could see his own face reflected there, and some as jagged as spinal cords, lined every portion of the cave. He walked upon it as he entered, heard it tick and fracture as his weight came down upon it, felt the entire structure shudder as stresses spread around it like whispers around a room.\n\nThe cavern soared three stories high and was as wide as any cave he'd ever seen. It was massive and utterly cold: a boundary between worlds. When he looked into the ice he saw shapes shifting and undulating in the place where the cave wall should have lain. Black fire burned within. He saw the shades of hooded things, of beasts with many heads and wolves with thrashing tails, and things that were not men, not quite. He saw nightmares and shadows and darkly craven things, yet when he looked again the ice was still.\n\nThe voices were hysterical now. They pleaded with their mistress, begging her to turn back, to flee the cavern, to reach in another place.\n\nRaif felt Ash pulling her hand free of his, and he hated to let it go. She felt his resistance and turned to face him, and already he could see that she was changing. Her eyes were taking on the colors of the Sull. No longer gray, they shone silver and midnight blue. Her jaw was hard set, and her chin was raised, but her lips were red where she had chewed on them. Looking at her, he realized one thing: He could not help her in this.\n\nThe ice pick he had jammed through his belt was no use here. Tem, Drey, Corbie Meese: No clansman could do more than stand and watch. There was nothing of flesh and blood to fight, no necks or soft stomachs that would yield to an ax. Just shadows and black ice. When Ash reached she would do so alone.\n\nUnbidden, the image of the women and children fleeing Hailsmen on the Bluddroad came to him. He had stood and watched then, too.\n\nWatcher of the Dead. A shudder began at the base of his spine, but he made himself rigid and stopped it. He would show nothing but strength to Ash.\n\nShe looked at him for a long moment, pinning him where he stood. Slowly she stripped off her gloves and let them fall to the floor. Her coat slipped off with a single shrug, and suddenly she was standing in the cavern wearing a plain gray dress, with her silver gold hair flowing loose over her shoulders. Gently she smiled at him, and gently she spoke. \"It's all right,\" she said. \"I'm here, and I know what I must do. It's just dancing ice from now on.\"\n\nHe did not smile. Fear for her consumed him. She knew he could heart-kill beasts\u2014she had seen him do so with her own two eyes\u2014yet she did not know he was Watcher of the Dead. He should have told her sooner... for he could not tell her now.\n\n\"You must let me go, Raif.\"\n\nHe did not know he had taken hold of her arm until she pulled it back. She began to turn from him, and dread rose in his belly at the thought of her standing alone. He had to protect her. He, who had watched Bludd women and children die on the Bluddroad, seen Shor Gormalin brought home over the back of his horse, and killed three Bluddsmen in the snow outside Duff's, had to keep her from harm.\n\nIn his frustration, he tugged at the cord that held his lore. The hard, black piece of bird ivory jabbed against his gloved hands. Raven lore. He took it and weighed it in his fist. It had warded him all along. And perhaps it warded the Sull, too. And perhaps the ravens he had passed on the archway and on the riverwall had been guarding, not showing, the way.\n\nSwiftly he plucked it from him. \"Ash.\"\n\nShe turned her head toward him.\n\n\"Wear this.\" He held out his lore.\n\n\"I can't. It's part of your clan.\"\n\n\"You are my clan. And you have no lore to protect you.\" And ravens always survive to the end. \"Take it.\"\n\nSomething in his voice compelled her, and she took it from him and fastened it about her neck. It looked dark and savage there, on its cord of sweat-rotted twine. Yet something deep within him eased at the sight of it lying flat against her skin. He could let her go now.\n\nShe walked from him in silence, the hem of her skirt trailing across the ice. The cavern shuddered with every step she took and the voices hounded her like dogs.\n\nHate you, mistressss, slash your pretty face.\n\nPull you down with us, make you burn.\n\nAsh's chin stayed high, though the threats were terrible in their violence and hatred, and the black ice was colder than a tomb. He felt the power cumulating in her, felt her pull what she needed from the air. Her belly swelled, and her breasts rose and fell, and muscles in her shoulders began to work.\n\nThe cavern glittered like dark fire, its borders and knife edges flickering between worlds. Into its center walked the Reach. Firmly she stepped, ice winds blowing her hair and the sleeves of her dress, the corner of her lip moving as she bit down upon it. The air around her thickened and warped, and slowly, very slowly, a fine nimbus of blue light grew about her shoulders and arms. Raif felt his face burn with coldness. He had seen light like that before, on the blades of clansmen making kills in moonlight and in the cold inner hearts of flames.\n\nAs black ice creaked and shivered around her, Ash March reached. Later Raif would remember her beauty as she stood there limned in blue light, her fingers rising first, then her hands and her arms, as she reached out toward a place that he would never, ever, know firsthand. Later he would remember that... but for now he felt only fear.\n\nUp came her arms, spreading wide to encompass a world beyond his own. Her mouth fell open and a terrible dark substance poured from her tongue and blasted against the ice. The cavern shook. The mountain rumbled with a deep bass note that sounded like the Stone Gods shattering the world. Yet the black ice remained intact. The walls bent to her power, yielding like saltwater ice, yet they did not let it pass. The ice stretched and contorted, forming grotesque black bulges and pressure sores where the ice was stretched so thinly it was almost white. The cavern hummed with tension. And the voices screamed, higher and higher, wailing a song of terror and damnation that rose from a place far deeper than any hell.\n\nOn and on the power flowed, exiting Ash's body with the force of steam venting under pressure and bursting against the cavern walls. The black ice flashed under the bombardment, turning as transparent as polished glass. Within it, Raif saw things he wished never to see again.\n\nA charred landscape. A nightmare world. A slithering, jerking mass of dark souls.\n\nAsh stood against them all. He saw that now, clearly; he also saw that the change that had begun the moment she'd entered the cavern was still taking place within her. She was becoming what had been only a word to Raif before. A Reach. It would never be over for her, not truly, even after she left this place. Heritas Cant had said as much, yet Raif had not wanted to understand. He had wanted to believe that the Cavern of Black Ice marked the end. Now, seeing the air rippling with heat from her power and the skin of black ice straining to contain what she unleashed, he knew it was just the start.\n\nAsh's eyes were focused on some far distant point beyond the ice. Briefly he glimpsed a sea of shifting gray waters... or was it clouds or smoke? Heritas Cant had called it the borderlands and said that Ash was the only person living who could walk there without fear.\n\nSobered, Raif watched her face. He wanted it to end.\n\nThe cavern walls ground against each other as Ash's power continued to drain. Sweat ran in rivulets down her neck and the high curves of her breasts, and wet hair clung like chains to her face. Words had failed the voices now, and all that was left to them was the awful bleating of herd animals penned for the kill. Raif hated to hear them. He thought they would drive him insane.\n\nFinally the noises faded to grunts and whimpers, then died completely. The air stilled. Dust drifted to earth as the milling of the cavern walls ground to a halt. The black ice glowed silver for a moment and then faded to matt black. It was used up now. Raif imagined that one quick stab with a pickax would be enough to shatter it like glass.\n\nRaif's sense of what lay beyond had gone. Fled. Yet something about his last glimpse of the nightmare world pricked a new kind of fear. He barely understood it, and even as he tried to seize upon the image that disturbed him it disappeared. Had there been a crack in the blindwall? It wasn't possible. Ash had released her power safely here. That he knew.\n\nAsh stood in the center of the cavern, her arms held wide before her, the light surrounding her body dimming into thin air.\n\nNothing moved for the longest moment. Raif felt as if he were alone in the cavern; it hardly seemed as if Ash were there at all. Her back was rigid, and her eyes were far focused, and even the bit of lip she had chewed on had paled. The only thing upon her that seemed wholly in this world was the ugly piece of raven around her neck. That was solid: dark with oils from Raif's skin, worn thin in the places where he handled it, its ivory as cracked and flawed as an old man's fingernail. It belonged in the earth or in the remains of a burned-out fire. It did not belong in the land beyond the ice.\n\nRaif waited. He wanted to smash the ice to splinters with his fists and snatch Ash away like a man kidnapping a child. Yet he did not want to hurt her. She was so thin, like Effie almost; if he handled her roughly, he could break her bones.\n\nSlowly, breath by breath, she returned to him.\n\nHer mouth closed, and after many minutes she blinked, and when her gaze refocused it came to rest on something that both of them could see. It seemed difficult for her to relax her arms, and she made awkward little movements as she drew them to her sides. After a moment she raised her hand to her throat and touched the raven lore. She looked at it with her new silver blue eyes, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. \"It guided me back,\" she said in a voice drained of all strength. \"I was lost and it guided me back.\"\n\nRaif closed his eyes. His heart had been so long without joy, he did not know what it was that filled him. He just knew he had to go to her and take her from this place.\nThe Northern Territories\n\nBOOKS BY J. V. JONES\n\nTHE BOOK OF WORDS TRILOGY\n\nThe Baker's Boy \nA Man Betrayed \nMaster and Fool\n\nTHE SWORD OF SHADOWS SERIES\n\n*A Cavern of Black Ice \n*A Fortress of Grey Ice \n*A Sword from Red Ice \n*Watcher of the Dead\n\nThe Barbed Coil\n\n*A Tor Book\nProphecy of the Reach\n\nOnce in 1,000 years an innocent is born with the uncontrollable power and need to reach across the barrier of worlds, into the realm of the dead\u2014an release the Endlords from their eternal prison, to annihilate all life...\n\nAsh March is an innocent. She is also a Reach. And her time is now...\n\nPraise for A Cavern of Black Ice\n\n\"J. V. Jones strings out the suspense right up until the very last word.\"\n\n\u2014Des Moines Sunday Register\n\n\"Tough, incisive, character-driven fantasy.\"\n\n\u2014Locus\n\n\"Jones's skillful storytelling creates an atmosphere of rising tension and dark foreboding.\"\n\n\u2014Library Journal\n\n\"Imaginative and vivid.\"\n\n\u2014Kirkus Reviews\n\n\"Original, fascinating... . Jones integrates dark sorcery, treason, adventure, and peril to create a sparkling first volume.\"\n\n\u2014Southern Pines (NC) Pilot\n\n\"In A Cavern of Black Ice, Jones proves with her fine characterization and storytelling ability that she is on track to join the pantheon of science fiction's fines.\"\n\n\u2014Bookman Book Review Syndicate\n\nPraise for J. V. Jones\n\n\"One of fantasy fiction's newest sensations... Jones became a bestselling novelist in only two years... Jones invests her tale with characters as rich as oven-baked bread, and with a sense of humor drawn from the pubs in her homeland, England.\"\n\n\u2014Des Moines Sunday Register\n\n\"J. V. Jones is about to become one of the great fantasy success stories of the 90's.\"\n\n\u2014Mysterious Galaxy Books\n\n\"Fabulous... a trilogy which is sure to take readers everywhere by storm.\"\n\n\u2014SFX\n\n\"J. V Jones writes with a kind of hellish possession and a concept so clear it crackles from each page.\"\n\n\u2014SFX\n\n\"We have a major new writer here. Bravo! An intriguing tale well told.\"\n\n\u2014Dennis L. McKiernan, author of Caverns of Socrates\n\n\"J. V. Jones is quite a find... . A deliciously intricate tale.\"\n\n\u2014Katherine Kurtz\n\n\"A brilliant storyteller... colorful vocabulary and fantastic clarity.\"\n\n\u2014SFX\n\n\"One of the most engaging new writers in the field.\"\n\n\u2014Locus\n\n\"Fascinating... clean writing and crisp dialogue.\"\n\n\u2014Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction\n\n\"The action never stops... a worthy successor to Andre Norton and Stephen R. Donaldson.\"\n\n\u2014San Antonio Express-News\n\n\"Jones is one of the few writers [who] can take basic fantasy concepts and combine them with her own incredible imagination to create something truly original.\"\n\n\u2014Explorations\n\n\"A writer to be reckoned with.\"\n\n\u2014The Plot Thickens\n\n\"One of those success stories every writer strives for.\"\n\n\u2014Fresno County Sun\n\n\"Excellent technique and a fine use of bountiful imagination... . Even the minor characters come alive.\"\n\n\u2014Andre Norton\nHeart of Darkness\n\nRETAINING THE THOUGHT was the hardest thing of all. He could wait in silence, unmoving, barely breathing, betraying not the slightest reaction as the caul flies fed on his flesh. That was easy. Such was the measure of his life. It was the nursing of the thought that took it from him.\n\nWhen he is gone I will return to the place where I took him. And this time I go there alone.\n\nThe Nameless One ran the words through his head, sounding each slowly, testing their meaning, afraid that at any moment he might lose the sense of one or all. Words were as water to him. He grasped and cupped, yet he still could not hold them in mind. He had waited here before, in his iron chamber, feigning senselessness or fatigue. Yet though his body served him as well as a wheel-broken body could, the words always left him in the end. Without words he had no intent. Without intent he was every bit as senseless as he feigned.\n\nThis time would be different, though. This time I go there alone.\n\nThe Light Bearer watched him, suspicion sharp as needles in his eyes. He had not liked being yanked back from that place. Anger and exhaustion made him shake. The Nameless One smelled urine that was not his own. The Light Bearer was weak in many ways.\n\nThe blow when it came was hardly a surprise. \"Wake, damn you! I know you can see and hear me. I know you brought me back too soon.\"\n\nThe Nameless One allowed his head to slump back against the iron wall. His rotted chains rustled like dry sticks.\n\nThe Light Bearer watched his every breath. \"You think to play games with me? You, who exist only on my say?\" Silk slithered over metal as he drew closer. \"Perhaps I have left you untouched for too long. Perhaps I should have Caydis warm his hooks.\"\n\nThe Nameless One did not fall into the trap of fear. Fear lost him words. Unblinking, he focused his gaze upon the Light Bearer's left shoulder and the image of the Killhound emblazoned there.\n\nTime passed. The Light Bearer felt it more keenly than he, shifting his weight from foot to foot, breathing harshly, and finally pushing himself away from the iron chamber. He was not satisfied, but what more could he do? He could hardly beat the creature who was the source of all his power.\n\n\"I will be back tomorrow,\" he warned as he retrieved his stone lamp and headed up the stairs. \"And next time I will pull two flies from your back.\" With the last of his words the light faded and darkness came to the apex chamber, rising from the ground to the ceiling as always.\n\nThe Nameless One did not move. When a measure of time satisfying to him had passed, he closed his eyes. This time I go there alone.\n\nIt was easy, really. The Light Bearer had shown him the way. Power enough he had, for he had learned the ways to keep a poor man's portion for himself. The Light Bearer suspected this, but truth was hard to extract from one who had lost all fear of pain.\n\nWith the soft clack of bones dropped in a pot, the Nameless One forsook his flesh. Up he traveled through layers of rock and surface tiles, up through the Inverted Spire. Pushing his insubstance forward to meet the night sky, he tested his attitude to freedom. It was dark here, and cold as ice smoke, and the horizon stretched and curved, stretched and curved, as far as the eyes could see. He could not say it pleased him. He was still one man alone with a broken body and no name; a blue firmament above him made no difference. Fleeing his despair, he journeyed to the place where the Light Bearer had taken him.\n\nThis time I go there alone.\n\nThe gray landscape of the borderlands was still in turmoil, roiling and steaming like a sea settling down from a storm. In his excitement the Light Bearer had sucked the caul fly dry, wanting to go deeper, farther, see if he could find the source. The Nameless One took some small portion of pleasure in recalling how he had wrenched his master back. It had been worth the examination and the rage. And now... well, now he had the power to search this place himself.\n\nVast continents of ether floated before his eyes, great cliffs and headlands of dust, yet he spared them little but a passing thought. The Dark River was here; he knew it, he smelled it, and within it lived his name. Deeper and deeper he traveled, skimming the cold peaks and fathomless troughs, until finally he saw it in the distance. A line of utter darkness. He sought not to allow himself hope, yet it rose in his throat like a hard bright thing, and suddenly he felt like a child.\n\nHe could not reach the river soon enough. Cold were its waters and strong was its current, so strong that it pulled him downstream. Knowledge came to him in tantalizing glimpses; he remembered a man's face and a night full of stars and the heat of yellow flames against his cheek. He did not remember his name. Straining, he swam deeper, giving himself wholly to the current, and when an undertow seized him with an icy hand he did not struggle against it.\n\nHeart of Darknessss, you have come.\n\nA voice spoke a name that was not his own, yet he answered to it all the same. If he had possessed a body to shiver, he would have done so upon hearing the voice's reply.\n\nWe have waited such a long time, Heart of Darknessss.\n\nSuddenly the Nameless One was no longer in the river, he was standing on a shore, and before him rose a wall that stretched to the ends of the world. He had seen this place once before when he had journeyed here with the Light Bearer, and that time, as this time, he perceived the same fault. It was new-made, still raw around the edges, and it smelled strangely sweet. Almost female.\n\nPush against it, Heart of Darknessss, and in return we will give you your name.\n\nIt was an offer he could not refuse.\n\nThe substance of the wall burned him as he touched it, burned with a coldness so deep and so ungodly, he knew his flesh hands would pay a price. It mattered not. For when the world shuddered and the wall cracked and the cry of something not human rose from the breach, the Nameless One received a thought.\n\nIt was his name, and he spoke it out loud.\n\n\"Baralis.\"\nABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nJ. V. Jones is the author of the bestselling Book of Words trilogy, The Barbed Coil, and A Fortress of Grey Ice, the second book of the Sword of Shadows series. Born in England, she has lived in San Diego, California, and now lives in New York State where she's working on the third Sword of Shadows novel, A Sword from Red Ice.\nThis is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.\n\nA CAVERN OF BLACK ICE\n\nCopyright \u00a9 1999, 2005 by J. V. Jones\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\nEdited by James Frenkel \nCover art by Jean-Pierre Targete\n\nA Tor Book\n\nPublished by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC \n175 Fifth Avenue \nNew York, NY 10010\n\nwww.tor-forge.com\n\nTor\u00ae is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.\n\neISBN 9781429975971\n\nFirst eBook Edition : March 2011\n\nFirst Edition: March 2005\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":"\nChop Suey\n\n# Chop Suey\n\n**A Cultural History of Chinese \nFood in the United States**\n\nAndrew Coe\n\nOxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further \nOxford University's objective of excellence \nin research, scholarship, and education.\n\nOxford New York \nAuckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi \nKuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi \nNew Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto\n\nWith offices in \nArgentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece \nGuatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore \nSouth Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Andrew Coe 2009\n\nPublished by Oxford University Press, Inc. \n198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016\n\nwww.oup.com\n\nOxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, \nstored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, \nelectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, \nwithout the prior permission of Oxford University Press.\n\nThe Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data \nCoe, Andrew. \nChop suey : a cultural history of Chinese food in the United States \n\/ Andrew Coe. \np. cm. \nIncludes bibliographical references and index. \nISBN 978-0-19-533107-3 \n1. Cookery, Chinese. 2. Food habits\u2014United States\u2014History. I. Title. \nTX724.5.C5C64 2009 \n641.5951\u2013dc22 2008054664\n\n9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nPrinted in the United States of America \non acid-free paper\nTO JANE\n\n## **CONTENTS**\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nList of Illustrations\n\n1 Stags' Pizzles and Birds' Nests\n\n2 Putrified Garlic on a Much-used Blanket\n\n3 Coarse Rice and Water\n\n4 Chinese Gardens on Gold Mountain\n\n5 A Toothsome Stew\n\n6 American Chop Suey\n\n7 Devouring the Duck\n\nPhoto Credits\n\nNotes\n\nBibliography\n\nIndex\n\n## **ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**\n\nThis journey into the less-charted realms of Chinese and United States history could not have been accomplished without the assistance of many individuals and institutions. During the seemingly endless research phase of this project, I depended on the collections, staff, and resources of the New York Public Library: the Humanities and Social Sciences Library, particularly its Asian and Middle Eastern Division, and the Chinese Heritage Collection at the Chatham Square Branch Library. I also consulted the Nixon Presidential Library, the National Archives at College Park, Maryland, and the magnificent Dr. Jacqueline M. Newman Chinese Cookbook Collection housed in the Special Collections and University Archives of the Frank Melville Jr. Memorial Library of the State University of New York, Stonybrook. I am indebted to a Linda D. Russo Grant from the Culinary Trust for allowing me to visit the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley, and the Chinese Historical Society of America. The exhibition \"Have You Eaten Yet? The Chinese Restaurant in America\" at the Museum of Chinese in the Americas was one of the inspirations for this book. During the writing phase of this project, I relied on the staff and workspaces of the New York Mercantile Library's Writers' Studio and the New York Society Library. For assistance during all phases of this project, I am grateful to Richard Snow, Magnus Bartlett, Andrew Smith, Anne Mendelson, Harley Spiller, Jakob Klein, Anthony Chang, Charles Perry, H. Mark Lai, Madeline Y. Hsu, Harold Rolnick, Stella Dong, Paul Mooney, Eileen Mooney, Kenny of the Bronx's Golden Gate restaurant, Jacqueline Newman and _Flavor & Fortune_, Aaron and Marjorie Ziegelman, and, for technical support, my father, Michael D. Coe. Dwight Chapin, Charles Freeman, and Winston Lord generously granted me interviews on which I drew for the section on Nixon's China trip. Joanna Waley-Cohen and John Eng-Wong were indefatigable readers who gave me greatly needed perspective. At Oxford University Press, my editors Benjamin Keene and Grace Labatt were painstaking and patient. And thanks to my sons Buster and Smacky for loving Chinese food and usually letting me work.\n\n## **LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS**\n\n1.1. Samuel Shaw (1754\u20131794), supercargo of the _Empress of China_ and a pioneer of Chinese-American trade\n\n1.2. A western view of Chinese exotica: A toast at an aristocratic dinner party\n\n1.3. Large flags proclaim the western presence in the \"factory\" compound on the outskirts of Guangzhou\n\n1.4. An engraving from _The Chinese Traveller_ depicts men catching water fowl\n\n2.1. Caleb Cushing, the U.S. Commissioner to China from 1843 to 1845\n\n2.2. Rice sellers at a military station, c. 1843\n\n2.3. An American missionary with her Chinese converts in Fuzhou, c. 1902\n\n3.1. Bronze cooking vessel from the Shang Dynasty, c. 1600\u20131046 BCE\n\n3.2. Two kinds of steamed dumplings\n\n3.3. A \"movable chow shop\" in Canton, c. 1919\n\n4.1. A Chinese restaurant on Dupont Street, San Francisco, in 1869\n\n4.2. A painter's depiction of a Chinese fishmonger with his wares, late nineteenth century\n\n4.3. A Chinese peddler sells fruits and vegetables to a San Francisco housewife\n\n4.4. A lavish San Francisco banquet restaurant, c. 1905\n\n5.1. This second floor Port Arthur restaurant attracted wealthy white \"slummers\" to Mott Street in New York's Chinatown\n\n5.2. Li Hongzhang's 1896 visit to New York stimulated a craze for Chinese food\n\n5.3. _The Latest Craze of American Society, New Yorkers Dining in a Chinese Restaurant_\n\n5.4. A 1950s postcard advertises an upscale Chicago Chinese restaurant\n\n6.1. Elsie Sigel's unsolved 1909 murder, dubbed the \"Chinatown Trunk Mystery\" by the national media, reinforced misgivings about the exotic world of that neighborhood\n\n6.2. From 1938 to 1962, San Francisco's Forbidden City nightclub featured performances by Asian-American musicians, dancers, strippers, and magicians\n\n6.3. The 1916 menu for the Oriental Restaurant in New York's Chinatown\n\n6.4. Started in 1959, Bernstein-on-Essex on New York's Lower East Side was the pioneer of Chinese-kosher cuisine\n\n6.5. In 1900, Mott Street's King Hong Lau served white patrons noodle soups and chop suey, with tea and sweets for dessert\n\n7.1. Inexpensive \"family dinners,\" like these offerings at New Joy Young in Knoxville, Tennessee, were the mainstay of 1950s Chinese-American restaurants\n\n7.2. President Richard Nixon shares a meal with Premier Zhou Enlai in 1972\n\n7.3. Adroitly wielding her chopsticks, Mrs. Nixon enjoys some spicy eggplant on her visit to the kitchens of the Peking Hotel, February 1972\n\n7.4. In 1972, the Hunam restaurant introduced diners to the \"hot-hot-hot\" cuisine of China's Hunan province\n\n7.5. Many storefront Chinese restaurants, like this one in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, are run by recent Fujianese immigrants\n\n7.6. P.F. Chang's offers upscale Americanized Chinese food in an exotic \"Chinese village\" setting\nChop Suey\n\n## **CHAPTER ONE** \nStags' Pizzles and Birds' Nests\n\nOn a frigid morning in February 1784, the _Empress of China_ set sail from New York harbor. It was embarking on the most ambitious expedition yet attempted by a United States vessel. At the helm stood Captain John Green, a pugnacious six-foot-four-inch veteran of the Continental navy, with many passages to Europe and the Caribbean under his belt. For this trip, he couldn't count on that experience. His only guide would be a British pilot's manual that listed what little was known about the reefs and shoals, ports and trade winds his ship would encounter on the journey. If she survived, Captain Green estimated the voyage would take over a year, perhaps as much as two. The _Empress of China_ was setting out on the first American trip to China, the era's equivalent of the 1969 journey to the Moon.\n\nAs the ship emerged onto the open Atlantic, its timbers creaked and groaned under the weight of its cargo. Barrels in the hold carried almost $20,000 in Spanish silver and thirty tons of dried ginseng root from the mountains of Pennsylvania and Virginia. The _Empress_ 's owners, some of the young nation's most powerful businessmen, hoped to trade the silver and the ginseng for the tea, silks, and porcelain of China. To sustain the ship's forty-two-man crew, Captain Green had filled every remaining space both below and above deck with food and drink, enough provisions to last 14 months at sea. This included enough fresh water to last five months and 48 barrels' worth of alcoholic beverages, mainly white Tenerife wine, strong Madeira wine, brandy, and \"old Jamaica spirits\" (rum). The wine and brandy were reserved for the officers; the thirsty crew had to make do with the throat-scorching rum.\n\nThe Americans on board the _Empress of China_ carried their culinary traditions with them. On their journey to the other side of the globe, they ate the food of the pan\u2013North Atlantic tradition, from the United States to the British Isles, adapted for the ocean voyage. Their staples were salt beef, salt pork, potatoes, and bread. The food eaten by the officers and the food eaten by the crew were of distinctly different quality. Coops filled with chickens and pens of sheep, pigs, and goats were lashed onto the decks. While this supply of livestock lasted, they provided fresh meat for the officers' cabin. The bread for the officers was soft and baked fresh by the ship's cook; the crew had to gnaw on rock-hard, worm-infested ship's biscuit. Dinners at the officers' table could include butter, pea soup flavored with bacon, roast meat, meat pies, boiled potatoes and cabbage, cheese, apples, condiments, and cake or pudding for dessert. As they embarked in the dead of winter, fresh vegetables were almost totally absent. For the sailors, meals were a monotonous round of salt meat, potatoes and biscuit, interspersed with peas or beans. All of this was washed down with weak beer that was brewed on board. Three times a week, the crew enjoyed their rations of rum, and on Saturdays they were given the treat of a raisin and molasses-sweetened pudding. Both officers and crew were served a nautical specialty called lobscouse, a stew of salt beef, sea biscuit, and potatoes\u2014though again, the sailors had to chew on the butt ends of the meat while the officers had the best cuts stewed with cabbage and carrots as well as potatoes. Everybody on board seasoned their food with vinegar to keep scurvy at bay.\n\nA month into the voyage, the _Empress_ landed at the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of Africa. Leaks in the side were caulked, and the crew loaded more water and fresh food for the officers: chickens and goats, two pigs, and some oranges. The next leg of the journey lasted three months and 18 days, during which the men hardly sighted land or other ships. It was \"one dreary waste of Sky & water,\" the purser wrote. Toward the end, the men were so starved for fresh meat that they captured and threw in the pot some booby birds that appeared and flew around the ship. Samuel Shaw, an officer, noted that they \"were lean, very fishy, and but indifferent food.\" The crew also attempted to snare an albatross, but it broke the line and escaped.\n\nShaw was the _Empress_ 's periwigged supercargo: its business agent, and the second most important man on the ship. Aged twenty-nine, he was a native of Boston and from an early age had been \"destined for commercial pursuits.\" In 1775, he had enlisted in the American army and risen to the post of aide-de-camp to one of George Washington's most important generals. At the war's end in 1783, Shaw had been recognized as a young man to watch. According to his biographer, \"the judgement, fidelity, and capacity for business, which he had displayed in the American army, attracted attention and general interest; and an association of capitalists, who had united for the purpose of opening a commercial intercourse between the United States and China, offered to him the station of factor and commercial agent for the voyage.\" Ambitious, and with barely a penny to his name, he had accepted immediately.\n\n_Figure 1.1. Samuel Shaw (1754\u20131794), supercargo of the_ Empress of China _and a pioneer of Chinese-American trade. Shaw's journals chronicle the first American encounters with Chinese cuisine._\n\nIn mid-July, the men finally sighted Java Head, the tree-covered promontory on the Sunda Strait, the channel between the islands of Java and Sumatra. Their ship dropped anchor in Java's Mew Bay, where it was met by Muslim natives in two canoes proffering chickens, fish, turtles, vegetables, fruits, coconuts, and even live monkeys for sale as sailor's pets. Already at anchor in the bay were two French ships, including the _Triton_ , which was also heading to China. The bonds of friendship between French and Americans were then particularly strong, thanks to the French backing of the Americans' side in their war for independence. Shaw and the other American officers were invited to dinner aboard the _Triton_ \u2014\"as elegantly served as if we had been at an entertainment on shore.\" The French captain offered to guide the _Empress_ on the last leg of the journey, a proposal the Americans gratefully accepted because of the many islands and uncharted shoals between Java and China. Just before they set sail, the French and Americans spent a day planting Indian corn, oats, peas, beans, and potatoes on a nearby island. At the end of their work, they toasted the success of their garden, which they hoped to harvest on the return voyage, with bottles of Madeira wine and French champagne.\n\nOn August 23, 1784, after six months at sea, the Americans finally came within sight of the Chinese mainland. They had arrived at the coast of Guangdong Province, at the mouth of the Pearl River in southeast China. Here they encountered a Chinese fishing boat, crewed by the first Chinese they had ever seen, and for $10 hired its captain to guide them up the river. After maneuvering past some rocky coastal islands, the _Empress of China_ and the _Triton_ anchored off the city of Macau, on the river mouth's western banks. Administered by Portugal since the sixteenth century, this settlement had a distinctly southern European aspect, with large whitewashed houses, narrow winding streets, and green trees and gardens. The _Empress_ fired a salute of greeting, which was soon answered by a salute from the city's fort. Shaw had the honor of hoisting the red, white, and blue colors of what was then called the Continental flag, the first \"ever seen or made use of in those seas.\" Early the next morning, a silk-robed Chinese customs inspector climbed aboard and took down the particulars of the boat and where it was from. He then impressed a piece of paper with the large seal that gave the _Empress_ permission to travel further into China. After he left, the American ship was swarmed by little Chinese boats whose owners offered eggs, sugar, and breadfruit for sale. Two days later, the _Empress_ raised anchor and set sail up the Pearl River for the city of Guangzhou, also known as Canton, sixty miles to the north.\n\nThe journey from Macau to the anchorage at Whampoa, twelve miles down the river from Guangzhou, was a favorite subject of the era's travel writers. This two-day passage gave European and American voyagers their first real encounter with the people and sights of one of the world's most fabled lands. As they sailed north, the river was increasingly crowded with all kinds of boats, including odd-shaped fishing boats, enormous flat-bottomed cargo boats, and the war junks of the Chinese navy. Some of the boats were evidently home to whole families and the flocks of ducks they tended. Others were piloted by fishermen who used tame cormorants to catch their fish, preventing the birds from swallowing their prey by fastening iron rings around their throats. The Western ships sailed past Chinese forts whose gun emplacements were painted with fearsome tigers and demons. As the land flattened out, the sailors saw bamboo and banana trees and then miles and miles of rice paddies as far as the eye could see. After two days, they arrived at Whampoa, the furthest upstream a deep-drafted ship could travel, where a line of tall masts was already waiting.\n\nThe _Empress of China_ anchored at Whampoa on August 28, 1784, and fired a thirteen-gun salute to the other ships already riding there. French, Danish, Dutch, and English boats all returned the salute. Soon Shaw and Captain Green were visited by the officers of these ships, starting with the French, who assisted the Americans in getting moored and arranging their passage into Guangzhou. For anyone who hadn't yet heard of the American victory over the British, Captain Green carried copies of the articles of peace and the treaties between the United States and the various European powers. Two days later, the American officers took a Chinese \"chop\" boat into Guangzhou. As they approached the city, the sights and sounds and smells\u2014the culture shock of being in China\u2014would have overwhelmed them, as they passed pagodas nine stories high, temples, rice paddies, orange plantations, more forts, and hundreds or even thousands of boats painted with glaring colors. Every now and then they would have heard the crash of cymbals and gongs the Chinese boats used instead of cannons to greet each other.\n\nFrom the river, the Americans could just barely glimpse the city itself. The view was blocked by a seemingly interminable line of one-story buildings, mostly warehouses that crammed the waterfront. Here and there between these buildings, the Americans would have glimpsed the crenellated city wall and behind it an occasional rooftop, a distant pagoda, and the roofs of some of the larger temples of the city, all topped with tile roofs. During their four months in Guangzhou, Green and Shaw were never allowed to enter the city proper. Instead, they landed on a wharf attached to a twelveacre compound on the riverfront at the southwest corner of the city wall. Here the Chinese had built thirteen two- and three-story warehouses with white facades and columned verandas fronting the river. These buildings were called \"factories\" because they both housed and provided work spaces for the foreign \"factors,\" the business agents of the European trading companies. According to imperial edict, this compound was the only place in China where Western nationals could come and go more or less freely.\n\nAfter he returned to the United States, Shaw presented a report about his venture to John Jay, the U.S. secretary of foreign affairs (precursor to the secretary of state). Unlike many European travelers, Shaw did not feel that he could discuss Chinese life and culture:\n\nIn a country where the jealousy of the government confines all intercourse between its subjects and the foreigners who visit it to very narrow limits, in the suburbs of a single city, the opportunities of gaining information respecting its constitution, or the manners and customs generally of its inhabitants, can neither be frequent nor extensive. Therefore, the few observations to be made at Canton cannot furnish us with sufficient data from which to form an accurate judgment upon either of these points.\n\nThis statement was something of an evasion, particularly considering Shaw's status as leader of the first American expedition to China. Numerous writers with even less direct experience of China than Shaw penned extensive works both before and after his visit. It's more likely that he was actually not that interested in China itself. He was the first representative of the group that dominated American contacts with China for the next half century\u2014the canny but narrow-minded New England traders. The vast, complicated, exotic, and ancient country of China lay just outside the door, but all they focused on was making a profit. Indeed, Shaw's description of his time in Guangzhou begins: \"to begin with commerce,\u2014which here appears to be as little embarrassed, and is, perhaps, as simple, as any in the known world.\"\n\nThe Guangzhou factories were owned by a small group of wealthy Chinese merchants who had received imperial permission to trade with foreign trading firms. The most powerful of these, the British East India Company, also known as the \"Honorable Company,\" occupied a sprawling factory in the heart of the compound, right on the central square; the Union Jack flew out front. British traders and Chinese authorities had a complicated relationship. Each side accused the other of arrogance. Backed by the mighty British navy from its base in Calcutta, the East India Company had established trading ventures throughout South and Southeast Asia. In China, however, the emperor limited their business to Guangzhou, cutting them off from the rest of the vast China market, and refused to meet with their representatives or even the English king's own emissaries. In Guangzhou, British traders occasionally vented their frustrations by beating any coolies who had the misfortune to bump into them on one of the compound's crowded streets. On the Chinese side, the main advantage of trading with the East India Company was the substantial revenues it brought to the emperor's personal coffers. The main disadvantage was, as the Chinese saw it, that the foreigners were crude and quarrelsome, pushy and utterly unwilling to adapt to Chinese customs. The emperor believed that letting them come any further into his empire would only upset the harmony of Chinese society. For now, the trade continued because it was profitable, although both sides could see the possibility of conflict further down the road.\n\nShaw's sympathies lay naturally on the European side of this relationship. However, as a newcomer to the region, and from such a young country, he wasn't exactly in a position to take a stand. His first concern was the business at hand: selling his ginseng. The Americans first stayed in the factory rented by the French but soon secured their own place of business. The first floor of their factory was divided between a warehouse, a counting room, and a treasury; the American living quarters were on the second floor. The landlords provided a phalanx of Chinese servants, from cooks to porters, to carry the Americans' goods and cater to all of their needs. In order to communicate with both these servants and the merchants, the Americans had to learn the crude local trade jargon known as pidgin Chinese.\n\nThe word \"pidgin\" probably derives from the word \"business,\" and appropriately so, because it was primarily used for commercial transactions. Pidgin was a unique combination of Portuguese, English, and Cantonese, with a few words from India thrown in. The jargon had evolved from necessity; the disparate trading communities from the Bay of Bengal to the western Pacific needed a way to communicate with one another. \"Go catchy chow-chow\" meant \"fix something to eat\" in pidgin, which sounded very much like a parent talking to a recalcitrant and somewhat deaf child. Neither the Chinese nor the Europeans had bothered to learn their trading partners' native tongues, so pidgin was used in all interactions between them. (In a sense, both sides were talking down when they used pidgin. However, in contemporary English and American accounts of life in Guangzhou, we only hear the Chinese side of the conversation. To readers, this has the affect of infantilizing the speakers; it's hard to respect someone who talks in such an ungainly manner.)\n\nFor Shaw, his first problem was explaining to the Chinese exactly who the Americans were:\n\nOur being the first American ship that had ever visited China, it was some time before the Chinese could fully comprehend the distinction between the Englishmen and us. They styled us the _New People_ , and when by the map, we conveyed to them an idea of the extent of the country, with its present and increasing population, they were not a little pleased at the prospect of so considerable a market for the productions of their own empire.\n\nShaw was also insecure about how the European contingents in Guangzhou would treat the Americans. After all, the United States was barely eight years old, a toddler on the world stage, and had recently waged a bloody war with Britain, the world's rising imperial power. He was gratified to find that \"the attention paid us at all times by the Europeans, both in a national and personal respect, [was] highly flattering.\" This was expected from their French allies, but even the British went out of their way to shower the Americans with attentions. During their first few weeks in Guangzhou, each of the foreign factories invited the American party to elaborate meals in their personal quarters.\n\nShaw doesn't say it, but attending those dinners must have caused him great anxiety. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a man's character was very much tied up with his manners. The more refined his social graces, the more civilized he was thought to be. One's behavior in public was a matter of performance, constantly judged by those present, and the most crucial of such performances was the meal. As Dr. Johnson said, the hour of dinner was the most important hour in civilized life. In the United States, Shaw had dined at the tables of American generals, but he had never before ventured abroad and had no experience of foreign customs. All that was said about dinner-table etiquette in _Lord Chesterfield's Advice to his Son, on Men and Manners,_ the only etiquette book then published in post-revolutionary America, was that every gentleman should \"study to acquire that fashionable kind of _small talk_ or _chit chat_ , which prevails in all polite assemblies\" and also learn the art of carving: \"a man who tells you gravely that he cannot carve, may as well tell you that he can't blow his _nose_ ; it is both as easy and as necessary.\"\n\nIn Guangzhou, Shaw would have been acutely aware that his social status was, at best, unsettled. His hosts were worldly Europeans, direct heirs to centuries of courtly tradition. Shaw and the American party were provincials, almost frontiersmen, living in a land at the edge of the wilderness and very, very far from the heart of European civilization. It was crucial for them to behave with grace and good manners, because a misstep would not only bring shame on them personally, potentially harming their China endeavor, but also dishonor their country.\n\nThe invitation that gave Shaw the most trepidation was probably his dinner in the sumptuous quarters of the East India Company. In accordance with their commercial dominance and their role as the de facto representatives of the world's rising imperial power, the British traders lived in regal luxury. On the second floor of their factory, they enjoyed a library, a billiards room, a chapel, and an enormous dining room called the Great Hall. When Shaw stepped into this room, it would have been decorated with crystal chandeliers, with portraits of the king and various directors of the Company on the walls. Doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the Pearl River. The long dinner table, set for thirty, glittered with silver candlesticks and cutlery and the finest porcelain. The guests were seated strictly according to rank, with the chief British trader acting as host and Shaw sitting next to him as the guest of honor. Although the meal was prepared by Chinese cooks, the food was strictly elite European cuisine. In the eighteenth century, this meant a strong French influence, the remnants of medieval spicing (including clove and nutmeg), and probably an Anglo-Indian curry or two. There would have been two courses of at least ten dishes each, from a cream-based soup to roast teal and blancmange, followed by a dessert of fresh and dried fruits and walnuts. Copious amounts of imported alcohol would have been poured throughout, including red, white, and Madeira wines. Frequent toasts, during which all the diners would stand, would have been made to the king, the U.S. president, the emperor of China, the success of the diners' business ventures, and so on. The richest men of Boston, New York, and Philadelphia could not have provided a more elaborate feast.\n\nApparently, the Americans' behavior at the dinner was a success, and they passed the social test. After the meal, the chief British trader pulled Shaw and Green aside for a little private talk. Over another bottle, he apologized for the Americans' reception in Guangzhou. He had meant for the British, not the French, to give the first reception for the newcomers: \"For trust me, gentlemen, that _we_ would not designedly have put you in such company.\"\n\nDuring his four months in Guangzhou, Shaw saw as much of the city as Europeans who had been trading there for a dozen years. In other words, he was mostly confined to the twelve-acre compound that held the factories and the three narrow thoroughfares that ran beside them\u2014Old and New China streets and Hog Lane. These were lined with stores selling souvenirs, including silks and hand-painted porcelain, and grog shops dispensing rotgut liquor to the sailors. Beyond the compound, the streets into the city were blocked by gates that were manned twenty-four hours a day. The only way a foreigner could travel further was with official permission and in the company of a Chinese interpreter. Shaw made only a handful of trips outside the western compound. One of these was across the river to the island of Honam (also called Henan), where most of the Chinese merchants who traded with the foreigners kept sprawling homes and gardens. In the company of some French merchants, Shaw and Green were invited to dine at the house of Chouqua\u2014the trade name of Chen Zuguan, a member of a prominent merchant family. Shaw was particularly impressed with Chouqua's gardens: \"Much art and labor are used to give them a rural appearance, and in some instances nature is not badly imitated. Forests, artificial rocks, mountains, and cascades, are judiciously executed, and have a pleasing effect in diversifying the scene.\" He tells us much less about what they ate. What struck him was that \"on these occasions, the guests generally contribute largely to the bill of fare. . . . At Chouqua's . . . the French supplied the table furniture, wine, and a large portion of the victuals.\" This was common practice during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, because most western merchants in Guangzhou were not culinary adventurers. The French brought the \"table furniture\" because they couldn't use Chinese spoons and chopsticks, the wine because they preferred that to hot Chinese rice wine, and the \"victuals\" because they couldn't stomach the dishes prepared by Chouqua's chef.\n\nOne of the exceptions to this rule was an English rake, William Hickey, who had been shipped east in 1769 to find his fortune\u2014and to keep his hell-raising escapades from further blotting the family name. Unfortunately, he was more interested in fast living and sleeping with Chinese prostitutes than knuckling down to work. During his stay in Guangzhou, he and some other Englishmen were invited to a series of banquets at a Honam mansion. On the first night, the meal was served \" _\u00e0 la mode Anglaise_ , the Chinamen on that occasion using, and awkwardly enough, knives and forks, and in every respect conforming to European fashion.\" On the second night, \"everything was Chinese, all the European guests eating, or endeavouring to eat, with chop sticks, no knives or forks being at the table. The entertainment was splendid, the victuals supremely good, the Chinese loving high dishes and keeping the best of cooks.\" By \"high,\" Hickey probably meant that the dishes were rich and luxurious. (Another meaning of \"high\" is slightly rotten, as in the aged game dishes preferred at many English aristocratic tables. The Chinese, however, liked their meat absolutely fresh-killed.)\n\n_Figure 1.2. A western view of Chinese exotica: A toast at an aristocratic dinner party, with musicians and entertainers in the background._\n\nAfter four months in China, Shaw finally sold his ginseng at a good price. It turned out that the quality of his product was better than anything his European competitors had brought. The Chinese merchant with whom Shaw sealed this transaction complimented him for not behaving like a rude, difficult Englishman: \"But you speak English word, and when you first come, I no can tell difference; but now I understand very well.\" Nevertheless, he doubted that the American's polite behavior would last very long: \"All men come first time China, very good gentlemen, all same you. I think two three time more you come Canton, you make all same Englishman too.\"\n\nBy the end of December 1784, the _Empress of China_ 's hold was packed with hundreds of chests of bohea and hyson tea, yellow nankeen cloth, silk, and porcelain. The customs authority issued its \"Grand Chop,\" which gave the _Empress_ permission to leave China, and on December 28, she raised anchor and set sail for the United States. Other American ships were already heading east across the Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope and then on to China. Shaw and the crew of the _Empress_ had inaugurated the era of the China trade. For the next sixty years, traders from ports like Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Salem, Massachusetts, would set sail for the other side of the world, lured by the chance to become rich by trading for the tea and finished products of one of world's largest and oldest nations. These traders' adventures led to one of the most remarkable\u2014and unlikely\u2014culinary exchanges of the last few centuries.\n\nIn 1784, the United States and China were, respectively, the youngest and oldest countries on Earth. The Americans were then still working out the most basic principles of government (the Constitutional Convention would take place three years later) and just beginning the process of deciding what made their culture distinct from England and the rest of the Old World. The Chinese, in contrast, had become one country over two millennia earlier and could trace their lineage as a culture back to the dawn of history. Unlike the new nations of Europe who could not ignore the achievements of Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome, China had almost always been the dominant culture in its region, East Asia. As a consequence, many Chinese thought of their country as the \"Middle Kingdom,\" the center of human civilization. It was thanks to some of their legendary rulers that humankind had first learned to use fire, to hunt and to fish, to sow crops and build houses, to treat illness with medicine, to write, and to mark time with calendars. The Chinese had also developed a highly complex system of government, at whose apex stood the emperor, ruling under what they called the Mandate of Heaven: as long as the emperor remained virtuous, Shangdi, the supreme ruler of Heaven, would give him command over all humanity. In 1784, China was governed by the great Qianlong Emperor of the Manchu-dominated Qing Dynasty. He wielded power from his throne in the Hall of Supreme Harmony in Beijing's Forbidden City, which was off-limits to all except his closest retainers.\n\nExpanding outward from this point, the Chinese traditionally divided the world into a series of five concentric circles, based on an ancient plan ascribed to the legendary Y\u00fc Emperor. First came the royal domains, meaning all the lands within the borders of China directly ruled by the emperor. All Chinese were, by definition, civilized. The core of these domains was what Westerners called China Proper: the eighteen provinces extending from what is now Hebei in the northeast to Hainan Island (then part of Guangzhou Province) in the south and to Sichuan in the west. Just beyond China's borders lay the lands of the tributary royal princes: the kingdoms of Korea, Laos, Vietnam, Tibet, Mongolia, and others. Made humble by the presence of the Chinese behemoth next door, their rulers had decided that it was usually far better to accept Chinese supremacy in East Asia than fight it. They learned Mandarin Chinese, converted to the Chinese calendar system, and at regular intervals donned Chinese costume and traveled to the court at Beijing to give costly tribute to the emperor. In return, he would invite them to an imperial Manchu banquet, sixth grade. Beyond these tributary kingdoms lay the zone of pacification, where the people were in the process of adopting Chinese civilization. For some, this process was remarkably rewarding. The ancestors of the Qing Dynasty's Manchu emperors were Jurchen tribesmen, seminomadic farmers and hunter-gatherers in northeastern China. Over the centuries, the Jurchen chiefs carefully studied the Chinese imperial system. When the Ming Dynasty fell apart in the early seventeenth century, the Jurchen roared down from the north and occupied Beijing. They renamed themselves the Manchu and founded the Qing Dynasty, on a basis of strict obedience to the Chinese imperial system, in effect becoming more Chinese than the Chinese.\n\nBeyond the tribal lands and tributary kingdoms, the rest of the world was encompassed by the outer two circles of the Y\u00fc Emperor's map, called the zone of \"allied barbarians\" and the zone of \"cultureless savagery.\" The allied barbarians were the peoples who had regular contact with Chinese civilization but did not have the wisdom to adopt it. This title encompassed many of the tribes on the empire's northwest frontier whose regular raids across the border had led to the construction of the Great Wall. The rest of the world's peoples lived in the zone of \"cultureless savagery,\" of which the ancient Chinese had no direct experience. Instead, their knowledge was based on tomes like the _Shanhaijing_ , \"Guideways through Mountains and Seas\" (fourth century BCE\u2013first century CE), a kind of guidebook to Heaven and Earth that blends geography, cosmography, mythology, and natural history. Much the way Greek, Roman, and medieval European works describe unseen lands, the _Shanhaijing_ describes those who live in the far corners of the Earth as looking not like, well, people. Beyond China's borders lie the Land of Hairy People, the Land of Feathered People, the Land of People with Perforated Chests, the Land of Three-Headed People, the Land of Giants, the Land of Midgets, and so on. The book tells readers nothing about how these weird inhabitants actually live. For that, the Chinese would apply what they had learned from their interactions with tribes on the margins of the empire, as in this passage from the _Li Chi_ , a book of ritual form that Confucian scholars drafted (fifth century\u2013221 BCE):\n\nThe tribes on the east were called I. They had their hair unbound, and tattooed their bodies. Some of them ate their food without its being cooked. Those on the south were called Man. They tattooed their foreheads, and had their feet turned in towards each other. Some of them [also] ate their food without its being cooked. Those on the west were called Zung. They had their hair unbound and wore skins. Some of them did not eat grain-food. Those on the north were called T\u00ee. They wore skins of animals and birds, and dwelt in caves. Some of them also did not eat grain-food.\n\nQing Dynasty accounts also often speak of alien peoples\u2014including Europeans and Americans\u2014and their customs in similarly belittling terms, describing their primitive taste in food, almost animal-like physical appearance, and so on.\n\nOver the millennia, this streak of antiforeign bias in Chinese culture was balanced by intense curiosity about the outside world. From the Han Dynasty (206 BCE\u2013222 CE) on, the Chinese did have regular contact with the rest of Asia. Chinese ambassador Zhang Qian roamed across Central Asia and even as far south as India, documenting the regional cultures and economies for his Han emperor. Regular trade between China, India, and the West began with the opening of the Silk Road by 100 BCE (and likely earlier). Traffic in goods and ideas also traveled by sea, on oceangoing junks sailing to Japan, to many ports in Southeast Asia, and across the Indian Ocean to East Africa. Perhaps the most lasting result of those contacts was the dissemination between the second and seventh centuries CE of Buddhism, which originated in India. Over the centuries, the tribute network the Middle Kingdom established with its various vassal states became the official channel by which the finest products of foreign lands, from gems to foodstuffs, directly reached the emperor for his pleasure and enjoyment. Between 1405 and 1433, the Yongle Emperor of the Ming Dynasty sent Admiral Zhen He's fleet of three hundred ships on expeditions extending from Southeast Asia to Africa to assert Chinese power and expand the tribute system. In 1601, another Ming emperor hired the Italian Jesuit priest Matteo Ricci to serve as his court mathematician and cartographer. Ricci introduced western geometry and trigonometry and drafted accurate maps of the world showing latitude and longitude and the main continents. He could speak, read, and write Chinese, saw no contradiction between Catholic and Confucian beliefs, and converted many scholars and officials to Christianity. Even today, the Chinese admire Ricci for his deep knowledge of and respect for their culture.\n\n_Figure 1.3. Large flags proclaim the western presence in the \"factory\" compound on the outskirts of Guangzhou. Until 1842, this was the only part of China where Europeans and Americans were allowed to live and trade._\n\nBy the time Ricci died, in 1610, Europeans were a constant presence at the edges of the Chinese empire. This incursion had begun in 1517 with the arrival of Portuguese traders, who soon acquired the rights to anchor at and then settle in Macau. They were followed by the Dutch and then, in the seventeenth century, the Spanish, French, English, and other European powers. The imperial government saw their presence as decidedly a mixed blessing. The European trade became highly profitable to the emperors, who took most of the profits directly into their coffers, restricting contacts with the European traders to the port of Guangzhou in order to protect their imperial monopoly, and for fear of foreign contagion. Imperial China was a highly organized yet delicately balanced machine\u2014who knew what kind of cultural, economic, or political instability these strangers would bring? Official knowledge about Europe and its various peoples was designedly inadequate, because it was considered dangerous to learn more. Aside from the storerooms of the Forbidden City, the only place where Chinese could have seen European maps was Guangzhou. In the mid\u2013eighteenth century, imperial courtiers drafted a massive, ten-volume encyclopedia, the _Illustrations of the Tribute-Bearing People of the Qing_ (1761), that gave the official view of the outside world\u2014one heavily influenced by the view of ancient texts like the _Shanhaijing_. All foreign peoples are defined by their level of allegiance, imaginary or not, toward civilization, that is, the Middle Kingdom. The authors do not bother to correctly locate England, France, Italy, Holland, Russia, or even the Atlantic Ocean. The inhabitants of the European countries are described as having \"dazzling white\" skin, \"lofty\" noses, and red hair. They favor tight clothes; their disposition is warlike; they esteem women more than men; and all they care about is trade. (In traditional China, since at least the days of Confucius, merchants were relegated to the lowest rung of social status.) To imperial officials, the behavior of the Europeans resembled more that of dogs or sheep than that of civilized human beings. When the _Empress of China_ \u2014a European style of ship, with a crew who spoke the same language as the English\u2014arrived in Guangzhou, local businessmen like Chouqua may have been curious about these people's native land and glad to have new trading partners. To imperial officials, however, they were just more red-haired, white-skinned foreigners from the far-off zone of \"cultureless savagery.\"\n\nAt the end of the American War of Independence, Americans knew slightly more about China than the Chinese did about the United States. For about a half century, the American beverage of choice had been Chinese tea, which was shipped from Britain in crates marked with the stamp of the British East India Company. In 1773, dozens of citizens of Boston dressed as Mohawk Indians dumped crates of \"Company\" tea into Boston Harbor to protest unjust British duties on their favorite drink. Those Americans who could afford it drank their tea from delicate white cups of imported Chinese porcelain. Their image of China closely resembled the charming little scenes painted on the cups' sides: stylized little blue willow trees, a river, and a bridge with one or two white-faced figures on it. George Washington was supposedly surprised to hear that the skin of Chinese was not bone-china white.\n\nDuring the eighteenth century, the British East India Company enjoyed a monopoly on all trade with Asia. Merchants in the American colonies were forbidden to travel to China or deal directly with Chinese merchants. What little the colonists could learn about China was gleaned almost entirely from books and other accounts written by European travelers. Probably the most famous was the encyclopedic _General History of China_ , by the French Jesuit priest Jean-Baptiste Du Halde. Both Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson owned copies, as did Franklin's Library Company of Philadelphia (in 1770) and the New York Society Library (in 1789). Du Halde never visited China, but he gathered his material directly from many Jesuit priests who had spent years there. His _General History_ held up China's government, law, and philosophy as models for emulation\u2014Voltaire became a Sinophile after reading it. Those Americans lucky enough to peruse the tome could learn of the Great Wall and the emperor's palace in Beijing, read the sayings of a sage named Confucius, and marvel at the rituals of a Chinese banquet where the most delicious dishes were \"Stags Pizzles and Birds-Nests carefully prepared.\"\n\nAlso widely disseminated was the anonymous work _The Chinese Traveller_ (1772), supposedly based on the experiences of Jesuits and \"other modern travellers.\" A collection of stories of exotic customs and wide-eyed adventures in foreign lands, it reads more like _Gulliver's Travels_ than Du Halde's measured account. Some of the information provided appears to have been picked up down at the London docks, including tips on where to find pleasure girls and warnings about trade: \"the Chinese excel the Europeans in nothing more than the art of cheating.\" About Chinese food, the _Chinese Traveller_ notes many oddities, including the use of chopsticks, the prevalence of rice, and the practice of chopping the food into little bits before bringing it to the table. What particularly interests the author is the wide variety of animals the Chinese ate: \"they not only use the same kind of flesh, fish and fowl, that we do, but even horse flesh is esteemed proper food. Nor do they reckon dogs, cats, snakes, frogs, or indeed any kind of vermin, unwholesome diet.\" This description of the meats sold in Guangzhou delves deeper into that custom:\n\nI was very much surprised at first, to see dogs, cats, rats, frogs, &c. in their market-places for sale. But I soon found that they made no scruple of eating any sort of meat, and have as good an appetite for that which died in a ditch, as that which was killed by a butcher. The dogs and cats were brought commonly alive in baskets, were mostly young and fat, and kept very clean. The rats, some of which are of a monstrous size, were very fat, and generally hung up with the skin upon them, upon nails at the posts of the market-place.\n\nIn nearly every western description of Chinese food from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, this information is repeated: the Chinese dine on dogs, cats, and rats. Some of it comes from doubtful texts, like the _Chinese Traveller_ , but in other texts the information has enough detail to give it the ring of truth. (And anyone who has visited modern Guangzhou's markets can see that they still sell an incredible variety of live animals for food, including dogs and cats.) If readers of the time remembered anything about Chinese culinary habits, it was that they extended their eating habits to include beloved pets and filthy vermin.\n\nBooks like Du Halde's _General History_ and the _Chinese Traveller_ were also popular because they contained large amounts of information about the country's economic life: the principal products of China, the goods it most commonly imported, and the workings of its commerce. Americans did not read these sections idly, because the major source of their revenue was foreign trade. Merchants needed all the information they could find on the world outside their borders. After the War of Independence, Britain was still the dominant sea power, and its blockades kept American ships from much of Europe and the Caribbean. However, British power did not yet control the Pacific or the sea lanes leading to the world's most populous nation. In the 1780s, the ports up and down the East Coast of the United States hummed with plans for voyages to China. The main promoter of these ventures was John Ledyard, an adventurer who had sailed with Captain Cook on his last voyage around the world. Ledyard proposed an enterprise to collect sea otter skins in the Pacific Northwest and sell them in Guangzhou for huge profits. When his backers realized that the scheme was too costly, they turned to what they knew from Du Halde's _General History_. The Chinese were said to pay enormous prices for ginseng, which they used in their traditional medicine. Within months, the hold of the _Empress of China_ was packed with ginseng root and heading east to China.\n\n_Figure 1.4. An engraving from_ The Chinese Traveller _depicts men catching water fowl. According to the_ Traveller, _ducks were trained to weed the rice fields and eat such pests as insects and frogs._\n\nFrom 1784 to 1844, the yearly ritual of the China trade was nearly always the same. The American ships anchored at Whampoa at any time from August to October and unloaded their goods. The merchants took up residence in the American factory, with its \"flowery flag\" flying out front, and began the process of selling their wares to their Chinese counterparts. In the evenings, they retired to their quarters to eat sumptuous Western meals, washing the food down with copious amounts of imported alcohol, or traded social visits with the other foreign merchants. For recreation, they could promenade along the factory compound's waterfront, compete in rowing races on the river, or stroll in the nearby Chinese gardens in the company of an interpreter. We know that life in the factories was claustrophobic but little else about what the Americans thought about China, because they were businessmen first and foremost. They left few records of their experiences there, particularly during the first decades of the trade. After their wares were sold, they purchased Chinese goods to sell back in the United States: tea, silk, porcelain, nankeen cloth, and sundry knickknacks with which they decorated their stateside homes. The Western ships usually sailed out of Whampoa in January. American merchants could then either sail home or spend the months until the next trading season in nearby Macau. With its picturesque setting, warm sea breezes, and large European colony, Macau was always considered a more pleasant place to stay than Guangzhou.\n\nFrom the beginning, American merchants faced a perennial quandary of what to bring to China for trade. The Guangzhou merchants accepted Spanish silver dollars, then the principal trade currency, but the Americans only had a limited supply of them. When the ginseng trade soon began to play out, traders remembered Ledyard's tales of huge sea otter colonies in the Pacific Northwest. They also discovered that the forests of the Sandwich (Hawaiian) Islands were filled with aromatic sandalwood trees whose wood the Chinese favored. For a few decades, American traders in Guangzhou made fortunes with ships filled with fur and sandalwood, until they killed nearly all the sea otters and chopped down all the sandalwood forests. The Americans next fixed on a commodity they first saw in Guangzhou's markets: piles of what looked like lumpy brown, gray, and black cigars, with a distinctive rank, fishy odor, sold from big straw market baskets. These were dried sea cucumbers, also known as trepang or _b\u00eache-de-mer_ (\"worm of the sea\"): soft-bodied invertebrates, related to sea stars and sea urchins, that live in shallow tropical seas. For centuries, the Chinese have considered sea cucumbers one of the great delicacies of their cuisine, because of both their culinary properties and the boost to strength and virility they supposedly imparts. Chefs soften the dried animals in water and then cook them in delicately flavored stews, where they absorb the flavors of the sauce and add their slightly fishy taste and spongy, glutinous texture.\n\nAll the American merchants knew was that the sea cucumbers would find \"a ready sale in the Chinese market.\" On their journey across the Pacific, they stopped at islands like Tonga, Samoa, and the Fijis and hired troops of islanders through the local chief, whom they paid in trade goods like guns, gunpowder, and hatchets. (These weapons greatly increased the death tolls of the frequent battles between tribal factions on the islands.) The natives collected as many sea cucumbers as they could find in the nearby waters, while the Americans set up drying sheds on the beach. The animals were boiled in great iron kettles, gutted, and then smoked. Once thoroughly dried, they were packed in straw baskets and loaded on the American ships. The most valuable variety could fetch 115 Spanish silver dollars for a 125-pound box in the Guangzhou market. A French traveler who tasted freshly cleaned sea cucumber on the coast of Malaya remarked that it \"had some resemblance to lobster.\"\n\nAnother odd product Americans noticed in the Guangzhou market was the edible bird's nest. It appeared to be nothing more than a fragile, yellowish shell, but the prices for it were nothing short of astronomical\u2014136 pounds of the finest bird's nest would sell for 3,500 silver dollars! The richest sources of birds' nests were caves lying along the tropical coasts from India to Southeast Asia that were home to two species of swiftlet, a bird that resembles a swallow. It attaches its cup-like nest, which it makes almost entirely from its own saliva, high up on these caves' walls. Holding sputtering torches, the natives had to climb up towering, rickety ladders in the caves to find and harvest the nests. The most precious variety was almost white and free of any sticks or other detritus; the darker \"black\" nests had to be carefully cleaned before cooking. In the hands of Chinese chefs, these nests had almost no taste themselves; they were used to absorb the flavors of soups and stews and add a special glutinous texture. Du Halde wrote: \"they mix them with other meats, which give them a good relish.\" Like sea cucumbers, birds' nests were also considered useful for enhancing strength and potency. As soon as American merchants figured out the best sources of supply in Southeast Asia, they began to add birds' nests to their cargoes bound for China.\n\nDuring this first era of the China trade, the few hundreds of Americans and Europeans working in Guangzhou constructed a kind of cocoon of western culture around themselves. While their every need from waking to going to bed was met by an army of Chinese servants, they continued to wear western dress, largely refused to learn the local languages (in fairness, imperial edict forbade the teaching of Mandarin or Cantonese to these barbarians, though a few still received tutoring on the sly), worshipped in Catholic or Protestant chapels, socialized almost exclusively with other westerners, and gathered at the table for three meals a day of western food and drink. This was an incredible act of communal will, because the Chinese city was never more than a stone's throw away and sometimes just outside their windows. They must have smelled the aromas from Chinese kitchens wafting over from Chinese houses. They could not have missed the \"long line of victualing stands, furnished with fruits, cakes, sweetmeats, soups, and such like\" in the narrow streets that formed the border between the factory compound and the greater city.\n\nNevertheless, the first account we have of Americans eating Chinese food does not appear until 1819, thirty-five years after Shaw's visit. It was written by Bryant Parrott Tilden, a young trader from Salem who acted as supercargo on a number of Asia voyages. In Guangzhou, he was befriended by Paunkeiqua, a leading merchant who cultivated good relations with many American firms. Just before Tilden's ship was set to sail home, Paunkeiqua invited the American merchants to spend the day at his mansion on Honam island. Tilden's account of that visit, which was capped by a magnificent feast, is not unlike the descriptions Shaw or even William Hickey wrote a half century earlier. First, he tours Paunkeiqua's traditional Chinese garden and encounters some of the merchant's children yelling \"Fankwae! Fankwae!\" (\"Foreign devil! Foreign devil!\"). Then Paunkeiqua shows him his library, including \"some curious looking _old Chinese maps of the world_ as these 'celestials' suppose it to be, with their Empire occupying three quarters of it, surrounded by nameless islands & seas bounded only by the edges of the maps.\" Finally, his host tells him: \"Now my flinde Tillen, you must go long my for catche chow chow tiffin.\" In other words, dinner was served in a spacious dining hall, where the guests were seated at small tables.\n\n\"Soon after,\" Tilden writes, \"a train of servants came in bringing a most splendid service of fancy colored, painted and gilt large tureens & bowls, containing soups, among them the celebrated _bird nest soup_ , as also a variety of stewed messes, and plenty of boiled rice, & same style of smaller bowls, but alas! no plates and knives and forks.\" (By \"messes,\" Tilden probably meant prepared dishes, not unsavory jumbles.)\n\nThe Americans attempted to eat with chopsticks, with very poor results: \"Monkies [ _sic_ ] with knitting needles would not have looked more ludicrous than some of us did.\" Finally, their host put an end to their discomfort by ordering western-style plates, knives, forks, and spoons. Then the main portion of the meal began:\n\nTwenty separate courses were placed on the table during three hours in as many different services of elegant china ware, the messes consisting of soups, gelatinous food, a variety of stewed hashes, made up of all sorts of chopped meats, small birds cock's-combs, a favorite dish, some fish & all sorts of vegetables, rice, and pickles, of which the Chinese are very fond. Ginger and pepper are used plentifully in most of their cookery. Not a joint of meat or a whole fowl or bird were placed on the table. Between the changing of the courses, we freely conversed and partook of Madeira & other European wines\u2014and costly teas.\n\nAfter fruits, pastries, and more wine, the dinner finally came to an end. Tilden and his friends left glowing with happiness (and alcohol) at the honor Paunkeiqua had shown them with this lavish meal. Nowhere, however, does Tilden tell us whether the Americans actually enjoyed these \"messes\" and \"hashes.\"\n\nIn 1830, American missionaries joined the traders in Guangzhou and Macau. The United States was then decades into a religious awakening that had spread from New England west to the frontier. A key tenet of this evangelical Christian movement was the solemn duty to spread the Protestant gospel to every corner of the nation and the globe. One of those who caught the fervor was a Massachusetts farmer's son named Elijah Coleman Bridgman. After devoting his life to God at a local revival meeting, he was eventually ordained as a \"minister to Christ, and as a missionary to the heathen.\" When he learned that more heathens lived in China than any other country on Earth, Bridgman took a berth on the next boat to Asia. Soon after he landed in Guangzhou, he took a tour of a Chinese temple and was invited by the priest to share some food. With the help of a translator, he quizzed the priest about his beliefs over Chinese tea and \"sweetmeats,\" probably candied fruits. At the end of this repast, Bridgman \"thanked and rewarded him for his hospitality, and left him as we found him, a miserable idolater.\"\n\nBridgman soon concluded that the Middle Kingdom was the most morally debased land on Earth: \"Idolatry, superstition, fraud, falsehood, cruelty, and oppression everywhere predominate, and iniquity, like a mighty flood, is extending far and wide its desolation.\" To make matters worse, the Chinese were deaf to his gospel-spreading efforts. Guangzhou authorities refused to allow missionaries to proselytize in the Chinese city, and the local Chinese in Macau showed little interest in his message of salvation. After twenty years of preaching, Bridgman and his fellow American missionaries could count literally no Chinese converts; the few who had embraced the Christian faith had all reverted to their heathen ways!\n\nWith his dour and implacable faith, Bridgman was adept at conveying his vision of China to anyone who would listen. In 1832, he became the Guangzhou tour guide of Edmund Roberts, an American diplomat on a round-the-world journey to improve trade ties. Roberts published a long account of his voyage that is filled with virulent xenophobia. Of the Chinese he writes:\n\nIn their habits they are most depraved and vicious; gambling is universal and is carried to a most ruinous and criminal extent; they use the most pernicious drugs as well as the most intoxicating liquors to produce intoxication; they are also gross gluttons; every thing that runs, walks, creeps, flies, or swims, in fact, every thing that will supply the place of food, whether of the sea, or the land, and articles most disgusting to other people, are by them greedily devoured.\n\nHis outrage about Chinese culinary habits may have been particularly spurred by the fact that his window in the American factory overlooked the afternoon dog and cat market in Old China Street.\n\nOther missionaries who joined Bridgman in Guangzhou included Peter Parker and Samuel Wells Williams. Parker, another Massachusetts farmer's son, had been educated at Amherst and Yale at a time when these schools produced more lawyers and ministers than anything else. A classmate described him as short, fat, and sluggish, but \"quick as a toad\" when he wanted to be. After Parker decided that he, too, wanted to save the Chinese heathens, his advisors suggested that he study medicine as a backup. Stymied in his missionary efforts in Guangzhou, Parker opened a clinic to treat the Chinese for eye disorders. Samuel Wells Williams, the only one of this group who wasn't ordained as a minister, was the son of a devout printer in Utica, New York. Williams considered becoming a botanist before his father secured him the job of running the missionary printing press in Guangzhou. Shortly after landing, he wrote to his father:\n\nI have been here a week, and in that short time have seen enough idolatries to call forth all the energies that I have. . . . To take a circuit thro' one of these streets about eventide, and see the abominations practiced against the honor of Him who has commanded, \"Thou shalt have no other gods before me,\" and not be affected with a deep sense of the depth to which this intellectual people has sunk, is impossible to a warm Christian man.\n\nWilliams joined Bridgman in writing and printing a monthly journal, the _Chinese Repository_. During its lifespan, the _Repository_ became an encyclopedic compilation of Western knowledge about China, including its culinary customs.\n\nFour months after arriving in Guangzhou, Williams was invited to his first Chinese meal\u2014\"it should be more properly termed a gratification of curiosity than any pleasure\"\u2014the obligatory banquet at a merchant's house:\n\nAt 7 p.m. the dinner began with a soup of birds' nests which we ate with chop sticks; these we used somewhat clownishly at first, as it required a little practice to eat a soup with two ivory sticks. Then followed dishes whose names and contents were unknown, but which tasted pretty much all alike. They were all in cups about the size of tea-cups, and when given to each guest always eaten with these same chop-sticks. In eating liquid dishes, as soups, the mouth is put down to the edge of the dish and the contents shoveled in. They will eat rice as fast again in this way as I could ever manage with a spoon. Some of the dishes we had were birds' nests, lily roots, pigs' tongues, fishes' stomachs, sharks' fins, biche-de-mer, fishes' heads\u2014and others to the number of fourteen. After this a European dinner was served, but rather inferior.\n\nThe main difference between these American missionaries and the traders in Guangzhou was that Bridgman and his compatriots were actually interested in the lives of the Chinese. This curiosity was driven by their mission work, because they realized they couldn't convert their audiences unless they knew something about their history, beliefs, and customs. Bridgman and Williams researched a wide variety of aspects of Chinese life, from weights and measures to grammar to the practices of the imperial court, and published all their findings in the _Chinese Repository_. These articles were reprinted in many United States periodicals and avidly read by merchants looking for information they could use in the China trade.\n\nIn 1835, Williams wrote a long essay for the _Repository_ , on the \"Diet of the Chinese.\" His scientific background shows itself in his thorough investigation of every aspect of his subject. He admits that due to the restrictions on foreign travel within China, his article gives only a fragmentary look at the country's cuisine: \"in endeavoring to ascertain the sources from whence food for so great a population is derived, and the various modes which are employed to fit it for use, we shall resort to all means of information within our reach. Our inquiries, however, must be confined chiefly to those persons who have come more or less in contact with foreigners.\" Using travelers' accounts as well as his own observations in and around Guangzhou, Williams first gives a long description of the grains, vegetables, fruits, oil plants, fish, domesticated animals, birds, insects, beverages, and liquors the Chinese consume. He then turns to Chinese kitchens, cooking methods, and meal customs and mentions the huge numbers of \"taverns, eating-houses, and cook-stalls\" in the cities. Of the larger restaurants, he remarks that \"we should suppose that they were much patronized, but by what particular class, or whether by all classes, we do not know.\" The edict forbidding foreign entry into the city still held, so no foreigner had ever dined in a Guangzhou restaurant. About halfway through this article, Williams lets slip his unvarnished opinion about Chinese food. Here we finally learn what all the traders really thought about the weird dishes served at the banquets across the river at Honam:\n\nThe cooking and mode of eating among the Chinese are peculiar. . . . The universal use of oil, not always the sweetest or purest, and of onions, in their dishes, together with the habitual neglect of their persons, causes an odor, almost insufferable to a European, and which is well characterized by Ellis, as the \"repose of putrefied garlic on a much used blanket.\" The dishes, when brought on the table, are almost destitute of seasoning, taste, flavor, or anything else by which one can be distinguished from another; all are alike insipid and greasy to the palate of the foreigner.\n\nIt's unclear how the Chinese dishes could be both insipid and stinking of garlic, onion, and rancid oil. In fact, Westerners smelled that aroma everywhere. Even outside the dining room, this was what many Americans and Europeans apparently thought the Chinese smelled like\u2014garlic, onions, and body odor.\n\nBy the late 1830s, relations between the Chinese and the barbarians had grown strained. The westerners were tired of being cooped up in Guangzhou and Macau; they ached to sell their goods in the whole of China. Americans and Europeans had also grown weary of Chinese arrogance, of what Bridgman saw as China's \"absurd claim of universal supremacy.\" To them, any nation that rejected Christianity could not claim to be the center of human civilization. On the Chinese side, the Daoguang Emperor and his top officials believed that the barbarians must be reined in, if not kicked out of the Middle Kingdom altogether. They had good cause. For decades now, the British had been smuggling opium into China from India. This was against Chinese law (and western morality), but the profits were too great for the Crown to stop: income from opium helped Britain maintain its status as the dominant seagoing power. Tired of trading in sea cucumbers and birds' nests, American merchants began shipping in their own opium from Turkey. By the early nineteenth century, hundreds of thousands of Chinese had become opium addicts, a situation that ruined lives and weakened local economies. Half the officials along the South China coast had become corrupted by bribery. Finally, in 1839 Daoguang Emperor ordered the blockade of Guangzhou and the arrest of the principal traffickers. This action precipitated the disastrous Opium War of 1840\u201342.\n\nThe emperor thought it enough to strengthen the Guangzhou harbor blockade and set up cannons along the Guangdong coast. The British fleet bypassed Guangzhou and sailed up the east coast of China bombarding cities. They then doubled back to Guangzhou and encircled the city, forcing its officials to capitulate and hand over a large ransom. In 1842, when the rest of the British Asia fleet arrived from India, the combined force included dozens of fully armed warships and ten thousand soldiers. They sailed up the China coast again, capturing the major port cities and even threatening Beijing. Chinese resistance was fiercest along the Yangzi Valley, but the British weapons and soldiers proved unstoppable. The western army marched up the Yangzi, one of China's richest districts, destroying any opposition it met. As his military evaporated, the emperor vacillated, unable to decide whether to surrender or fight on. Finally, he summoned his trusted aide Qiying, who like himself was a Manchu and a direct descendant of the Qing Dynasty's founder. Qiying had seen the awesome power of the British military machine up close and advised the emperor that a policy of appeasement was the only option. Realizing that the war threatened the survival of his dynasty, the emperor agreed to sue for peace. In August 1842, Qiying signed the Treaty of Nanking aboard a British battleship. The Chinese agreed to have full diplomatic relations with Britain, to cede Hong Kong to the Queen, to open four more ports to trade, and to pay a massive indemnity. It was China's most humiliating defeat at the hands of barbarians since the Mongol invasion of the thirteenth century.\n\n## **CHAPTER TWO** \nPutrified Garlic on a Much-used Blanket\n\nThe white sails of the U.S.S. _Brandywine_ , a frigate carrying forty-four guns, appeared off the coast of South China in February 1844. Its most important cargo was the first United States ambassador to China: Caleb Cushing, bearing a letter from President John Tyler to China's emperor. A large party assembled at Macau's docks to welcome him ashore, while a marine band played and cannons roared a salute from the Portuguese fort. As the boat carrying Cushing, rowed by a dozen American sailors, hove into view, his costume appeared first: he wore a white ostrich feather atop a large, navy blue hat, a blue coat covered in gold buttons, white pantaloons with a gold stripe down the side, tall boots, and spurs\u2014the uniform of a major general. Some of the women tittered behind their fans; the European merchants whispered wry comments to each other. When Commissioner Cushing alighted and the crowd caught sight of his face, the snickering stopped. He looked the model of the nineteenth-century authority figure\u2014tall, with a strong chin, a stern mouth line, and a flowing moustache. His deep baritone voice could fill the largest meeting halls. In fact, the only thing that had kept him out of the highest political posts was his aloof and uncompromising disposition\u2014he lacked the common touch. As Cushing shook the hands of the dignitaries at the dock, the people could sense the seriousness with which he took his mission. After sailing halfway around the world at some risk to his life (one of his boats had been destroyed by fire), Cushing was determined to do whatever it took to formalize a treaty establishing diplomatic relations between the United States and China\u2014even if it meant eating at a Chinese table.\n\nIn the aftermath of the 1840\u201342 Opium War, the United States was intent on increasing its influence in East Asia. President Tyler and Secretary of State Daniel Webster knew the terms of the Treaty of Nanking and had heard that British merchants were at the forefront of opening up new markets in China. The letter to the Chinese emperor that Cushing carried (which introduced its bearer as \"Count Caleb Cushing, one of the wise and learned men on this country\") proposed opening a new era of \"peace and friendship\" between China and the United States. Tyler's terms for this friendship included full diplomatic relations, trading privileges for American merchants that were at least as favorable as the Treaty of Nanking's, and permission for American missionaries to live and proselytize among the Chinese. Over the next few decades, American diplomats, merchants, and missionaries would indeed have much greater access to Chinese officials and to China's 300 million customers and souls. However, the post\u2013Opium War years did not necessarily usher in a new era of friendship between the two peoples\u2014with direct consequences for the American experience of Chinese food.\n\nIn the decades before the Opium War, the relations between the two countries had been purely commercial. The American merchants in Guangzhou had actively rejected the idea of a U.S. treaty with China, not wanting to upset their lucrative status quo. This attitude had changed during the blockade of Guangzhou, when American traders had asked for the intervention of American warships to protect their lives. The war started before the ships could be sent out. As a result, in 1841 Parker had traveled to Washington to make the case to Tyler and Webster for a formal U.S.-China agreement. Parker was deeply afraid that the conflict would cause China to close its doors to the West. Not only would American business suffer; the heathens might lose the \"moral benefits\" of the missionary enterprise. Parker's choice to lead the first U.S. diplomatic mission to China was ex-president John Quincy Adams, who had already given a rabble-rousing speech on the Opium War. The war's real cause, Adams had said, was not the opium trade but \"the pretension on the part of the Chinese, that in all their intercourse with other nations, political or commercial, their superiority must be implicitly acknowledged, and manifested in humiliating forms.\" He went on: \"it is time that this enormous outrage upon the rights of human nature, and upon the first principles of the rights of nations, should cease.\" If negotiations with the Chinese didn't work, Adams, like Parker, was quite prepared to enforce American claims to trading rights with a fleet of warships.\n\nWebster wasn't quite so fast on the trigger, but he had his own reasons for pushing for a treaty with China. The term \"manifest destiny\" hadn't been coined yet, but the concept behind it was already widespread in the early 1840s. Many American politicians believed their country had a divinely given right to possess the land running all the way to the Pacific Ocean. That meant Texas, California, the Oregon Territory, and maybe even the British colony of Canada. Webster had already declared that the Sandwich Islands, known to its natives as Hawai'i, lay within the American \"sphere of influence.\" The next step was to check the British Empire's growing power on the other side of the Pacific. As soon as Webster had received word of the Treaty of Nanking, he had begun to plan for America's first high-level diplomatic mission to China. Its goals were to open full diplomatic relations with the imperial government, achieve favorable trading terms for American merchants, and make clear that the United States, unlike Britain, had no belligerent intentions toward China. To lead this effort, Webster had turned to Caleb Cushing, who shared his faith in an aggressive, expansionist foreign policy. Cushing told a crowd in Boston: \"I go to China, sir, if I may so express myself, in behalf of civilization and that, if possible, the doors of three hundred million Asiatic laborers may be opened to America.\"\n\nIn Macau, Cushing was not exactly welcomed by the local American population. They were afraid that his inexperience in dealing with imperial officials (and his ludicrous uniform!) would only worsen their relations with the Chinese government. Their fears were confirmed when the emperor categorically denied Cushing's request to come to Beijing. The arrival of a rude and awkward foreigner would only upset the ritual of the imperial court. Cushing was not fazed. He quickly hired Parker and Bridgman to act as his translators and resident experts on Chinese affairs. While he continued to pester the emperor with demands to travel to Beijing, Cushing learned all he could about local customs from Parker and Bridgman. He wanted to be able to face any eventuality, both at the negotiating table and at the dinner table. Finally, the emperor decided to send his relative Qiying, by now an imperial commissioner and China's de facto foreign minister, to negotiate with the barbarian emissary. Qiying took his time; he arrived in Macau in the middle of June 1844. With his retinue, including aides, dozens of servants, and a troop of soldiers, he made his headquarters the Wang Xia Temple (now known as the Kun Iam Temple) just outside Macau's city walls. He immediately sent word to Macau that he would visit the American legation there the next day.\n\n_Figure 2.1. Caleb Cushing, the U.S. Commissioner to China from 1843 to 1845, arrived in China after eight years in Congress, including two as chairman of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs._\n\nThe following morning, Qiying undertook the mile-and-a-half trip into Macau with all the pomp and solemnity of his exalted position. First a messenger ran ahead bearing an edict that announced the coming of the high official. Then the procession set off from the Wang Xia Temple under the steamy subtropical sun. At its head marched two fearsome military officers, one brandishing a long-handled axe, the other a whip to clear pedestrians from the path. A troop of regular soldiers followed and then a military band banging gongs and blowing horns to signal that the envoy was in transit. Next came three aides on sedan chairs carried by servants, and then Qiying himself, idly fanning himself in the heat. He was short, stocky, and obviously well fed, with an elegant little goatee and moustache and a glint of humor and intelligence in his eyes. His light silk robe, cool in the summertime, was tied with the yellow sash that signaled that he and the emperor were kinsmen. The red ball and peacock's feather on top of his hat denoted his exalted rank. Like all Chinese men, he showed his fealty to the Manchu-ruled Qing Dynasty with his hairstyle: shaved in front, with the long braid called a queue hanging in back. It had been many decades since this corner of China had seen so powerful an imperial official.\n\nThe parade entered Macau and wound its way down the Praya Grande, the main waterfront avenue, to the mansion housing the American legation. Three American warships bristling with cannons stood at anchor in the harbor. As Qiying descended from his sedan chair, an honor guard of U.S. Marines fired three salutes. The Americans stood ready to greet him, sweating copiously in their heavy wool uniforms. From this point on, things didn't go so well. Parker and Bridgman had briefed Cushing on Chinese etiquette, but the behavior of Qiying and his aides still unnerved the Americans. Rather than shaking the Americans' hands, the Chinese gave the traditional Chinese greeting of bowing and clasping their own hands. They then entered the legation building without removing their hats. The language barrier compounded the awkwardness. Qiying spoke Mandarin, while Parker and Bridgman only understood Cantonese, and that poorly. Luckily, one of Qiying's aides was fluent in Cantonese. Next Qiying embarrassed the Americans by asking all of them their ages. Then came a rustle of skirts, and an American woman appeared: Mrs. Peter Parker. A stunned silence fell over the Chinese party. In China, wives and daughters were kept at home, locked behind closed doors as Confucian ideals demanded. Qiying later told the emperor that the barbarian habit of parading their women before strange men was one of the many signs of their \"stupid ignorance.\" Nevertheless, when the meal was announced, Qiying bravely extended his arm for Mrs. Parker to take as they entered the dining room.\n\nAt the table, the Americans did their best to show respect for the Chinese party. The places had been set with chopsticks, and the honored guests were seated to the left rather than the right of the host. Otherwise, the meal followed the strict etiquette of a western-style banquet. The precise menu has been lost, but we can get a pretty good idea of it from other descriptions of western food served in mid-nineteenth-century China. Bread and butter were provided at all the places. After the first course, a soup, came an overcooked fish in a cream-based sauce, perhaps a curried meat on a mound of overcooked rice, side dishes of boiled potatoes and some pallid greens, and then the meal's high point: a roast leg of meat, most likely mutton. As host, Cushing ceremoniously carved the joint with a large knife; the blood-streaked juice flowed from the meat. Dessert probably included fruit, nuts, and perhaps a large Stilton cheese just off the boat from London.\n\nWe don't have any eyewitness accounts from the Chinese side of how they responded to this meal. In fact, most early Chinese writings about interactions with foreign traders remain politely mute about western food. In his 1855 memoir _Bits of Old China_ , the American \"China hand\" William C. Hunter includes a letter he says was written by a young Chinese who had been invited to dine in the American factory. To pass the idle hours in their compound, westerners occasionally liked to write satirical poems and prose burlesques, so his claim must be taken with a grain of salt. Still, there is probably a layer of authenticity behind this text:\n\nJudge now what tastes people possess who sit at table and swallow bowls of a fluid, in their outlandish tongue called _Soo-pe_ , and next devour flesh of fish, served in a manner as near as may be to resemble the living fish itself. Dishes of half-raw meat are then placed at various angles of the table; these float in gravy, while from them pieces are cut with swordlike instruments and placed before the guests. Really it was not until I beheld this sight that I became convinced of what I had often heard that the ferocious disposition of these demons arises from their indulgence in such gross food. . . . Thick pieces of meat being devoured, and the scraps thrown to a multitude of snappish dogs that are allowed to twist about amongst one's legs or lie under the table, while keeping up an incessant growling and fighting, there followed a dish that set fire to our throats, called in a barbarous language of one by my side _Ka-Le_ [curry], accompanied with rice which of itself was alone grateful to my taste. Then a green and white substance, the smell of which was overpowering. This I was informed was a compound of sour buffalo milk, baked in the sun, under whose influence it is allowed to remain until it becomes filled with insects, yet, the greener and more lively it is, with the more relish it is eaten. This is called _Che-Sze_ , and is accompanied by the drinking of a muddy red fluid which foams up over the tops of the drinking cups, soils one's clothes, and is named _Pe-Urh_ \u2014think of that\n\nActually, Manchus like Qiying were among the few imperial subjects known to have a taste for milk products, including a mild kind of cream cheese. However, an aged, blue-veined Stilton would likely have nauseated the Chinese party.\n\nAn abbreviated description of the meal was later given by Fletcher Webster, the American mission's secretary and the son of Daniel Webster. The Chinese \"showed little inclination to eat, but a decided taste for the barbarian liquors, champagne and cherry bounce.\" The last was a mixture of cherry juice, whiskey, and sugar, a popular western drink that Parker knew was liked by Chinese merchants in Guangzhou. The Chinese party's heavy imbibing did not reflect any sort of alcoholism; they were simply showing their good breeding by practicing typical Chinese banquet etiquette. After repeated toasts around the table, some of Qiying's aides were quite drunk. Even though the Chinese hardly tasted the food, they still showed regard for their hosts by feeding the Americans with their own chopsticks. Cushing and the others tried to hide their disgust at eating from utensils that had touched Chinese mouths. \"They are not particularly nice in their eating,\" said Webster, \"and their teeth are by no means pearls.\" The Americans retaliated by stuffing food back into their guests' mouths.\n\nFinally, the meal ended, and the diners moved out to the cool of the veranda. Here Qiying and his aides further discomfited the Americans by examining every piece of their clothing, from their sword belts down to their sweat-stained shirts. \"Fortunately,\" said Webster, \"our good genius, Dr. Parker, told us this was the very acme of politeness, and to be imitated without delay.\" So the Americans began to scrutinize the Chinese dress ornaments, from the peacock feathers on their caps down to the agate rings at the end of their thumbs. After two hours, it was time for the Chinese to retire: \"The procession re-formed, gongs beat and pipes squealed, the executioners yelled, the little ponies were pulled between their riders' legs, and we were left to reflect upon Chinese men and manners.\"\n\nThe awkwardness of this encounter did not impede the negotiations that followed over the next two weeks. Both sides wanted a treaty too much. By July 3, 1844, the final copies of the agreement were ready for signing. The ceremony took place in a windowless room at the back of the Wang Xia Temple. The Chinese were cool and comfortable in their summer silk robes. Dressed in their usual tight wool uniforms, the Americans nearly passed out from the hot, airless atmosphere. After Cushing fixed his seals to the papers, the Chinese brought out the great seal of the emperor himself to mark the document with imperial approval. To celebrate, Qiying invited the Americans to enjoy a \"repast of fruits and tea.\" This turned out to be the most elaborate Chinese meal any American had tasted up to that day\u2014a \"Manchu-Chinese\" banquet. To China's gourmets, this was the cutting-edge cuisine of the time, a blend of Manchu and Chinese regional dishes emulating the food served at the imperial court in Beijing. Even Parker and Bridgman probably never realized what an honor they were being given.\n\nThe meal took place in a larger room of the temple where a rectangular table with 20 places had been set. Platters filled with bananas, mangoes, oranges, figs, and other fruit already covered the table. On entering, Qiying insisted that the Americans remove their wool coats. Here was another Chinese custom: that one's guests be comfortable and relaxed during banquets. Of course, this went against the Americans' standards of proper dinner etiquette and only made them more uncomfortable. After the diners nibbled on the fruit, the meal proper began with a \"pudding\" Qiying himself had supposedly invented just for the occasion. Webster remarked that it was \"excellent and spoke volumes for the gastronomic talents of the high Commissioner.\" Then the servants began to bring in the dishes one after the other: meats, pastries, soups, stews, and so on until a hundred silver vessels \"filled the table from one end to the other.\"\n\nThe high points were sea cucumbers, roofs of hogs' mouths, and birds' nests. It is unclear whether the last were in a soup or some other kind of dish. Webster called them \"by no means disagreeable, being somewhat between vermicelli and tapioca, stringy like the one, transparent like the other, and quite tasteless.\" The other dishes were deemed \"no great addition to our festive boards.\" All of this was washed down with copious toasts of a potent hot rice wine called \"samchou.\" Once again, the Chinese honored their guests by feeding them with their own chopsticks. All the Americans could do was \"gape, simper, and swallow!\"\n\nA few hours into the feast, there was a pause in the service, after which the food changed from Chinese to Manchu. Six cooks entered the room, each bearing a large piece of roast meat\u2014pig, ham, \"turkey,\" and so on\u2014on a silver platter. These weren't the singed and bloody roasts that came out of western kitchens but edible works of art resembling polished Chinese lacquerware. The cooks placed the roasts on special chopping blocks and carved off thin slices of well-cooked meat that were distributed to the guests. These were the only dishes during the banquet that resembled any kind of American food. Finally, after four hours of eating and drinking, came the last course, a large bowl of \"very nice\" soup. Qiying \"took it up with both hands, drank out of it, and then passed it to the Minister; and then it went the round of the whole table.\" To the Americans, it seemed as if they had just eaten a western meal in reverse, beginning with fruit and ending with soup. As they returned to Macau, they felt no happy glow. Instead, they exclaimed, like Macbeth, that they had \"supped full of horrors.\"\n\nIn signing the Treaty of Wang Xia, Qiying believed he had achieved his goal of appeasing the barbarian power. It was now unlikely that the Americans would force their way into China as the British had. He also had successfully beaten back all of Cushing's demands\u2014the most important being his insistence on traveling to Beijing for an audience before the Heavenly Throne. Qiying wrote to his emperor: \"The envoy was rewarded with a banquet to show our bounty and confidence, and was greatly pleased. He is presently residing at Macau, entirely peaceable, thus providing some solace to the Imperial Breast.\"\n\nIt remained doubtful, however, that the Americans would ever join the ranks of the civilized, like the tribute-bearing kings of Korea and Siam. For instance, Qiying saw no sign that the Americans had advanced in appreciation of Chinese cuisine. The foreigners had attended magnificent banquets where they had been served the most delicate and costly dishes. They had smiled in appreciation of the bird's nest soup or roast Manchu pig. But then, after all they had been exposed to, the Americans always went back to their stinking, half-raw food! Qiying found their meals so crude that he felt he had to apologize to his emperor for sharing them:\n\nAt . . . Macau on several occasions Your slave gave dinners for the barbarians and anywhere from ten-odd to twenty or thirty of their chiefs and leaders came. When he, on infrequent occasions, met them in a barbarian house or on a barbarian ship they also formed a circle and sat in attendance and outdid themselves to present food and drink. He could not but eat and drink with them in order to bind their hearts.\n\nCushing was also proud of his achievement. He had proved his detractors in the local American colony wrong. The terms of the treaty allowed American merchants to do business in the same five coastal cities as British merchants but arguably on better terms. Americans could now own property in China, proof that their rights were fully recognized. Cushing had built a solid foundation for American relations with China, and without a huge fleet of battleships and ten thousand troops. The United States now had a political presence in East Asia, and the door had been opened for a flood of merchants and missionaries looking to convert China to the economic and spiritual glories of western civilization.\n\nCushing's return to the United States stimulated a modest China craze among the American public. Thousands of visitors flocked to the \"Chinese Museum,\" an exhibition of China trade artifacts that opened in Boston's Marlboro Chapel. (Eight years earlier, a Mr. Dunn had opened a similar but smaller museum of things Chinese in Philadelphia.) The building's doorway was decorated to look like the ornate entrance to a Chinese temple; characters above the door purported to say \"Extensive View of the Central Flowery Nation.\" For a mere 25 cents, visitors saw hundreds of paintings and other objects from China, including dozens of lanterns hanging from the roof and a full-size \"Tanka boat.\" Their tour of the display cases began with figures depicting the emperor and his court and then continued through exhibits devoted to religion, the Lantern Festival, women, farming, printing, and even opium smoking, with a real live \"John Chinaman\" lying in a stupor on a Chinese bed. At the very end, they finally came to a small collection of Chinese foodstuffs, including dried noodles, birds' nests, and sea cucumbers. The museum catalogue asserted that \"a Chinese dinner would be nothing without stews made of birds' nests, sharks' fins, deers' sinews, bircho-de-mer [ _sic_ ], or sea slugs, and many other such dishes, used and appreciated only by the Chinese, and all of which to the uneducated and barbarous taste of a native of the western world, possess a similarly insipid or repulsive flavor.\"\n\nBoth Cushing and Fletcher Webster took advantage of this enthusiasm by embarking on lecture tours of the major East Coast cities. Webster, the more entertaining of the two, told of the diplomats' many adventures, including the \"horrors\" of their Chinese banquets. He may have realized he went too far in these descriptions, because one reporter in the lecture hall wrote: \"Mr. Webster went on to say that he did not mean to ridicule the customs of the Chinese, but that on seeing them for the first time, they of course would strike any one as singular.\" In his drier and more didactic lectures, Cushing particularly dwelled on the oddness of Chinese customs: \"To an American or European, cast for the first time into the midst of Chinese society, everything seems contrary to his own established usages. Not only does he find himself at the antipodes, geographically speaking, but equally so with respect to manners, customs, and morals.\" Everything Chinese was spectacularly strange: the costumes, music, and mourning customs; the practice of reading from top to bottom and right to left; and so on. And of course, among those customs was their manner of eating: \"Food is eaten with two sticks, and it requires some skill to dexterously pick it up and convey it by their means; every thing is served cut up, in small bowls; and it is considered a compliment to hand a morsel to your neighbor with your sticks, he taking it on his own.\" In an era before the notion of men from Mars had popular currency, in a sense Cushing's Chinese filled the role of our era's space aliens\u2014the perfect opposite of everything Americans considered right and proper.\n\nIt's impossible to know what picture of Chinese food stuck in the minds of the American audience of 1845. The culinary descriptions passed on by Guangzhou merchants, missionaries, and diplomats were based on firsthand experiences, but they may not have been what Americans remembered. A few months after Cushing returned, at least a dozen newspapers printed this little tale:\n\nIt is said that Caleb Cushing, on being asked to dine with Mandarin Lin, discovered on the table something of which he ate exorbitantly, thinking it to be duck. Not speaking Chinese, and wishing to know what it was, he pointed to it, after he had finished, saying to his host interrogatively, \"Quack, quack, quack?\" The Mandarin, with equal brevity, replied, with a shake of the head, \"Bow, wow, wow.\" Mr. Cushing's feelings may be imagined.\n\nActually, this joke was at least a half century old, with the British ambassador filling the role of Cushing. That didn't matter to the newspapers, which told their readers that this little yarn was \"too good\" not to repeat. If the average American knew anything about the food of China, it boiled down to the idea that the Chinese people's preferred food was dogs.\n\nThe Treaty of Wang Xia was unanimously ratified by the U.S. Senate on January 16, 1845, and signed by President Tyler the next day. For diplomats, it formalized ties to the Chinese government; for merchants and missionaries, it gave them far greater access to Chinese markets and Chinese souls along the Chinese coast. It did not, however, lead to a golden age of understanding between the peoples of the two nations. After a brief era of goodwill, American diplomats soon became frustrated at what they saw as the \"arrogance and conservatism\" of Chinese authorities. They still were unable to trade and travel through _all_ of China, and they chafed at continued implications that Western culture was inferior to the Chinese. To them, the West's victory in the recent Opium War confirmed not only its superior military technology but the rightness of its morality\u2014the hand of divine providence had guided the cannon fire against the pagans. On the Chinese side, resentment also increased\u2014over the valuable tracts of Chinese territory foreigners now controlled and the unabated traffic in opium, which was slowly poisoning the populace. The most positive thing the Chinese authorities could say about the Americans was that they weren't the British, who were at the forefront of the opium trade and would use any excuse to demand, often at gunpoint, further trading privileges in China. Instead, the U.S. diplomats played a kind of double game: they wouldn't pick a fight with the Chinese, but they wouldn't hold back the British either. For American merchants and missionaries in the latter half of the nineteenth century, the Qing empire's gradual descent into chaos meant unparalleled opportunity.\n\nThe speedy opium clippers were western traders' vessels of choice. As soon as each new treaty port opened up\u2014first in Amoy, Fuzhou, Ningpo, and Shanghai, later in a host of smaller coastal and river cities\u2014the traders built their docks, warehouses, offices, and residences. Back in Guangzhou, they had railed against their confinement to the factory quarter and their isolation from the Chinese city. Now, strangely, they replicated that isolation, although on a more spacious scale, in gated communities well separated from the Chinese cities. The British, the dominant faction among the merchants, set the social tone here. There was to be no mingling with \"inferior\" races beyond what was necessary for trade. The westerners considered life inside the Chinese walls dirty, smelly, noisy, crowded, overwhelming, and best avoided. The only time they ventured there was when they had business with the local authorities or for the obligatory banquet with a Chinese merchant. As they strode through the crowded city streets, many Europeans would use their canes as clubs, beating a path through the Chinese men, women, and children so they could walk unmolested. The Chinese authorities could do nothing, because they had little authority over the foreigners in the treaty ports.\n\nThe Americans and Europeans preferred to spend time among their own kind, dividing their leisure hours between walks along the waterfront, rowboat excursions, sports like cricket and rackets, riding, drinks at the club, and elaborate meals. Here's the menu of a typical dinner for western traders in Shanghai:\n\nrich soup, and a glass of sherry; _then_ one or two side dishes with champagne; _then_ some beef, mutton, or fowls and bacon, with _more_ champagne, or beer; _then_ rice and curry and ham; _afterwards_ game; _then_ pudding, pastry, jelly, custard, or butter and a glass of port wine; _then_ in many cases, oranges, figs, raisins, and walnuts . . . _with_ two or three glasses of claret or some other wine.\n\nAll of these dishes would have been carried in by armies of Chinese servants, who were hired so cheaply that even the lowliest clerk could expect to be waited on hand and foot. Not until well after 1900 did western merchants admit to actually liking Chinese food or eating in a Chinese restaurant.\n\nA British trader later summarized the dominant attitude of traders in China: \"Commerce was the beginning, the middle, and the end of our life in China . . . if there were no trade, not a single man, except missionaries, would have come there at all.\" In the twentieth century, this attitude morphed into something called the \"Shanghai mind,\" which one observer said resembled \"a comfortable but hermetically sealed and isolated glass case.\" Inside that case, western merchants devoted themselves to business and the observance of an elaborate and highly stratified social code, which boiled down to \"us,\" the westerners, versus \"them,\" the Chinese. For any European or American to show interest in China or Chinese life beyond trade was social and professional suicide. Unlike the original generation of merchants who lived in the Guangzhou factories, the American businessmen working in late nineteenth-century China rarely thought it worthwhile to write about their experiences.\n\nMissionaries made up the other main group of American China hands in the decades after the Treaty of Wang Xia. Unlike the merchants, missionaries had to live in the Chinese cities, learn the local dialects, and study local customs to further their goal of saving souls. In order to inspire more Americans to come to China to continue their holy work, many of them wrote books about the country, its people, and their experiences. Perhaps the most influential of these was written by Samuel Wells Williams, the editor and printer of the _Chinese Repository_. In 1845, Williams had returned to the United States on furlough. He wished to see his father, who was terminally ill, and he hoped to raise money for his China work. Specifically, he wanted the funds to purchase a complete set of Chinese type, so he could publish Bibles, tracts, and other works in Chinese. His backers on the missionary board were dubious\u2014they actually wanted to cut back on the printing work\u2014but Williams managed to raise $600 from his home church in Utica. Then, like Cushing and Fletcher Webster, he set out to lecture on China in any church or public hall that would invite him. The tour lasted over a year, covering a dozen states. During this time, Williams met, courted, and married his wife Sarah, and decided to turn his lecture notes into a book. He had noticed that many in his audiences thought the Chinese ridiculous\u2014\"as if they were apes of Europeans, and their social state, arts, and government, the burlesques of the same things in Christendom.\" China hands like himself, he said, were expected to tell tales of\n\nMandarins with yellow buttons, handing you\n\nconserves of snails;\n\nSmart young men about Canton in nankeen tights\n\nand peacocks' tails.\n\nWith many rare and dreadful dainties, kitten cutlets,\n\npuppy pies;\n\nBirdsnest soup which (so convenient!) every bush\n\naround supplies.\n\nThis quatrain by Lady Dufferin, a popular British poet, was apparently all the rage at the moment. Williams feared that if all that Americans remembered about China were cartoonish images like these\u2014or stories about dishes that went \"Bow, wow, wow\"\u2014they wouldn't take seriously the great task of converting China. By the end of 1847, he had compiled _The Middle Kingdom_ , a two-volume, 1,250-page tome that remained the principal American reference work on China into the twentieth century. (Its frontispiece features a perhaps inadvertently insulting portrait of the imperial emissary Qiying that shows him bareheaded and in a costume stripped of all sign of rank.)\n\nWilliams wrote _The Middle Kingdom_ to show that \"the introduction of China into the family of Christian nations, her elevation from her present state of moral, intellectual, and civil debasement, to that standing which she should take, and the free intercourse of her people and rulers with their fellowmen or other climes and tongues, is a great work, and a glorious one.\" Furthermore, he says, the holy work of converting the Chinese \"is far more important than the form of their government, the extent of their empire, or the existence of their present institutions.\" He then contradicts this claim by spending most of the two volumes discussing China's government, empire, culture, religion, and so on with the utmost scholarly rigor. In fact, there's a strange dichotomy throughout the book between learned investigation and reductive moralizing. For instance, he begins the first volume with a thoughtful discussion of the name \"China\" itself, which is used in many foreign languages but not by the Chinese themselves. The word may derive from \"Qin,\" or \"Ch'in,\" the name of the dynasty that unified China and ruled it from 221 to 206 BCE. During the first millennium of the Common Era, \"China,\" whose location was uncertain, was the fabled source of the costly fabric, worn by emperors and kings, that came from the East on camel-back along the Silk Road. In the minds of the Christian West, \"China\" only became firmly fixed as the great empire at the opposite end of the Eurasian continent with the writings of Marco Polo and the other travelers who followed him into Asia. Williams says that over the centuries, the Chinese themselves have called their land \"Beneath the Sky,\" \"All Within the Four Seas,\" and the \"Middle Kingdom.\" (Today, the nation's formal name is Zhonghua Renmin Gongheguo, \"People's Republic of China,\" literally \"People's Republic of the Middle Prosperous State.\") But then the missionary in him comes forward to render judgment on these presumptions: \"All these names indicate the vanity and the ignorance of the people respecting their geographical position and their rank among the nations.\"\n\n_Figure 2.2. Rice sellers at a military station, c. 1843. In_ The Middle Kingdom, _Williams describes the grain as \"emphatically the staff of life. . . . Its long use is indicated in the number of terms employed to describe it.\"_\n\nWilliams based the information in _The Middle Kingdom_ on Chinese sources, his own observations, and most of all, the first dozen years of the _Chinese Repository_. He essentially sought to condense that publication into a more palatable form for readers who were not experts on China. We see this in the book's discussion of Chinese food, in which he mostly follows the outline of his _Repository_ article \"Diet of the Chinese,\" covering rice and other grains, vegetables, fruits, oils and fats, beverages, meats, poultry, fish, and the three delicacies birds' nests, sea cucumbers, and sharks' fins. He notes with care the Chinese revulsion toward western dairy products like butter and cheese. Predictably, he attacks the idea that cats, dogs, and rats commonly appear in the Chinese diet:\n\nFew articles of food have . . . been so identified with the tastes of a people as kittens and puppies, rats and snails, have with the Chinese. The school geographies in the United States usually contain pictures of a market-man carrying baskets holding these unfortunate victims of a perverse taste (as we think), or else a string of rats and mice hanging by their tails to a stick across his shoulders, which almost necessarily convey the idea that such things form the usual food of the people. . . . However commonly kittens and puppies may be exposed for sale, the writer never saw rats or mice in the market during a residence of twelve years there. . . . He once asked a native if he or his countrymen ever served up _lau-shang tang_ , or rat-soup, on their tables; who replied that he had never seen or eaten it, and added, \"Those who do use it should mix cheese with it, that the mess might serve for us both.\"\n\nThough Williams tones down the harshness of his _Repository_ article's judgments, he still cannot bring himself to enjoy the food of China. The \"repose of putrefied garlic on a much-used blanket\" is gone. Now, the food is admired as \"sufficient in variety, wholesome, and well cooked,\" but it remains \"unpalatable to a European from the vegetable oil used in their preparation, and the alliaceous plants introduced to savor them.\" He treats only minimally the question of how the Chinese prepare their dishes, commenting that they like to cut up their food into small pieces before stewing or frying. In sum, he reported: \"the art of cooking has not reached any high degree of perfection among the Chinese, consisting chiefly of stews of various kinds, in which garlic and grease are more abundant than pepper and salt.\" One of the world's great cuisines was reduced to a couple of oily stewpots. Judgments like these would dominate American opinion of Chinese food for many decades.\n\nUnfortunately, when Williams returned to Guangzhou in 1848, he discovered that the community of Western China hands was no longer interested in that country's history and culture, except as they furthered their own narrow interests. He wrote home: \"the class of merchants here now take very much less interest in China than they used to, and the publication is carried on at a loss.\" In fact, he soon had to stop publishing the _Chinese Repository_ because subscriptions dropped dramatically. (He spent the next few decades of his life in the U.S. consular service and then retired to teach at Yale University.) He also found that the missionaries who were then arriving in China\u2014those who had answered his call\u2014were a different breed than the earlier generation. The missionary boards back in the United States had grown tired of supporting men like Williams, Parker, and Bridgman, with their printing presses, schools, hospitals, and scholarly work. Now they wanted young, energetic, devout, and single-minded men and women who could concentrate on the task of saving Chinese souls. These turned out to be far more interested in Williams's examination of China's moral \"debasement,\" especially the three pages he devotes to female infanticide, than his scholarship about Chinese life and customs.\n\nWhen the new crop of missionaries landed in the treaty ports (usually, to their embarrassment, aboard opium schooners), they settled in Chinese neighborhoods and quickly began the tasks of preaching to anyone who would listen, distributing Chinese-language tracts, and building Christian chapels. This description of the Presbyterian preacher John B. French in his home near Guangzhou clearly shows how these new missionaries viewed the world outside their doors:\n\nThe sides and rear of his little two story dwelling . . . was [ _sic_ ] closely packed in by small Chinese houses swarming with heathen life\u2014blocked off by narrow, dark, and filthy foot-paths as the only streets; presented but a dismal home for a man in the freshness of youth and refinement of feeling. Still here he lived alone, with a Chinese boy to bring him water and cook his rice, and a Chinese teacher to aid him in the study of the language. And he was happy and cheerful. He had daily communings with the pure above though surrounded by pagans below\u2014and while every thing around him was dark and filthy, and deafening discord\u2014within his heart all was peace, and within his house all was neatness and order.\n\nThe author of that paragraph was William Dean, a Baptist from upstate New York. When he was first recruited for the mission field, he was \"tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles hardened on his father's farm, with dark brown eyes that could sparkle with fun or glow with the fire of determined purpose.\" But after preaching to the \"heathens\" for fifteen years, six of those in China, he was tired out, weakened by tropical disease, old wounds from Malaysian pirates' spears, and the deaths of two wives in the Far East. Even in convalescence, he retained his faith in his holy work. In 1859, he published _The China Mission_ , a kind of instruction manual for young evangelists. Its four hundred pages include every point he thought relevant about the Middle Kingdom, from geography to religion, as well as inspirational stories about the triumphs of Protestant missionaries\u2014and about their not infrequent martyrdoms. (Many observers noticed that missionary wives seemed to die with particular rapidity in Asia.) He dispatches the cuisine of China in one short paragraph:\n\nIf you ask what they eat\u2014we answer, they do not eat beef nor bread, mutton nor milk, butter nor cheese; but they do eat fowls and fishes, pigs and puppies, rats and rice, maize and millet, wheat and barley, pumpkins and potatoes, turnips and tomatoes, ground-nuts and garlics, pears and peaches, plantains and pumeloes, grapes and guavas, pineapples and pomegranates, olives and oranges, sharks' fins and birds' nests. But why so much curiosity to learn what they eat, while so little concern for the fact that they are hastening by millions to a world of everlasting starvation, while we hold in our hands the bread which came down from heaven, of which a man eat he shall live forever\u2014and we refuse to give it to them, at the peril of our salvation and theirs.\n\nCursory and sprinkled with errors (Dean knew from sources like _The Middle Kingdom_ that beef and mutton were at least occasionally eaten), this description is typical of missionary writings of the era. There was no reason to dwell on the old, pagan, depraved habits of the Chinese because all of that would soon be swept away by the clean, pure, \"civilizing\" influence of western Christianity.\n\nThere were a few exceptions to this attitude, at least regarding food. Charles Taylor, a medical missionary sent to Shanghai in the early 1850s by the Methodist church, whose 1860 book _Five Years in China_ is liberally larded with Christian condemnation, also reveals a scientist's knack for direct observation. He was curious about every aspect of Chinese life, from housing to criminal punishment, and his section on foodstuffs shows clearly that he actually tasted, and enjoyed, bamboo shoots, frogs' legs, and ripe persimmons. He is not put off when his Chinese host ladles soup into his bowl with a spoon that has touched his own lips or cleans his guest's chopsticks with his fingers\u2014\"after having sucked them clean.\" And he is one of the rare Americans of the nineteenth century who admits to having enjoyed the occasional formal Chinese banquet:\n\n_Figure 2.3. An American missionary with her Chinese converts in Fuzhou, c. 1902. After the signing of the Treaty of Wang Xia, most Americans in China were either missionaries or traders._\n\nThe variety of preparations is certainly very great, and many of them are as delicate and well-flavored as any one could desire. Such at least is my own opinion, founded on actual experience; for just in order to inform myself, I have done what, perhaps, few foreigners who visit China venture upon\u2014imagining the presence of some canine or feline ingredient\u2014have tasted most of the dishes at a fashionable Chinese dinner, even when the appearance and odor suggested something disagreeable, and have found them exceedingly palatable.\n\nThe Americans who lived and worked in China during that time were mainly interested not in what it was but in what they thought it should be\u2014an economically and technologically modern Christian nation. To them, imperial China was an antiquated monolith akin to ancient Egypt or Rome and best relegated to the dustbin of history. Even by the 1890s, few Americans had seen much more of the country than the coast and a few inland cities, and only a small minority had mastered Chinese. Their culturally limited viewpoint profoundly influenced the reception on American soil of Chinese immigrants and Chinese food.\n\n## **CHAPTER THREE** \nCoarse Rice and Water\n\nIn 1795, when the Americans were still marveling at Chinese food from the confines of Guangzhou, the Middle Kingdom's most famous poet, Yuan Mei, wrote of the deterioration caused by advancing age:\n\nWhen I was young and had no money to spend \nI had a passionate longing for expensive things. \nI was always envying people for their fur coats, \nFor the wonderful things they got to eat and drink. \nI dreamt of these things, but none of them came my way, \nAnd in the end I became very depressed. \nNowadays, I have got quite smart clothes, \nBut am old and ugly, and they do not suit me at all. \nAll the choicest foods are on my table; \nBut I only manage to eat a few scraps. \nI feel inclined to say to my Creator \n\"Let me live my days on earth again, \nBut this time be rich when I am young; \nTo be poor when one is old does not matter at all.\"\n\nYuan Mei was born poor in 1716 in the city of Hangzhou. His teachers realized the power of his intellect very early; after he passed the official examinations, he became a district magistrate in the city of Nanjing on the lower Yangzi River. Passionate, irreverent, and disrespectful of authority, he soon realized that he was unfit for official life. Already famous for his poetry, he decided to take up the writing life full time. In 1748, he resigned his posts and retired to a sprawling estate\u2014the Sui Gardens\u2014he had built in the outskirts of Nanjing. His gardens included twenty-four decorative pavilions, a scholar's library and studio, arched bridges over a pond, and a kitchen. There, for the rest of his life, he devoted himself to poetry and friends, sexual indulgences, and refining the gastronomic arts.\n\nLike many with sensitive stomachs (probably caused by too much early indulgence), Yuan Mei was obsessed with food. He hired a chef, Wang Xiaoyu, who shared his culinary passion and aesthetic. Wang told him:\n\nTo find an employer who appreciates one is not easy. But to find one who understands anything about cookery, is harder still. So much imagination and hard thinking go into the making of every dish that one may say I serve up along with it my whole mind and heart. The ordinary hard-drinking revelers at a fashionable dinner-party would be equally happy to gulp down any stinking mess. They say what a wonderful cook I am, but in the service of such people my art can only decline. . . . You, on the contrary, continually criticize me, fly into a rage with me, but on every such occasion make me aware of some real defect; so that I would a thousand times rather listen to your bitter admonitions than to the sweetest praise.\n\nWang brought to the poet's kitchen his ability to cook the simplest ingredients in a way that preserved and enhanced their natural characteristics. \"If one has art,\" he said, \"then a piece of celery or salted cabbage can be made into a marvelous delicacy.\" Yuan also expanded his kitchen's repertoire by eating widely, both at the houses of friends and on his extensive travels throughout China. When he encountered a dish he liked, he took notes, barged into the kitchen to interrogate the chefs, even brought them home to demonstrate its preparation. His tastes ran to simple meals, due both to his stomach problems and because he thought a cook could only make four or five successful dishes at a time. After a banquet where more than forty different kinds of food had been served, he wrote, \"when I got home I was so hungry that I ordered a bowl of plain rice-gruel [congee].\"\n\nAt age eighty, when the choicest morsels had lost their savor, Yuan Mei decided to sum up a lifetime of eating in his book _Suiyan Shidan_ , \"Recipes from the Sui Gardens.\" It contains more than three hundred recipes for fish, shellfish, meat, poultry, vegetables, bean curd, noodles, breads, and rice dishes. More important, he prefaces the book with a dozen pages of culinary rules and taboos that give readers a grounding in the general principles of how food should be cooked and served. Like Chef Wang, Yuan holds that foods should exhibit their own characteristics when cooked, and each dish should have one dominant flavor. \"Then the palate of the gourmand will respond without fail, and the flowers of the soul blossom forth.\" Comparing cookery to matrimony, he writes that ingredients should complement one another and criticizes cooks who pile too many incompatible meats into one pot. In the kitchen, the chef should keep his workspace and knives clean to avoid contamination of flavors. Guests at the table should not \"eat with their eyes\" or be overwhelmed by a profusion of elaborate, poorly prepared dishes. And they should not \"eat with their ears\" or be impressed by hearing of the cost of rare dishes like birds' nests and sea cucumbers. Yuan preferred well-prepared bean curd and bamboo shoots and declared chicken, pork, fish, and duck \"the four heroes of table.\" Above all, the host should never allow the standards of his kitchen to slip: \"into no department of life should indifference be allowed to creep; into none less than into the domain of cookery.\"\n\nYuan's recipes embody the food preferences of a cultivated scholar-gourmet. They are neither street food nor the pricey, pretentious dishes the wealthiest merchants favored but fall somewhere in between. These recipes also represent the apogee of the regional cuisine of eastern China during the late eighteenth century, particularly of the cities along the lower Yangzi River. Yuan's cookbook has been so influential that dishes like drunken prawns (live shrimp that are flash-cooked at the table in flaming rice wine) are staples of Chinese restaurants today. That Yuan Mei, a highly educated member of China's elite, a poet and a government official, would have thought it worth his time to write a cookbook is not surprising. (Of American statesmen, only Thomas Jefferson displayed a similar interest in cuisine.) Since nearly the dawn of Chinese culture over three millennia ago, the Chinese have considered cookery an essential art, one of the defining elements of their culture.\n\nAlthough Chinese cuisine has changed greatly over the centuries and has continually been open to outside influences, it has always been composed of the same basic building blocks. Like all cuisines, it is based on the combinations of specific raw ingredients, flavorings, preparations, and manners of serving and eating dishes. It is also intimately entwined with the country's vast and varied landscape, its climate, and many millennia of human history. In fact, you cannot explain China's cuisine without also describing its geography and the way agriculture came to assume a particularly central role in its culture and history. In the mid\u2013nineteenth century, the emperor of China held sway over more of the Earth's surface than any ruler except the queen of England and the czar of Russia. Beyond the eighteen provinces of China Proper, the Daoguang emperor also ruled over Manchuria, which was the Manchu tribal homeland to the northeast, and an enormous swath of colonial possessions. These included the vast \"western Regions\": Tibet, Mongolia, and the arid steppes of Central Asia, all the way to present-day Kazakhstan and Kirghizia. (With the exception of Mongolia and parts of Xinjiang, the People's Republic of China now encompasses nearly the same territory.) In its size and complexity, China in many ways resembled western Europe, with its provinces corresponding in size and cultural variation to Europe's nations.\n\nThe emperor thus ruled over a wide range of landscapes and climate zones, ranging from rocky high-altitude desert to frozen steppe to tropical rain forest. Surprisingly, very little of China's land is arable. More than a third of it consists of mountains and steep, untillable hills, and most of its northwestern quarter is an arid zone with only isolated areas fit for growing crops. These mountains and deserts form a natural barrier that for centuries protected China from outside invaders. But this terrain also forced the people very early to develop intensive agricultural practices that made the best of what land they had, mostly along its great rivers. Many of the largest waterways rise in the Tibet Plateau, which is capped by Qomologma, or Mount Everest, the \"Mother Goddess of the Earth.\" To the north of this region of snow-capped peaks and arid basins lie deserts and rocky steppes\u2014the route of the Silk Road linking China with the Middle East. To the east, where the Tibet Plateau slopes down toward the Pacific Ocean, the great rivers of East and Southeast Asia begin, including the Huanghe, or Yellow River. From its source in the mountains, the Huanghe follows a long, looping course, carrying with it enormous amounts of yellowish loess\u2014sedimentary deposits that have been spread for millennia on the North China Plain, a sprawling area of flat lowlands. Three thousand or more years ago, this fertile area became the birthplace of Chinese civilization, and it remains one of the most humanized landscapes on Earth. The Huanghe's legacy has not always been benevolent; periodic floods with devastating effects on the human population have earned the river the name \"China's Sorrow.\"\n\nThe Tibet Plateau is also the source of China's Yangzi, the third longest river in the world. After leaving the mountains and traveling along the southern border of Sichuan's fertile \"Red Basin,\" the Yangzi enters a region of steep valleys, at the eastern end of which the Chinese government has erected the controversial Three Gorges Dam. Downstream, the river flows through a series of wide valleys and plains before finally disgorging into the China Sea. The cities and agricultural regions along this stretch are among the oldest and most important in China. Traditionally, the lower Yangzi has marked the boundary between the northern and southern halves of China Proper, with their differences of climate, agriculture, and culture. (Northerners have long looked down on the South, calling it a zone of heat, humidity, and insects.) Lying between the Yangzi and the border with Vietnam, the South is a region dominated by low mountains and hills that has much less arable land than the North. The most populous districts are located right along the hilly coastline, in pockets of flat land formed by bays or river valleys. The largest of these is the valley of the Xi (\"West\") River, which begins in Guangxi Province and connects with two other river systems to form the Zhu, also known as the Pearl River. Along its banks lie the cities of Guangdong, Macau, and Hong Kong and the wide expanse of the Pearl River Delta. For many reasons\u2014proximity to Southeast Asia, distance from Beijing, lack of natural resources, and so on\u2014the people of South China's coast have always been far more oriented toward the outside world than those in other parts of the Middle Kingdom.\n\nChina's climate has always been both its curse, with frequent floods and droughts, and its blessing, helping to feed a vast population. Some writers have pointed out the similarities between the weather conditions of China and North America, which has an analogous latitudinal position on the globe. In truth, however, China is generally colder, hotter, wetter, and more arid than North America. Two great seasonal weather patterns cause this climate of extremes: the waves of cold, dry air that push into China from Siberia and the warm, moist air associated with the Asian monsoon coming from the south. The interplay between these two systems leads to the baking heat of China's summers and the bitter cold of its winters. From Central Asia all the way to the Pacific, the climate of North China is generally dry. The failure of the rains to arrive has meant drought, crop failure, and starvation for millions of people. If too much rain falls, the rivers can overflow their banks and submerge wide swathes of the countryside. In 1888, two million people perished when the Huanghe flooded the North China Plain. South China is generally warmer and its rainfall heavier and more reliable. The floods that do occur are usually less destructive because they are constrained by the hilly landscape. Farmers there do have to contend with typhoons, the western Pacific Ocean's counterpart to hurricanes, which can cause landslides, floods, and widespread crop destruction.\n\nChina's diverse climate and geography have allowed a vast array of plant and animal life to thrive. In terms of sheer number of species, China is one of the richest geographical regions on Earth. Since at least the era of Peking Man, five hundred thousand years ago, the human population has seen all of this natural bounty as potential foodstuffs. This is true even today, as one can see from the displays of wild water and land animals for sale in tanks and cages in Guangzhou's sprawling marketplace. (Unfortunately, many of these species are now in danger because of the persistence of the same practices of hunting and gathering.) And the Chinese people learned very early to support themselves by domesticating plants and animals. The inhabitants of prehistoric China may have been one of the earliest groups to learn this skill. According to a 2002 joint Sino-Swedish DNA study, the first domesticated animals were dogs, which diverged genetically from wolves around 13,000 BCE in East Asia. From China all the way to Europe, they became important to humans both as an aid to hunters and as a source of food. East Asia's first domesticated plant was probably rice, in South China (not, as was long believed, millet in North China). Archaeological excavations at sites along the lower and middle Yangzi River have revealed that wild rice was first domesticated around 8500 BCE. Some grains of this rice have been found amid the shards of crudely decorated ceramic urns and bowls that are among the earliest pottery found on the Eurasian landmass.\n\nDuring approximately 6000\u20133000 BCE, a series of regional cultures rose and flourished across China. We don't know much about their culinary habits except that they were omnivorous, with a gradually increasing reliance on grain as a staple. In the North, particularly in the dry plains along the inland Yellow River, relatively drought-resistant millet became the principal crop, along with persimmons, peaches, other fruits, and various nuts. Chinese cabbage, an important vegetable, was eventually joined by leeks, onions, and mallow, whose mucilaginous leaves were probably used as a thickener. The most common animals were dogs and pigs, which had been domesticated in China by 7000 BCE. From the Yangzi River all the way through Southeast Asia, rice was clearly the dominant grain. Pigs and dogs were, again, the main domestic animals in South China; water buffaloes arrived somewhat later. Southerners also consumed large amounts of fish and shellfish and foraged for an abundant number of edible wild plants. During this era, life wasn't completely consumed by the struggle for sustenance. At the Jiahu village site in Henan Province, archaeologists have found the earliest musical instruments, as well as pots containing the residue of an aromatic liquor made from rice and honey and flavored with fruits.\n\nScholars date the birth of a recognizably \"Chinese\" culture to the centuries between 3000 and 1554 BCE and to the area stretching from the Pearl River Delta in the South to the Great Wall in the North. This was the era of the legendary Xia Dynasty, when villages grew into large towns, with hundreds of houses and clear evidence of stratified social life (particularly elite tombs filled with offerings and decorated with murals) and regular trade between communities. Most of these population centers have been found in North China from Shandong to the west (archaeological work has lagged in South China). Some of this region's rulers may have been the original models for the legendary god-kings of early Chinese history. These included Sui Ren, who first tamed fire; Fu Xi, who taught people to hunt and fish; and Po Yi, who domesticated the first birds and beasts. According to a story from the third century, Shen Nong, the Farmer God, taught his people the rudiments of agriculture:\n\nIn ancient times the people ate plants and drank from rivers, and they picked fruit from trees and ate the flesh of crickets. At that time there was much suffering due to illness and injury from poisoning. So the Farmer God taught the people for the first time how to sow the five grains and about the quality of soil. . . . He tasted the flavor of every single plant and determined which rivers and springs were sweet or brackish and he let the people know how to avoid certain things. At that time he himself suffered from poisoning seventy times in one day.\n\nEven at this early stage, it was clear that cooking was considered one of the most important arts. The most famous of the mythological kings, Huang Di, the \"Yellow Emperor,\" was credited with teaching dozens of essential skills, from leadership to medicine to cooking, including steaming grain and boiling grain to produce gruel or congee, called _zhou_ or _mi fan_ in Mandarin or _jook_ in Cantonese. In fact, mastery of the art of cooking was considered one of the dividing lines between barbarism and civilization. The Book of Rites, attributed to Confucius (551\u2013479 BCE), discusses this crucial difference:\n\nFormerly the ancient kings had no houses. In winter they lived in caves which they had excavated, and in summer in nests which they had framed. They knew not yet the transforming power of fire, but ate the fruits of plants and trees, and the flesh of birds and beasts, drinking their blood, and swallowing (also) the hair and feathers. . . . The later sages then arose, and men (learned) to take advantage of the benefits of fire. They moulded metals and fashioned clay, so as to rear towers with structures on them, and houses with windows and doors. They toasted, grilled, boiled, and roasted.\n\nIn 1554 BCE, a ruler named King T'ang overthrew the Xia Dynasty and founded the Shang Dynasty, which lasted over five hundred years. The Shang were masters of bronze casting; the most impressive artifacts from that era are hundreds of elaborate bronze vessels that were used as receptacles for food\u2014mainly cooked millet and stews\u2014and various kinds of liquor. As the Shang rulers were considered earthly representatives of the celestials, these comestibles were used both as ritual offerings and as food for the aristocratic courts. Later court annals even record the history of Yi Yin, a Shang Dynasty cook who rose to become a regional governor under King T'ang. Yi Yin is most famous for his discourse on the culinary arts in which he says that the cook's principle role is to overcome the offensive odor of raw meats. This is done by properly blending the five flavors\u2014salty, bitter, sour, hot, and sweet\u2014and using fire and water:\n\nThe transformations in the cauldron are so utterly marvelous and of such subtle delicacy, the mouth cannot put them into words, and the mind cannot comprehend them. They are like the subtlety of archery and charioteering, the transformations of the _yin_ and the _yang_ , and the cycle of the four seasons. Thus, the food is cooked for a long time but is not ruined, well-done but not over-done, sweet but not sugary, sour but not bitter, salty but not briny, hot but not biting, bland but not insipid, fat but not lardy.\n\nThe raw materials that go into Yi Yin's massive bronze cooking vessels were far more diverse than such Shang staples as millet, pork, and dog meat. He lists all the delicacies found both within the realm of Shang and outside its borders, including orangutan lips and yak tails, and such fantastic foods as phoenix eggs and the six-legged vermilion turtle with pearls on its feet. The moral of his discourse is that the art of cooking is similar to the art of governing. In fact, the bronze cauldron, or _ting_ , is the main symbol of state power. If King T'ang applies the different powers of a ruler as a chef blends flavors, and he follows the way of Heaven, he will then enjoy all those rare and wondrous foods. This list of food shows that the Chinese from the earliest era had a fascination for the broadest range of possible foods\u2014everything edible that could be grown, traded for, or gathered from the wild.\n\nDuring the Zhou Dynasty, from 1100 to 256 BCE, the food of China began to take on a form we would recognize today. The first Zhou rulers condemned their Shang predecessors for their decadence and overindulgence in fermented beverages. This asceticism eventually gave way to more hedonistic habits as the central government weakened under a succession of ineffectual emperors. In the Zhou court, it is estimated, 2,300 people worked in cooking and food preparation. During the latter half of Zhou rule, the troubled times known as the Spring and Autumn Period and the Warring States Period were eras of cultural ferment and creativity. Confucius and Laozi, the founder of Daoism, lived during these centuries, and the first great annals and compendia of ritual behavior were written. A theme in many of these writings is food\u2014its proper preparation, consumption, and ritual use. Confucius wrote: \"with coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and with a bent arm for a pillow, there is still joy. Wealth and honor achieved through unrighteousness are but floating clouds to me.\"\n\n_Figure 3.1. Bronze cooking vessel from the Shang Dynasty, c. 1600\u20131046 BCE. Used for both rituals and banquets, these vessels symbolized state power._\n\nBoth ancient literature and archaeological excavations tell us that in North China the five staple grains were panicum millet, setaria millet, wheat (originally from the Near East), soybean (actually a legume), and rice. Rice alone clearly dominated south of the Yangzi River. After the hulls (or soybean pods) were removed, these staples probably were boiled or steamed until soft and fluffy or until they turned into runny porridge like modern-day congee. These grains were also mixed with water and flavorings and fermented to produce a wide variety of beer-like alcoholic drinks that commoners and rulers alike enjoyed. The technology of milling flour was in its infancy, so noodles, breads, and dumplings were almost unknown. In the Zhou Dynasty ritual literature, the high-status grain is clearly millet, nutty in flavor and rich in protein and vitamins, as is indicated by the name of the dynasty's founder, Hou Ji, or \"Lord Millet,\" who brought this crop to his people:\n\nHe sent down cereals truly blessed, \nBoth black millet and double-kernel millet; \nPink-sprouting millet and white; \nBlack and double-kernel millet spread all over, \nAnd he reaped many an acre. \nPink-sprouting and white millet spread all over, \nCarried on his back, carried over his shoulder. \nHe brought them home and inaugurated the sacrifice.\n\nFrom the dawn of Chinese civilization, it was a primary task of kings and emperors to make sacrifices to ensure the continued harmony of the universe. The invisible forces of the universe\u2014gods, spirits, and ancestors\u2014needed to be fed. These rites continued through the nineteenth century, when the Qing emperors annually made the Grand Sacrifice at the Altar of Heaven. Spotless oxen, sheep, and deer were ritually slaughtered, while the palace chefs prepared the rarest rice and millet, crystalline soups, cooked meats, tempting pickled vegetables, and fragrant grain wines to be placed on the altar in the hope that the God of Heaven would accept the offering. If he did, then the emperor's divine mandate was renewed, and the universe would continue on its correct course for another year. People also offered prepared foods, fruit, wines, and liquor at their household altars, at temples on festival days, and at rituals marking major life events like weddings and funerals, to ensure luck, longevity, wealth, and progeny. After some ceremonies, the people ate the food\u2014the spirits' sustenance was the sights and smells of the offering; after others, the food was ritually burned or simply discarded. Just before Chinese New Year, it was (and still is) customary to place sweet offerings before the image of the Kitchen God, one of the main household deities, and smear his lips with honey so he won't tell Heaven of any sins the family has committed. In the nineteenth century in California, Chinese people covered the graves of the dead with treats like roast pig, fruit, and bread; after local (non-Chinese) drunkards and urchins began to raid cemeteries for a free meal, the Chinese buried the spirit food with the dead. Today, most Chinese Americans who perform these funerary rituals bring the food home afterward for consumption.\n\nThe Chinese also treated food as medicine. Meals were structured so as to maximize the health benefits (beyond simple nutrition) to all parts of the human body. The Chinese saw the universe as a series of microcosms and macrocosms, each reflecting and responding to the others. As the legendary Yellow Emperor wrote, \"Heaven is covered with constellations, earth with waterways, man with channels.\" Illness was understood to be the result of one's being out of balance with the basic forces of the universe. Food therapy was one of the ways of returning the body to harmony with these forces. The Yellow Emperor again: \"The five grains act as nourishment; the five fruits from the trees serve to augment; the five domestic animals provide the benefit; the five vegetables serve to complete the nourishment. Their flavors, tastes and smells unite and conform to each other in order to supply the beneficial essence of (life).\" After the doctor made his diagnosis\u2014usually by taking the patient's pulse\u2014he prescribed a specific culinary regimen. Each food and flavor was classified according to how it affected the organs, which depended on the balance of yin and yang and a complicated system of energy flows. Today, the highly refined system of Chinese food therapy is often used in conjunction with Western medicine. This therapy also forms the basis of the Chinese meal's primary organizing principle: the careful balance of flavors and ingredients.\n\nIn imperial mythology, South Chinese rice was long considered a second-class grain. The rice-growing regions from the Yangzi watershed south to Guangdong were subjugated during a series of military campaigns by the Qin and Han Dynasty emperors beginning in 221 BCE. The imperial officials who took control of this area did their best to erase all southern religious cults centered on rice; southerners were instructed to make offerings not to Lord Rice but Lord Millet when observing fertility rites. Southern rice farmers supported a huge population using much less land than did millet and other northern crops. These farmers had developed a highly sophisticated growing system based on advanced irrigation networks (complete with water pumps), diked fields, and crop rotation, planting rice in summer and wheat in winter. With the introduction of quick-growing Champa rice from Vietnam in 1012 CE, this system became even more productive; farmers could then produce two rice crops a year. When the Jurchen tribesmen captured most of North China in 1126 CE, these rice fields also fed millions of fleeing northerners. The imperial capital was relocated to Hangzhou, well south of the Yangzi, where officials realized how much they owed to rice. The trade in rice became one of China's most important; from then on, rice was inextricably connected with the qualities of what might be called \"Chinese-ness.\" With official approval, artists and poets created works praising the virtues of rice farming that were widely circulated.\n\nConfucius didn't restrict himself to cooked grains, or _fan_. All but the poorest Chinese supplemented their _fan_ with _cai_ \u2014a word that encompasses any meat, vegetables, or aquatic creatures that are eaten with grain. In fact, the _fan-cai_ combination became the most basic building block of Chinese cuisine\u2014without both grain and a little protein or vegetable for a topping, one did not have a meal. In Shanghai, _fan-cai_ could mean a bowl of rice topped with pickled mustard greens and mixed pork; in Beijing, it could include spicy wheat noodles cooked with Chinese cabbage. The most common _cai_ , especially for rural peasants, was (and still is) a vast array of vegetables. The highly nutritious plants of the _Brassica_ genus\u2014that is, hundreds of types of Chinese cabbage, radish, turnip, and mustard, are still found in nearly every kitchen across China, where cooks find a use for nearly every part, from root to flower. Americans who visited the Middle Kingdom in the nineteenth century noticed the preponderance of _Allium_ , the onion genus, which also includes leeks, scallions, and garlic, and its \"pervasive\" smell in Chinese cooking. The most common native root or tuber plants were lotus (whose seed was also used), water chestnuts, and taro (generally deemed a famine food). The tender shoots of various varieties of bamboo have been considered delicacies fit for the most aristocratic tables going back millennia. Soybeans, on the other hand, were most often cooked for peasant gruels until the technology to produce tofu was developed\u2014probably during the Han Dynasty (206 BCE\u2013220 CE). The other important bean\u2014the red bean (known as the azuki in the United States)\u2014was used as a fermented seasoning and in sweet desserts. Varieties of the muskmelon ( _Cucumis melo_ ), with their sweet meat and their seeds, were treated more as a fruit. Winter melons ( _Benincasa hispida_ ), also known as wax gourds, were used to make the savory soups and stews that frequently appear at Chinese banquets. While not strictly speaking vegetables, an immense variety of mushrooms and other fungi were put to similar use in Chinese kitchens. Finally, edible seaweeds were often used to season soup, particularly along the South China coast. Today, the typical fare in South China is a bowl of rice topped with some kind of cooked _Brassica_ and tofu.\n\nAlthough a meal with meat as the primary food, as in an American steak dinner, is unthinkable in traditional Chinese cuisine, the Chinese do season their grain foods with cooked meat when circumstances permit. In Zhang and Zhou Dynasty China, the six principal livestock were chickens, cattle, sheep, pigs, dogs, and, less frequently, horses. Cattle and oxen were used as draft animals and were eaten by humans and gods alike; as these were the most important sacrificial animals in ancient imperial rites, beef was likely the high-status meat at this time and certainly during the Han Dynasty that followed. Sheep, first domesticated in the Near East, were the other main pasture animal in North China, where mutton and lamb remain popular meats today. Domestic pigs, which need far less land to survive and were typically housed in the farmstead's garbage pit, were probably the principal meat source across China since early Neolithic times. From nose to tail, pork remains the most popular meat by far. The other early domesticated animal, the dog, was eaten by both emperor and commoner in ancient times, and special breeds of dog are still raised for their meat today, but the dishes are expensive and now mostly reserved for gourmets. The only fowl on this list, chicken, may have been first domesticated in China around 5500 BCE; by the Zhou era, even the poorest farms across China had them. Beyond the farmyard, anything that flies, creeps, or walks has been cooked on Chinese stoves, from ducks and geese to insect larvae, from snakes and lizards to the rarest of wild game, including monkeys, bears, and the elusive (and now nearly extinct) South China tiger.\n\nThe omnivorous Chinese also turned to their rivers, lakes, and seashores for the _cai_ that supplemented their grain food. Remains of fishing nets made from twisted fibers and bone fish hooks have been found at sites tens of thousands of years old. Carp, the most important freshwater protein source, came to symbolize good fortune and abundance; the colorful varieties known as koi and goldfish were often also kept for ornamental display. For the emperor, the choice fish was the sturgeon, which was reared at the imperial fish farms. Indeed, the Chinese were probably pioneers of aquaculture; they developed sophisticated techniques to trap, breed, and harvest many types of freshwater fish. Along the coast, particularly in the South, the variety of saltwater fish was staggering; in the nineteenth century, Europeans said that in Macau you could eat a different fish every day of the year. The most popular amphibians were frogs, and among the aquatic reptiles, softshell turtles (another symbol of longevity), which were often served in elegant soups at imperial banquets. Archaeological evidence also shows that from a very early date, the Chinese considered many types of crustacean and mollusk, and probably jellyfish, suitable for their tables.\n\nNative fruits have always had an important place in Chinese culinary culture. The Chinese people long associated succulent peaches with longevity, believing that they were the main sustenance of the Celestial Immortals, including the supreme Jade Emperor himself. While the Japanese often add pickled and salted fruits to their rice bowls, the Chinese are more likely to eat fruit as a snack, as dessert, or at the beginning or end of a formal banquet. Peaches have been part of the East Asian diet for at least seven thousand years, and peach trees, fruits, and blossoms are common subjects in Chinese painting. Their close relations plums, Chinese apricots ( _Prunus mume_ ), and apricots ( _Prunus armeniaca_ ) also have an ancient history in China. During the Zhou Dynasty, Chinese apricots were added to soups and stews to provide both thickening and tartness. Apricots were also the source for pickles, plum wine, and the plum sauce that was used as a condiment. Jujubes (Chinese dates), a sweet native fruit grown widely in the North, were eaten as snacks, made into tea, and cooked in a number of sweet dishes, including the Eight Treasure Rice served at Chinese New Year. The crisp, juicy Asian pear ( _Pyrus pyrifolia_ ) and the Chinese persimmon ( _Diospyros kaki_ ) have long been popular. Today, the most common fruit offering is probably the mandarin orange, often served in South China because its Cantonese pronunciation sounds like _gum_ , the Cantonese word for \"gold.\" Many other kinds of citrus are native to South China, including kumquats, pomelos, perhaps even both sweet and sour oranges. This area is also home to such succulent tropical and subtropical fruit as longans, loquats, and lychees, which the imperial concubine Yang Guifei (719\u2013756 CE) loved so much that she had them shipped by speedy messengers to her palace in North China.\n\nAlthough the Chinese did have contacts with the outside world before the Han Dynasty, their cooking ingredients and tastes were almost all native-grown. The expansion of the Silk Road and the initiation of trade with the kingdoms of Central Asia, India, and Persia stimulated culinary exchange. The caravans that carried silk and other precious goods west brought back cucumbers, pomegranates, carrots, walnuts, pistachios, coriander, green peas, spinach, and dates. The trade routes across the seas and over the mountains of Sichuan led to the introduction of South Asian spices; most important were black pepper, cardamom, and nutmeg. Portuguese merchants carried new ingredients from the New World to India and Southeast Asia, and these were brought by boat or caravan to China. Maize (corn) and sweet potatoes became known as peasant foods and livestock feed (sweet potatoes are also now a popular street snack); peanuts, tomatoes, and particularly chili peppers gained more widespread acceptance. Today, the regions that lie along the main mountain trade route\u2014Sichuan and Hunan provinces\u2014have the highest chili pepper consumption of China.\n\nIn ancient China, the proper preparation of grains, vegetables, meats, and fruits was a topic that concerned emperors and poets as well as cooks. Confucius held very firm ideas about how his meals should be prepared:\n\nHis rice is not excessively refined, and his sliced meat is not cut excessively fine. Rice that has become putrid and sour, fish that has spoiled, and meat that has gone bad, he does not eat. Food that is discolored he does not eat, and food with a bad odor he does not eat. Undercooked foods he does not eat, and foods served at improper times he does not eat. Meat that is improperly carved, he does not eat, and if he does not obtain the proper sauce, he will not eat. . . . He never dispenses with ginger when he eats. He does not eat to excess.\n\nRice, millet, and other grains were most often cooked by steaming. Archaeologists have found ceramic steamers\u2014three-legged cooking pots into which fit pots with perforations in the bottom\u2014dating back seven thousand years. In the millennia before stoves were invented, the pot's legs allowed it to be put directly over the open fire. Bamboo steamers, today found in nearly every Chinese kitchen, appeared around the time of the Song Dynasty (960\u20131279 CE). For millennia, Chinese chefs likely used steaming and boiling most commonly as their methods of cooking vegetables.\n\nMany of the important texts of the Zhou and Han dynasties address the proper preparation of meat, poultry, fish, and other seafood. Large animals had to be butchered before they were fit for the stove; this task could be elevated to an art form:\n\nTing, the butcher of King Hui, was cutting up a bullock. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulder, every tread of his food, every thrust of his knee, every sound of the rending flesh, and every note of the movement of the chopper, were in perfect harmony\u2014rhythmical like the _Mulberry Grove_ dance, harmonious like the chords of the _Ching Shou_ music.\n\nNext the meat had to be cut, a step so important that food preparation was sometimes called \"cutting and cooking.\" We can guess that it was already the rule that meats be brought to the table chopped or sliced\u2014the emperor would never have to wield a knife to eat his food. Steaming, boiling, and poaching were used to cook some kinds of animal flesh, particularly young chicken and fish. Chefs used the slow boil, or simmer, to prepare soups and particularly the rich, complex stews that had been favorite dishes since Shang times. Meats also were braised, grilled, or shallow-fried in a pan using a little animal fat. Beef tallow and lard, as well as lamb and dog fat, were all thought to contribute distinctive flavors to a dish. The ancient Chinese did not use deep-frying and stir-frying; there simply wasn't enough animal fat available to make these possible. The technology of pressing oil from seeds\u2014sesame, hemp, perilla, and others\u2014was developed during the Tang Dynasty (618\u2013907 CE); by the Song Dynasty, vegetable oil had become one of the necessities of Chinese life. Meat or poultry also could be parched (heat-dried), roasted, broiled, baked in clay, or skewered and cooked over open flames.\n\nThe Shang Dynasty chef Yi Yin, in addition to discussing raw ingredients and cooking methods, describes the third component of the best cooking as the focus on the relationship between flavors and textures. In a properly prepared dish, all five of the basic flavors\u2014bitter, sour, sweet, pungent, and salty\u2014should be present, to greater or lesser degrees, often depending on the season, but always in harmony with each other. According to Yi Yin, the bitter flavor comes from various herbs, the sour from fruit or vinegar, the sweet from malt sugar and honey, and the salty from salt. The pungent was, and is, a little more complex: it refers to the group of flavors that is sharp, stinging, or biting to the tongue and olfactory receptors. Chili peppers were unknown in ancient China; the prime sources of pungency were leeks, scallions, shallots, ginger, garlic, Chinese cinnamon (cassia), and dried Sichuan pepper (also called _fagara_ in the West)\u2014not actually a pepper but a tiny citrus fruit that produces a pleasant (and addictive) spicy yet numbing sensation in the mouth. Yi Yin also recognizes that fat adds both a taste and a texture to a dish that must be balanced. If a stew contains too much grease, it won't feel right in the mouth. Today, Chinese cuisine is one of the few that recognize the importance of texture at the table. Besides an array of ingredients and flavorings, the dishes must contain a variety of textures, from slippery to crunchy to gummy.\n\nAlthough the ancient Chinese limited their flavor pantheon to five, they clearly recognized the importance of a sixth taste, savoriness, also known by the Japanese term _umami_. This flavor comes from naturally occurring glutamates and other compounds found in meats, mushrooms, aged cheese, and some fermented products. From the Shang Dynasty on, Chinese chefs added to their dishes a wide variety of preserved condiments, including pickles, marinades, and sauces, to heighten their savory qualities. These concoctions were essential components of meals from the imperial level on down. Simple pickles, made from vegetables, salt, and water, were probably the earliest of these preserves, but these only added saltiness. By the time of the Zhou Dynasty, the Chinese had become masters at fermenting foods, a process which not only preserves the foods but intensifies their savory qualities. The active agent of this fermentation was a moldy grain that was added to jars of cooked meat, fish, vegetables, and various kind of seafood and sometimes mixed with wine; the whole was aged until it became a savory compound that could range in texture from chunks in sauce to a thin liquid. Clear evidence for the production of soy sauce, or _jiang you_ , doesn't appear until at least the late Song Dynasty a millennium later, but jars of fermented beans and bean paste discovered in Han Dynasty tombs point to earlier tastes for fermented soybeans. By the eighteenth century, fermented meats and vegetables (though not pickles) had largely disappeared from Chinese tables and were replaced by fermented soybeans, soy paste, and soy sauce, now the ubiquitous seasoning of Chinese cuisine. Nonetheless, the descendants of the ancient fermented compounds live on in the many kinds of fermented fish sauce found across Southeast Asia.\n\nThe kitchens where the ancient art of Chinese cuisine was practiced could range from the vast culinary complex that served the emperor to the corner of the peasant's hut. By the time of the Han Dynasty, the _zao_ (cooking stove) had replaced the open fireplace. A large rectangular box usually made from various types of brick, the _zao_ is about three feet high and four feet wide, with a chimney rising from the back. In the top are two large holes into which fit the large, round-bottomed pottery (and later iron) cooking pots, today called _guo_ (Mandarin) or _wok_ (Cantonese). The rounded base of the wok allows cooks to use the absolute minimum of precious oil and firewood for stir-frying\u2014an important feature for the Chinese peasant\u2014but these pots can also be used for frying, boiling, steaming, cooking rice, and preparing soup. The pots' bottoms are suspended over an open, wood-burning fire that is contained inside the stove and is regulated by a hole in front. Efficient and perfectly suited to the high heat needed for Chinese cooking (particularly stir-frying), the _zao_ is still used across China. You may see updated, gas-fired versions of it, with holes for the woks replacing the familiar burners, in many Chinese restaurants in the United States.\n\nBy the end of the Han Dynasty, many of the fundamental tenets of Chinese cuisine had been established; but it is important to remember that none of this was set in stone. The story of Chinese food, like any great cuisine, has always been one of constant change and evolution\u2014with an occasional revolution. One revolution occurred during the Han period, when rotary mills for grinding grain became widespread in the North. For millennia, the Chinese had milled their grains using saddle querns, slightly convex stones on which grain is crushed by hand with a cylindrical stone. A quern was probably used to prepare the millet flour that was used to make the four-thousand-year-old noodles, the world's oldest, recently discovered in a pot at the Lajia site on the Huanghe River in northwestern China. Millstones were unknown across southern and central China, because rice is soft enough not to need grinding; it is merely husked and then steamed or boiled.\n\nAnother revolution happened as the Han era concluded. In the North, farmers had long grown small amounts of wheat and ground it into flour to extract its nutrients. The revolution began with the kneading of wheat flour with water and encompassed a world of new dishes made from this preparation, known as _bing_ : steamed breads, grilled flatbreads, noodles, and probably some kinds of dumpling. These dishes were so delectable that they inspired Shu Xi (c. 264\u2013304 CE), a court poet, to compose his famous \"Ode to _Bing_ ,\" including these lines:\n\nFlour sifted twice, \nFlying snow of white powder, \nIn a stretchy, sticky dough \nKneaded with water or broth, it becomes shiny. \nFor the stuffing, pork ribs or shoulder of mutton, \nFat and meat in proper proportion, \nCut into small bits, \nLike gravel or the pearls of a necklace. \nGinger roots and onion bulb \nAre cut into a fine julienne, \nSprinkled with wild ginger and cinnamon ground fine, \nBoneset and Szechuan pepper, \nAll mixed with salt and seasonings, \nBlended into a single ball. . . .\n\nTo dip them into a black sauce, \nWe grip them with ivory chopsticks; \nBack stretched tight like a tiger waiting in ambush, \nWe sit close, knee against knee, flank against flank.\n\nFrom rural villagers to emperors, the taste for _bing_ was apparently universal in early medieval China. _Bing_ makers sold their products from boats, and vendors hawked steamed breads and noodle soups on the streets. Among the offerings were _mantou_ \u2014now, simple steamed breads; then, stuffed with chopped, seasoned meat. According to legend, they were invented by a general who had been told that in order to assure victory he must offer the head of a sacrificial victim to the gods. He fooled them by concocting a head-shaped loaf of steamed bread stuffed with meat and painted with a human face. Today, similar meat-stuffed dumplings are found from Turkey ( _manti_ ) to Korea ( _mandoo_ ). In China, large steamed stuffed breads are now known as _baozi_. Another popular _bing_ was wonton, a meat or vegetable dumpling enclosed in a thin wrapping. In Cantonese, the word _wantan_ is written as \"cloud-swallowing,\" while the Mandarin term _huntun_ means \"chaos,\" referring to the primordial state before the separation of Heaven and Earth. Both terms aptly invoke the sight of airy, white dumpling wrappings billowing in a bowl of soup. In 1959, archaeologists unearthed dehydrated wontons from a Tang Dynasty tomb in the Sinkiang desert; they also found ancient versions of _jiaozi_ , dumplings with slightly thicker wrappings that are still a favorite snack across northern China. As the Chinese became more adept at working with wheat flour, they discovered that they could separate its starch from its gluten by washing. Tender, white, and flavorful, cooked gluten became a favorite delicacy with many culinary uses. Buddhists mixed gluten with mashed roots and flavorings to give it a texture remarkably like meat; wheat gluten \"beef,\" \"duck,\" \"chicken,\" and \"fish\" became mainstays of Buddhist vegetarian meals.\n\nDuring the Tang Dynasty, the world of _bing_ underwent a lexicological division. Fried, baked, or steamed breads and boiled dumplings remained _bing_ , but noodles became _mian_. Lacking the hard durum wheat of western Asia, the Chinese concentrated on making fresh noodles for eating immediately rather than dried noodles for storage. These included _mian_ made from rolling dough into ropes, cutting sheets of it into strips, or pushing very soft dough through the holes of a sieve into boiling water. Over the century or two that followed, _mian_ grew in importance from a beloved snack into the full-fledged basis of northern Chinese meals. Bowls of noodles, either dry or in broth, were topped with all kinds of meat, seafood, and vegetables and slurped down with chopsticks. When invaders from the north and west overran northern China, beginning in the twelfth century, noodle-making technology was carried down to the Yangzi basin and then all across the South. (Marco Polo did not carry this knowledge back to Italy, where they had already been making fine noodles and lasagna for centuries.) Unfortunately, wheat didn't flourish in the warm, moist South, so the region's _mian_ makers experimented with making noodles from rice and various kinds of roots and legumes, most notably mung beans, the basis of _fen si_ , or cellophane noodles. To improve the flavor, eggs were added to wheat noodle dough around 1500 CE\u2014perhaps the last great innovation in Chinese dough cookery before a Taiwanese businessman in Japan invented instant noodles in 1958.\n\n_Figure 3.2. Two kinds of steamed dumplings, with either meat or vegetable fillings. Dumplings have been part of the Chinese menu for well over a millennium._\n\nAnother great revolution began with the invention of the first fermented drinks. Although Confucius extolled the virtues of water, it's clear that the favorite beverage of the ancient Chinese was wine fermented from grains. They mastered the fermentation of sauces and pickles early on; likewise the complicated art of brewing this wine. Mixing boiled millet, rice, or wheat with sprouted grain (to add sugar from the malt), water, and a special \"ferment\" made from moldy grain that added the necessary yeast to turn the sugar into alcohol. They aged and filtered the resulting liquid to produce a fairly strong, flat drink\u2014more like wine than beer\u2014that was usually drunk warm in small cups. It was by no means the only beverage\u2014people drank parched grain tea (like barley tea), fruit drinks, water in which grain had been boiled, a kind of sour milk, and perhaps even distilled liquors\u2014but wine was certainly the most celebrated. Today, the Chinese still enjoy their rice wine, particularly at banquets, but the primary mealtime drink is now quite different.\n\nDuring the Han Dynasty, a new thirst-quencher appeared, originating in the Sichuan basin: tea or _cha_ , brewed by boiling in water the fresh leaves of the tropical and subtropical bush _Camellia sinensis_. Tea's flavor was first appreciated along the Yangzi basin and south of it; in the North, Buddhist monks, who noticed that drinking tea helped keep them awake during long periods of meditation, spread its use. The virtues and rituals of tea drinking were promoted by Lu Yu's eighth-century work _The Classic of Tea_ , which gave the elite precise instructions on how to enjoy the brew (an art that lives on in the Japanese tea ceremony). By the time of the Yuan Dynasty (1271\u20131368 CE), tea drinking had spread to the lower classes, becoming one of the \"seven necessities\" of everyday Chinese life. (The others were fuel, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar.) This is not the place to enumerate the many varieties of tea or the new means for processing the leaf that were developed from the Yuan Dynasty on. Suffice it to say that by the seventeenth century, when tea first appeared in western Europe, tea had become the universal drink of China and one of the defining characteristics of its civilization. Tea was also one of China's most important exports, as the taste for it brought first the Dutch, then the English, and finally the Americans to trade at Canton.\n\nThe chief arena for the display of all the main building blocks of Chinese cuisine, from foodstuffs to theories of health, was the banquet table. Indeed, from the Zhou Dynasty on, the feast was seen as a kind of stage where the participants reaffirmed the correctness and value of Chinese civilization, from the structure of its political and religious life to family relations. In the palace kitchens, chefs followed an encyclopedic rulebook that determined not only the appropriate type of banquet for each occasion but precisely how much food and wine guests of different rank were to be served, the table settings, even the musical entertainment. The Qing emperors preferred Manchu food (boiled pork, wild game, sweet breads, milk products) for their court banquets, offering the top three grades to the gods and deified ancestors as sacrifices. Fourth-grade banquets were served to the imperial family, while envoys from tributary states like Korea were given the honor of fifth- and sixth-grade banquets. Women never mingled with men at these functions; cloistered by traditional Chinese morality, they ate in separate rooms, hidden from anyone who wasn't family. Outside the palace walls, government officials and scholars who passed their examinations could enjoy six grades of more familiar Han Chinese banquets. The food served marked each diner's place in the elaborate hierarchy of Chinese life (a system that was disrupted by the arrival of the tall, pale-skinned foreigners who disdained, among other things, Chinese food).\n\nPrivate banquets also reflected and enhanced social status, but the rules were far looser. Pleasure, in fact, was often the guiding principle\u2014in one's choice of food, grain wine, drinking games, and guests. Menus could include as few as eight or well over one hundred dishes in multiple courses. At lesser events, a group of Chinese merchants staying in nineteenth-century Nagasaki, for example, would order eight-course banquets, for second-class occasions ten courses, and for really important events sixteen courses, featuring fish belly, dried mussels, crab sauce, steamed fish, goose, duck, two kinds of chicken, pigs' feet, fried lamb, sea cucumbers, birds' nests, sharks' fins, deer's tails, and bears' paws. Although Yuan Mei scorned them, these rare delicacies were included to display the host's wealth and sophistication. After all, the ancient Chinese philosopher Mencius had said: \"I love fish, so do I bear's paw; but if I cannot get both, I give up fish and take bear's paw.\" Birds' nests, sharks' fins, and sea cucumbers commonly came from Southeast Asia and in fact comprised the bulk of Chinese trade with that region. All three are notable more for their texture than their flavor (as well as for how much they add to the banquet's cost).\n\nIntimate, shared, low-key, and generally nonalcoholic, the Chinese family meal was the daily counterpoint to the occasional banquet. Depending on the region, this main meal was consumed at midday, in the late afternoon, or at night. Until the twentieth century, men and women usually ate separately, and the men often enjoyed the tastiest, richest morsels. Places were set with cups for tea and bowls for soup and _fan_ , along with chopsticks and spoons. In the middle of the table were placed\u2014at the same time, in one large course\u2014the _cai_ dishes, including soup, a vegetable, and, if the family could afford it, a meat dish and a fish dish. Everybody shared, using chopsticks to pluck morsels from the serving dishes and place them on their _fan_. Greediness was frowned on; children knew that if they did not clean their bowls, they risked marriage to \"a wife (or a husband if you are a girl) with pockmarks on her face, and the more grains you waste, the more pockmarks she will have.\" These family-style meals were also consumed in many workplaces, including at Chinese restaurants. Today, if you visit a Chinese eatery nearly anywhere in the United States between the end of lunch and the beginning of dinner, you will likely see chefs and wait staff sitting down to a tasty, nutritious, highly traditional Chinese meal.\n\nRestaurants have a very long history in China. At a time when fine food in western Europe was confined to a handful of great monasteries, the Song Dynasty capital, Kaifeng, supported hundreds of commercial food businesses and a rich gourmet culture:\n\nThe men of Kaifeng were extravagant and indulgent. They would shout their orders by the hundreds: some wanted items cooked and some chilled, some heated and some prepared, some iced or delicate or fat; each person ordered differently. The waiter then went to get the orders, which he repeated and carried in his head, so that when he got into the kitchen he repeated them. These men were called \"gong heads\" or \"callers.\" In an instant, the waiter would be back carrying three dishes forked in his left hand, while on his right arm from hand to shoulder he carried about twenty bowls doubled up, and he distributed them precisely as everyone had ordered without an omission or mistake.\n\nSome of the city's restaurants were so renowned that the emperor himself ordered out for their specialties; they could also cater the most elaborate banquets, in their own halls or at the homes of the wealthy. Kaifeng's many eateries also included teahouses where men could sip tea, gossip, and order snacks or full meals, as well as wineshops, which were more popular at night. There, music and singing accompanied wine and food; brothels were often attached to these establishments. Further down the social ladder, workers and poor families could buy their daily food from a huge variety of simple cookshops and street vendors. The offerings included noodles, congees, offal soups, fried and steamed breads, mantou, and many types of sweet and savory snacks. To the poorest, vendors sold boiling water in which they could cook their meager rations.\n\nChina's vibrant restaurant culture continued unabated through the end of the Qing Dynasty. The English clergyman John Henry Gray, one of the few Europeans with a serious interest in Chinese food, summed up the typical nineteenth-century urban eatery thus:\n\nThe restaurants are generally very large establishments, consisting of a public dining-room and several private rooms. Unlike most other buildings, they consist of two or three stories. The kitchen alone occupies the ground floor; the public hall, which is the resort of persons in the humbler walks of life, is on the first floor, and the more select apartments are on the second and third floors. These are, of course, resorted to by the wealthier citizens, but they are open to persons in all classes of society, and it is not unusual to see in them persons of limited means. At the entrance-door there is a table or counter at which the proprietor sits, and where each customer pays for his repast. The public room is immediately at the head of the first staircase, and is resorted to by all who require a cheap meal. It is furnished, like a _caf\u00e9_ , with tables and chairs, a private room having only one table and a few chairs in it.\n\nThe upper rooms, generally reserved for the elite, were used for dinner parties and banquets of all sizes. Downstairs, customers could order simpler, less expensive fare, noodle soups and roast meats, for a quick lunch or dinner. All guests, rich and poor, entered the restaurant through the ground-floor kitchen, where they could judge for themselves the skill of the chefs, the quality of the roasted ducks, chickens, and pigs hanging from the ceiling (right above the chopping block), and the facility's cleanliness. When the Chinese immigrated to the United States, they carried this style of restaurant intact to their new homeland.\n\nFor more casual dining, the Chinese could choose from a variety of establishments. Teahouses were particularly ubiquitous after the spread of tea drinking to every rank of Chinese society. All of them were important social centers where men, in particular, liked to gather to relax, sip tea, crunch on salted melon seeds, gossip, smoke their pipes, listen to singers or storytellers, and perhaps have a more substantial bite to eat. In some teahouses, patrons could order and savor rare and delicious teas; in others, mainly in the South and especially in Guangdong Province, the food predominated. Gray wrote of the \"tea-saloons\" of the type he knew in Guangzhou:\n\nEach consists of two large saloons furnished with several small tables and stools. Upon each table is placed a tray, containing a large assortment of cakes, preserved fruits, and cups of tea. A cashier seated behind a counter at the door of the saloon receives the money from the guests as they are leaving the establishment. There is a large kitchen attached to all of them, where cooks remarkable for their cleanliness are daily engaged in making all kinds of pastry.\n\nThose pastries were what we now call dim sum, from _dim sam_ , Cantonese for \"dot heart,\" an expression roughly equivalent to \"hits the spot.\" As in dim sum parlors today, the bill was totaled by adding up the number and size of the small plates on the patron's table. The Guangzhou teahouses were strictly segregated by sex\u2014no women were allowed\u2014and often featured early morning songbird competitions in which patrons vied to see whose pet could sing the sweetest tune. For those with less time to waste, a popular option was to purchase food from the itinerant street vendors who traveled across cities much as the coffee and lunch trucks in modern America do. The basic equipment of these traveling kitchens was a stove and a provisions chest, suspended on either end of a strong bamboo stick that the chef shouldered from spot to spot. Wherever a hungry-looking crowd gathered, he would stop to vend his inexpensive but filling food in bowls that were wiped clean between every customer. This simple, highly portable cuisine could also be transported overseas to new settlements throughout Southeast Asia and even across the Pacific Ocean.\n\nFor at least three thousand years, the basic building blocks of Chinese cuisine remained largely the same: ingredients, cooking methods, tools, flavorings (particularly soy sauce, ginger, and scallions), the _fan-cai_ dichotomy, and the interlinked concepts of food and health. Nonetheless, all Chinese did not by any means eat all the same food. For truly \"national\" dishes, we would have to look to the tables of the elite\u2014the delicacies like sea cucumbers and birds' nests that were served in similar preparations on banquet tables across China\u2014and to the codified menus for official celebrations. At other times and on other tables, regional food preferences were as different as, say, the cuisines of Italy, Germany, England, Spain, and France. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, Yuan Mei and other food writers began to recognize and celebrate the culinary differences among the various regions and cities of China. This topic long fascinated, and bedeviled, Chinese gourmets. (For the sake of simplicity, in the following discussion I limit the main regional cuisines to four, based on the points of the compass\u2014with considerable fuzziness around the edges.)\n\n_Figure 3.3. A \"movable chow shop\" in Canton, c. 1919. Street vendors have sold noodles and other staple foods since the Sung dynasty._\n\nNorthern cuisine was centered on Beijing and the North China Plain. At the time of the Qing Dynasty, millet was still eaten there, but the grain staples were wheat breads and noodles. Mutton and lamb were consumed most widely, often with onions, garlic, or scallions or dipped in vinegar or in sweet and savory sauces. Peking duck, especially roasted and dipped in a savory sauce, may have been the invention of a Yuan Dynasty imperial chef. Beijing dining was also heavily influenced by the food of the Manchu, the dominant tribe whose homeland lay to the northeast. This included dairy products and the roast meats Cushing sampled. Eastern cuisine encompassed a huge stretch of China's richest and most populous territory, perhaps from Shandong all the way down to Fujian. This cuisine was based on fresh and saltwater plants and animals, particularly fish and crabs, flavored with ginger, wine, sugar, and vinegar. Specialties included soups and slow-cooked stews with delicate seasonings. The grain staples ranged from millet and breads in the northeast to rice in the southeast. In treaty ports like Shanghai and Fuzhou, foreign merchants and missionaries tasted these specialties at the homes of wealthy merchants and local officials. In Western cuisine, centered on the inland provinces of Hunan and Sichuan, the food was spicy and oily, often featuring a sophisticated blend of intense flavors. Here rice and noodles were the staples, frequently topped with pork, cabbage, river fish, bamboo shoots, and mushrooms. Americans did not acquire a taste for these highly seasoned specialties for over a century.\n\nThe southern cuisine was centered on Guangdong Province, the region that for decades defined Chinese food in American minds. Here the people mainly spoke Cantonese and had a long history of rebelliousness\u2014this was the last part of China Proper to surrender to the Manchu army. The most important part of Guangdong for this discussion is the Pearl River Delta, home to the cities of Guangzhou, Macau, and Hong Kong. Like the roots of a great tree, the Pearl River's three main tributaries meet in the vicinity of Guangzhou, where they divide into a profusion of narrower rivers, streams, and canals. This mesh of waterways shapes the rich, swampy soils of the larger delta, one of the most fertile regions of all China. The Pearl River itself, the main trunk of this riverine system, forms near Guangzhou and flows south to its wide mouth on the South China Sea. To the west of the Pearl River, human settlement marks every square inch of the delta; even the low hills are dotted with stone and concrete grave markers. In the mid\u2013nineteenth century, the Pearl River Delta was a region of crowded cities, bustling market towns, and thousands of villages, interspersed with fields of green vegetables, orchards, rice paddies, and fish ponds. Water connected almost all these communities; there are so many rivers and streams and canals that travelers observed that roads were almost unnecessary. Rice, vegetables, pork, duck, fish, and shellfish were the staples of the delta diet.\n\nThe delta's richest region, Sam Yap, or Three Districts (in Cantonese), which surrounded Guangzhou, consisted mostly of farmlands dotted with smaller cities, towns, and villages. The sophisticated chefs of the provincial capital excelled at seafood, which they prepared as simply as possible, often steaming or gently poaching it. The seasonings were usually soy or oyster sauces, fermented black beans, ginger, and scallions. These chefs also skillfully prepared roast meats, particularly pig and duck, as well as slow-cooked casseroles to be served over rice. In Guangzhou, the tradition of teahouse food reached its apex, with dim sum chefs preparing a vast array of sweet and savory pastry snacks. Outside the city's walls, the land was flat, fertile, and green; truck gardens, rice paddies, and fish ponds, often bordered with lychee trees, surrounded most communities. The regular markets that crowded into most of the cities and towns specialized in fish, fruit (lychees, longans, oranges), herbal medicines, spices, pearls, and silk grown on nearby farms. The nearby town of Shunde was a noted restaurant destination where many Guangzhou gourmets went on eating excursions\u2014and found chefs to staff their private kitchens back in the capital. The next region south, Zhongshan, which was hillier, ran all the way down the western riverbank to Macau. Here the main occupations were rice growing and fishing; thousands of seagoing fishing vessels crowded the narrow channels that connected Zhongshan with the sea.\n\nTo the west, the Pearl River Delta graded into the more rugged hills of the poorer Sze Yap (Four Districts) region. Here, the largest towns lay along the Tan River; the most important was the city of Xinhui, the center of a fantail palm\u2013growing district, whose inhabitants manufactured ornate fans for the rest of China and abroad. As in Guangzhou, the people spoke Cantonese, but a local dialect of it that the sophisticated residents of Sam Yap found harsh and hard to understand. Away from the river, the countryside was divided between barren, scrub-covered hills and narrow valleys dense with villages and farms that were connected by well-beaten tracks. In each village, several rows of tightly packed houses faced the valley, where lay the village's fish ponds, water buffalo wallows, rice paddies, and vegetable fields: taro with their giant leaves, beans on trellises, cucumbers, squashes, and gourds. On the hillsides stood the orange, banana, and lychee orchards, as well as the pigpens and manure pits. People's meals centered around _fancai_ \u2014bowls of rice topped with a bit of vegetable or fish\u2014or mixed stir-fries, made by throwing a bit of everything one had on hand into the wok. Under the broad branches and thick foliage of the village banyan tree, farm families enjoyed the midday shade, processed rice, and conducted meetings. Here the villagers discussed their most pressing issues: how to sustain one's community and one's clan in a region where people could barely produce enough food to survive, bandits roamed the countryside, and the provincial government was alternately weak and oppressive.\n\nFor the villagers of the Sze Yap region, the answer was often to seek their fortunes elsewhere\u2014in Sam Yap, Guangzhou, even overseas. For decades, they had joined emigrants from other parts of the South in seeking better conditions elsewhere in Southeast Asia. In 1848, the people of the Four Districts heard of a new and more alluring place of opportunity\u2014across the Pacific Ocean. They would come to call it Gold Mountain.\n\n## **CHAPTER FOUR** \nChinese Gardens on Gold Mountain\n\nKicking up a cloud of dust and dung, a train of carriages pulled up to the entrance of the four-story Occidental Hotel, San Francisco's finest hostelry, to await the distinguished guests from the East. At six o'clock in the evening, they emerged: Schuyler Colfax, U.S. Speaker of the House; William Bross, lieutenant governor of Illinois; and Samuel Bowles and Albert Richardson, two noted newspapermen intent on publicizing the promise of the American West. They were escorted into the carriages by the evening's Committee of Invitation, a phalanx of the city's white elite, and the procession clattered off toward a destination just a few minutes away. In the heart of the city, where in 1865 few buildings were more than twenty years old, 308 Dupont Street stood out\u2014a gaudy assemblage of balconies, banners, colored lanterns, and signs bearing the words \"Hong Heong Restaurant.\" Here the carriages stopped; their passengers alighted and were ushered through the first-floor kitchen, where the chefs bowed to them, and then up the stairs. In the third-floor reception room, they met their hosts, San Francisco's leading Chinese merchants and the heads of the six main Chinese associations, commonly called the Six Companies. At least sixty men crowded into the room, half of them Chinese and half European Americans. Their dress and appearance were a study in contrasts: the Chinese dignitaries wore loose robes of blue and purple satin, richly embroidered, and silk skullcaps; their faces were smooth and their foreheads shaven, with long plaited queues hanging neatly down their backs. The Americans were dressed in dark woolen jackets, vests, and trousers; black bow ties and white shirts; trimmed beards and moustaches covered their faces; their thick, unruly hair was plastered across their foreheads. After a round of drinks from a table crowded with American and European liquors, a servant announced \"The poor feast is ready,\" and the guests descended to the second-floor dining room.\n\nEverything there had been imported from China\u2014tables, lamps, decorative screens, and place settings. Ornate partitions decorated with colored glass divided the room into three sections, each enclosing three or four circular tables. Six or seven places were set on each table, with ivory chopsticks and porcelain spoons, bowls, plates, and cups; little dishes for soy sauce, mustard, pickles and sweetmeats; and a large Chinese-style flower centerpiece in the middle. Colfax, the guest of honor, was seated next to the head host, Chui Sing Tong of the Sam Yap Company; the other diners took their seats, and the procession of dishes began. Bowles noted: \"there were no joints, nothing to be carved. Every article of food was brought on in quart bowls, in a sort of hash form.\" During the first course, he recorded fried shark's fin and grated ham, stewed pigeon and bamboo soup, fish sinews with ham, stewed chicken with watercress, seaweed, stewed duck and bamboo soup, sponge cake, omelet cake, flower cake, banana fritters, and birds' nest soup. Some of the Americans mastered their spoons and chopsticks; others were given forks with which to sample their helpings of \"fish, flesh, fowl and vegetable substances, in a thousand forms undreamed of to French cooks and Caucasian housewives generally.\" A journalist from the _Chicago Tribune_ liked the shark's fin and ham\u2014\"a nice nutty flavor quite pleasant to taste\"\u2014and the bird's nest soup\u2014\"which I assure you _is_ a delicacy.\" Bowles was not so enthusiastic: \"every article, indeed, seemed to have had its original and real taste and strength dried or cooked out of it, and a common Chinese flavor put into it.\" The tea, however, was delicious and refreshing.\n\nAfter anywhere from 12 to 136 courses\u2014the attendees' accounts differ greatly\u2014the guests retired to the reception room to smoke, stretch their legs, and say goodbye to the heads of the Six Companies, who departed. The remaining portion of the dinner was hosted by the dozen or so leading Chinese merchants. After a \"peculiar performance\" by a Chinese musical group, everyone returned to the second floor for round two. The diners refreshed themselves with cups of cold tea and strong, rose-scented liquor, and the feast resumed: \"lichens and a fungus-like moss,\" more sharks' fins, stewed chestnuts with chicken, Chinese oysters (\"yellow and resurrected from the dried stage\"), another helping of stewed fungus, a stew of flour and white nuts, stewed mutton, roast ducks, rice soup, rice with ducks' eggs and pickled cucumbers, and ham and chicken soup, according to Bowles. Speeches of welcome and appreciation were exchanged. The party moved to the third floor again for a \"Chinese historical recitative song pitched on a key higher than Mount Shasta.\" When they returned, they discovered that the tables had been set for the dessert course, which was limited to a huge variety of fresh fruits. At the end, Richardson made a tally: Governor Bross had tasted every dish; he himself had tried around seventy; and Speaker Colfax had tried forty. \"The occasion was curious and memorable. Hereafter, upon every invitation, I shall sup with the Celestials, and say grace with all my heart.\" The _Tribune_ 's reporter wrote: \"For myself I shall always esteem myself peculiarly happy having made one with the party, in which there was so much to see and think of, albeit there was not much which we who speak only the Saxon tongue, could understandingly write about.\" But where was Bowles, who had sampled only about a dozen dishes?\n\nI went to the restaurant weak and hungry; but I found the one universal odor and flavor soon destroyed all appetite; and I fell back resignedly on a constitutional incapacity to use the chopsticks, and was sitting back in grim politeness through dinner number two, when there came an angel in disguise to my relief. The urbane chief of police of the city appeared and touched my shoulder: \"There is a gentleman at the door who wishes to see you, and would have you bring your hat and coat.\" There were visions of violated City ordinances and \"assisting\" at the police court the next morning. I thought, too, what a polite way this man has of arresting a stranger to the city. But, bowing my excuses to my pig-tail neighbor, I went joyfully to the unknown tribunal. A friend, a leading banker who had sat opposite to me during the evening, and had been called out a few moments before, welcomed me at the street door with: \"B\u2014, I knew you were suffering, and were hungry,\u2014let us go get something to eat,\u2014a good square meal!\" So we crossed to an American restaurant; the lost appetite came back; and mutton-chops, squabs, fried potatoes and a bottle of champagne soon restored us. My friend insisted that the second course of the Chinese dinner was only the first warmed over, and that was the object of the recess. However that might be,\u2014this is how I went to the grand Chinese dinner, and went out, when it was two-thirds over, and \"got something to eat.\"\n\nIn the 1860s, the white elites of San Francisco had no taste for Chinese food. Once or twice a year, they attended ceremonial banquets like this one, mainly to promote the business interests they shared with the Chinese merchants. They preferred the comforts and pretensions of the city's best French restaurants. (There, waiters who spoke \"French to the American and English to the Frenchman\" served them the customary menu of soup, \"fish, salad, two or three _entr\u00e9es_ , vegetables, roast, dessert, fruit and coffee, in their proper order and succession.\") These men were, however, very familiar with the sight of pigtailed Chinese on the streets. Tens of thousands of Asian immigrants lived in the city, many in the \"Chinese quarter\" centered on Dupont Street (now Grant Avenue). Whites patronized Chinese peddlers and laundrymen, bought Oriental curios and furniture at the Dupont Street dry goods stores, and did business with the big Chinese merchants like those who attended the Hong Heong banquet. For sixteen years, the whites and Chinese of San Francisco had been living in uneasy, but mostly peaceful, coexistence.\n\nIt was gold that brought them together on the Pacific coast of North America. During the first half of the nineteenth century, occasional Chinese sailors had turned up in the coastal towns. In mid-1848, a rumor had whispered across the Pearl River Delta, first brought by clipper ships to Hong Kong and then spreading to Macau and Guangzhou, that in a place called California, gold deposits lay so thick that a man could dig two or three pounds of the yellow metal in a day! Every clipper brought fresh details about the fabulous find. The news was discussed on the balconies of the big European trading firms, in the marketplaces, and even out in the country villages under the banyan trees. People from all nations were flocking to California to make their fortunes. There, prospectors became rich with gold but had nothing on which to spend their wealth. They needed food, tools, blankets, clothing, shoes, wood, and stone for houses; furniture, tableware, ornaments for the fine stores and mansions they would surely build; and, of course, food. Those goods took three months or more to arrive from New York or Boston; from Guangzhou, the journey took less than half the time. In the mines themselves and in the burgeoning city of San Francisco, the gateway to the gold fields, adventurous Chinese saw opportunity. So in early 1849, the first few dozen Chinese embarked for the place they called in Cantonese Gam Saan (Jinshan in Mandarin): Gold Mountain.\n\n_Figure 4.1. A Chinese restaurant on Dupont Street, San Francisco, in 1869. From the d\u00e9cor to the chopsticks, nearly all of its furnishings would have been imported from China._\n\nDeparting mainly from Hong Kong, the Chinese adventurers sailed across the Pacific via Manila and the Sandwich Islands (now Hawaii). When the clippers approached the California coast, the land was usually shrouded in fog, invisible except for a few coastal hills and far-off mountains looming above the white. To arrive at San Francisco, the ships sailed through the strait known as the Golden Gate and turned south into a broad bay. There they found boats from all over the world that had been abandoned by crews eager to find their fortunes in the mountains. As the Chinese were rowed ashore with the other passengers, they had a chance to examine the city, such as it was. At midcentury, San Francisco was mostly a raw assortment of canvas tents and one-story wooden houses connected by muddy streets and sand tracks that led off into the dunes. Three years earlier, this place had been an isolated village named Yerba Buena, population two hundred, occasionally visited by ships looking to load water or cattle hides. Now it was the busiest port on the Pacific coast; every clipper that stopped disgorged passengers and goods. There were no real warehouses, so boxes and merchandise piled up in streets crowded with a motley horde of treasure seekers. They were almost all men, from every state in the East, Oregon Territory, Canada, Mexico, the Pacific islands, Peru, Chile, France, England, Germany, Italy, Turkey, and China. All of them were looking for their best chance. On speculation, many had brought all kinds of commodities, from liquor to East Coast newspapers to mining shovels, which they hoped to unload at exorbitant prices. A ship captain on the Pacific route bought lumber in Guangzhou and hired a team of Chinese carpenters to assemble it into houses in San Francisco. Most of the Chinese who disembarked in 1849, however, were not contract laborers but merchants and adventurers who had purchased their own passage. Like the rest of the crowd on the city's sandy streets, they hoped to become rich in this new country, either in the gold diggings or by opening stores or other businesses, such as restaurants.\n\nSan Franciscans possessed a lot of ready gold, and they were hungry. Few of these men had real homes, with wives and servants to work in the kitchen, so they customarily took all three meals in restaurants. A young correspondent for the _New York Tribune_ , Bayard Taylor, found the culinary offerings far more diverse than plain American fare. \"The tastes of all nations can be gratified here,\" he wrote.\n\nThere are French restaurants on the plaza and on Dupont Street; an extensive German establishment on Pacific Street; the _Fonda Peruana_ ; the Italian Confectionary; and three Chinese houses, denoted by their long three-cornered flags of yellow silk. The latter are much frequented by Americans, on account of their excellent cookery, and the fact that meals are $1 each, without regard to quantity. Kong-Sung's house is near the water; Whang-Tong's in Sacramento Street, and Tong-Ling's in Jackson street. There the grave Celestials serve up their chow-chow and curry, besides many genuine English dishes; their tea and coffee cannot be surpassed.\n\nThe chief attraction of the first Chinese restaurants in North America was clearly the price\u2014all you could eat for $1.00, in the city where food probably cost more than anywhere else on the planet. Even a dish of steak and eggs and a cup of coffee in some grubby tent down by the docks ran $2.50. Another draw was the professionalism of the Chinese restaurateurs:\n\nI once went into an eating-house, kept by one of these people, and was astonished at the neat arrangements and cleanliness of the place, the excellence of the table, and moderate charges. It was styled the \"Canton Restaurant\"; and so thoroughly Chinese was it in its appointments, and in the manner of service, that one might have easily fancied oneself deep in the heart of the Celestial Empire. The barkeeper\u2014though he spoke excellent English\u2014was a Chinese, as were also the attendants.\n\nDespite the d\u00e9cor, these restaurants clearly served both Chinese and western dishes. The Englishman William Kelly wrote that \"they give dishes peculiar to each nation, over and above their own peculiar soups, curries and ragouts.\" Eager for novelty in a city where everything was new and strange, many diners sampled the Chinese side of the menu. William Shaw, another Englishman, reported: \"the dishes are mostly curries, hashes, and fricasees, served up in small dishes, and as they were exceedingly palatable, I was not curious enough to enquire as to the ingredients.\" Unfortunately, the descriptions of the food don't get more detailed than that. The \"curries\" were likely varieties of minced or diced meats in highly seasoned sauces, while the \"fricasees\" may have been stir-fries. In any case, it's probable that most diners ordered their dinners from the western side of the menu, where they could find \"English food\" like mutton chops. In short, the restaurateurs made sure that they served nothing that would shock western palates:\n\nDo not think, reader, that their larders were furnished as at Hong Kong, or Canton, \"with rats and mice, and such small deer,\" or that they would compel you to eat rice with _chop sticks_ , or that they would cram you with birds' nests. I had the curiosity to try them, the hazard notwithstanding, and found, to my gratification, that the viands were served up in true American style, with knives, forks, spoons, and all the other accessories of the table. Their coffee is excellent, and nothing is deficient but their skill in pastry.\n\nFrom the crosscultural sophistication of these establishments\u2014and the fact that their staffs spoke English\u2014we can guess that their owners probably learned their trade in Guangzhou or Hong Kong, catering to the European tastes and vigorous drinking habits of foreign merchants. In San Francisco, they found a location where customers' desire for good value and service, as well as sense of adventure, helped some restaurateurs amass modest fortunes.\n\nBy 1850, when it was recorded that four thousand Chinese were living in California, some merchants and restaurateurs had already amassed enough wealth to pull up stakes and sail back to the Pearl River Delta. The news of their return, and of the wealth one could acquire in California, sent shock waves through South China, where many caught \"gold fever.\" For every dozen Chinese who returned, hundreds departed. In 1851, about twenty-seven hundred Chinese arrived in San Francisco; a year later, the number was almost twenty thousand. Chinese men, dressed in their distinctive wide straw hats, loose jackets and trousers, and oversize boots, streamed off clipper ships. Each carried his bedroll, clothes, and provisions (mainly rice, dried seafood, and seasonings) in baskets suspended on a bamboo rod. During the first years of the Gold Rush, the Chinese came from all parts of the Pearl River Delta and represented a wide variety of social classes, from merchant to artisan to laborer. Later, the immigrants increasingly came from the poor district of Sze Yap and traveled not as free men but as contract workers destined to work off the prices of their tickets in the mines. After they passed through customs, they were met by agents of the big San Francisco Chinese merchants, who were all associated with the \"Six Companies\" representing different districts of the delta. Taking the place of the traditional clan associations, the Six Companies mediated disputes, administered punishments, acted as insurance companies and banks, shipped the dead back home, and negotiated relations between their countrymen and the larger non-Chinese community. These merchants had usually already contracted the immigrants' labor to American mine owners, and new arrivals spent no more than a few days in San Francisco before they were transported by river boat, wagon, or foot to the harsh terrain of the gold fields.\n\nIn California and eventually the rest of the American West, the mining districts were a scene of intense economic competition. Men were drawn to the region not as pioneers or nation-builders but to get rich as quickly as possible. California's governmental institutions were hastily formed\u2014the state capital moved seven times between 1850 and 1854\u2014and could easily be swayed by big business or mob rule. Violence seethed just below the surface, with drunkenness everywhere. The crime rate was sky-high; the only justice was frequently the vigilante's rope. In the gold fields, American prospectors discovered that they had to contend with foreign miners, particularly the more experienced Mexicans, Chileans, and Peruvians. The Americans' response was to hang a few of the foreign miners on trumped-up charges and expel the rest at gunpoint. Their excuse was that the foreigners were likely criminals, the dregs of their native countries and \"innately depraved.\" The real motive was fear that the foreigners would outdig the \"freedom-loving\" American miners. At first, few Chinese worked in the mines; then in 1852, over the space of a few months, \"the surplus and inferior population of Asia\" appeared at every gold field. Concerns rose that the big mine owners would hire masses of Chinese and overwhelm the independent operators. Americans immediately noticed everything that made the Chinese different, from their \"chattering\" language to the way they wore their hair in queues to what they ate.\n\nIf there is one class of \"nasty furriners\" . . . more ill-favored, unfortunate and forlorn among us than another, it certainly must be the Chinese. . . . They are sunk immeasurably lower than the native Indians, in the estimation of the miners. Lower than the beasts that prey upon the flesh of inferior animals, for the bear it is said, will turn from tainted meat, whereas \"John\" despises nothing of the creeping or crawling kind. Rats, lizards, mud-terrapins, rank and indigestible shell fish, \"and such small deer,\" have been, and continue to be, the food of the \"no ways particklar\" Celestial, where flour, beef and bacon, and other food suitable to the stomachs of \"white folk\" abound.\n\nEchoing this sentiment, the authors of the 1855 _Annals of San Francisco_ reported that the \"manners of the Chinese are very repugnant to Americans in California. Of different language, blood, religion and character, inferior in most mental and bodily qualities, the Chinaman is looked upon by some as only a little superior to the negro, and by others as somewhat inferior.\" Newspapers reported that the bill of fare in a San Francisco Chinese restaurant read: \"Cat Cutlet, 25 cents; Griddled Rats 6 cents; Dog Soup, 12 cents; Roast Dog, 18 cents; Dog Pie, 6 cents.\" John Bigler, the governor of California, fanned nativist sympathies in a reelection campaign; he was the first American politician to seize on the anti-Chinese issue, pushing bills to ban contract labor and tax foreign workers. These measures were opposed, with more or less success, by a coalition of merchants (both white and Chinese) and ship owners who saw that the Chinese were good for business, and by missionaries trying to save Chinese souls. Californians' anti-Chinese feelings nevertheless continued to fester, fueled by a series of articles by Bayard Taylor that were widely reprinted in the local papers. (He had already earned renown with his 1850 _Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire_ , one of the earliest accounts of the Gold Rush.)\n\n\"Tall, erect, active looking and manly, with an aquiline nose, bright, loving eyes, and the dark, ringleted hair with which we endow, in ideal, the head of poets,\" Taylor was one of the great Romantic figures of nineteenth-century American literature. He considered himself a poet, worked as a journalist and editor, and gained fame as the first bestselling American travel writer. This was the era of Manifest Destiny, when Americans began to explore their place in the larger world. Combining Romantic adventure with a broad sense of cultural superiority, Taylor's travel writings made him a wealthy man (though his florid poetry did not sell nearly so well). His first travel book, _Views A-Foot_ , on Europe, was only mildly overheated; _Eldorado_ , his second, was a more straightforward journalistic account of his trip to California and Mexico. He described the various races he encountered in San Francisco without bias, and on his return trip via Mexico befriended the portly, smiling Chinese owner of Mazatlan's Fonda de Canton hotel. In August 1851, Taylor embarked on a journey around the world. On this trip, which he turned into three separate books, he let loose his poetic sensibility. In Syria, for example, he donned a burnoose and a turban, strode through the lowest byways of the native bazaars, and ate \"hasheesh,\" which gave him hallucinations worthy of Coleridge. With his poet's eye, he judged the architecture, music, customs, and, perhaps most critically, the physiques of the peoples he visited. His ideal came straight from the muscular symmetry portrayed in Greek sculpture, which he found in Arabs but not in Africans or the Chinese, whom he first encountered in large numbers in Singapore: \"Their dull faces, without expression, unless a coarse glimmering of sensuality may be called such, and their half-naked, unsymmetrical bodies, more like figures of yellow clay than warm flesh and blood, filled me with an unconquerable aversion.\" He nevertheless continued to China, landing first in Hong Kong and then at Shanghai.\n\nThere he found two American missionaries to act as his guides: Charles Taylor (whom we met in chapter 2) and M. T. Yates, both Protestants. They piloted the young writer through the narrow streets of Shanghai's Chinese city, feeding him \"explanations of the many curious scenes\" they passed. He visited temples, shops, pawnshops, tea gardens, street vendors, and prisons; he was even invited to a Chinese banquet, whose dishes he found \"numerous and palatable, but hardly substantial enough for a civilized taste.\" Overall, he was overwhelmed by the \"disgusting annoyances of a Chinese city\"\u2014the ever-present filth, ragged beggars, and vile smells. Strangely, the encounter that sent him into his greatest outpouring of revulsion was the \"absolutely loathsome and repulsive\" sight of a prize Chinese flower at a local horticultural show.\n\nThe only taste which the Chinese exhibit to any degree, is a love of the monstrous. That sentiment of harmony, which throbbed like a musical rhythm through the life of the Greeks, never looked out of their oblique eyes. . . . They admire whatever is distorted or unnatural, and the wider its divergence from its original beauty or symmetry, the greater is their delight. This mental idiosyncrasy includes a moral one, of similar character. It is my deliberate opinion that the Chinese are, morally, the most debased people of the face of the earth. Forms of vice which in other countries are barely named, are in China so common, that they excite no comment among the natives. . . . Their touch is pollution, and, harsh as the opinion may seem, justice to our own race demands that they should not be allowed to settle on our soil.\n\nTaylor's missionary guides undoubtedly drew his attention to all those \"forms of vice,\" probably including female infanticide, gambling, eating dogs and cats, and opium smoking (a practice Taylor himself tried out). Declaring China \"the best country in the world\u2014 _to leave_ ,\" Taylor's widely reprinted travel letters first came out in the _New York Tribune_ and then in many editions of his 1855 bestseller _A Visit to India, China, and Japan_. For at least the next three decades, his harsh judgments had an outsized influence on the debate over the place of Chinese immigrants in the United States.\n\nDespite this simmering racism, and occasional outbreaks of violence, the immigrants from the Pearl River Delta were by and large tolerated during the late 1850s and early 1860s. Those who arrived in California during this era were determined to earn their fortunes peacefully and by following the traditions they had long practiced in East Asia. The English adventurer Frederick Whymper, who encountered Chinese in both western Canada and California, writes admiringly of their persistence in keeping their culinary culture:\n\nIn the mining districts, \"John Chinaman\" is to be seen travelling through the country, carrying his traps on either end of a long pole, in the style depicted on the tea chests familiar to us from earliest childhood. In this manner he \"packs\" much larger loads than the ordinary traveller. The writer well remembers a Chinaman he met carrying at one end of his stick a bag of rice, a pick and shovel, a pair of extra pantaloons, a frying pan, and a billy-pot [for tea]; whilst from the other depended a coop of fowls and chickens, of which \"John\" is devotedly fond. In this respect he is wiser than his betters; for while the ordinary \"honest miner\" is feeding on beans, bacon, and tea, he has eggs and chickens with his rice and is very diligent in searching out and utilising wild onions, berries, and roots. In 1865, a number of Chinamen arrived at intervals, in several vessels, at Vancouver, V.I., and a few hours after landing they invariably found their way into the woods, or on to the sea-beach, where they collected shell fish and many kinds of sea-weed, which they stewed and fried in various shapes.\n\nBefore leaving China, the immigrants packed provisions for the journey, including rice, dried seafood and sausages, and ceramic jars of condiments like soy sauce and pickled vegetables. Although these provisions ran out quickly after landing in California, the new arrivals did not have to adopt the local, pork-and-beans-based American diet. By the early 1850s, San Francisco was home to a number of Chinese stores specializing in products from the Middle Kingdom, including \"hams, tea, dried fish, dried ducks, and other very nasty-looking Chinese eatables, besides copper-pots and kettles.\" An 1856 directory of the city's Chinese quarter listed thirty-three stores selling \"General Merchandise, Groceries, &c.\" These merchants ordered their wares either directly from China or from the big import-export firms that were already established\u2014branches of Chinese companies in Guangzhou or, more likely, Hong Kong that became known as _gam saan chung_ \u2014\"Gold Mountain firms.\" In 1873, the journalist Albert S. Evans recorded the cargo of a ship whose wares were destined for San Francisco merchants:\n\n90 packages cassia; 940 packages coffee, from Java and Manila; 192 packages fire-crackers; 30 packages dried fish, cuttle-fish, shark's fins, etc.; 400 packages hemp; 116 packages miscellaneous merchandise, lacquered goods, porcelain-ware, and things for which we have no special names; 53 packages medicines; 18 packages opium; 16 packages plants; 20 packages potatoes; 2,755 packages rice; 1,238 packages sundries,\u2014chow-chow [probably pickles], preserved fruit, salted melon-seeds, dried ducks, pickled ducks' eggs, cabbage sprouts in brine, candied citron, dates, dwarf oranges, ginger, smoked oysters, and a hundred other Chinese edibles and table luxuries; 824 packages sugar; 20 packages silks; 203 packages sago and tapioca; 5,463 packages tea; 27 packages tin.\n\nThis was a culinary bounty that could easily supply a gourmet restaurant like Hong Heong; all they needed to complete their banquets were fresh meat and produce (and even the imported \"dwarf oranges,\" either mandarins or kumquats, may have been fresh). The San Francisco import-export firms either sold the ingredients on this list to local restaurants and groceries or shipped them to Chinese stores in the new settlements that were arising in the foothills. In Chew Lung's store in the Chinese mining camp at Camanche, for example, nearly every item\u2014including the scales, cooking pots, bowls, tobacco, rice, tea, sugar, ginger, and cooking oil\u2014came from across the Pacific. The exceptions were the gin and the salt fish, which may have been a local product.\n\nImmigrants from the Pearl River Delta, with its centuries-old fishing tradition, saw the economic and culinary possibilities of California's rich sea life very early. By 1855, they had built dozens of Chinese fishing villages around San Francisco Bay and along the central California coast. They caught Pacific salmon and squid, collected red, black, and green abalone in the intertidal zone, and netted shrimp, minnows, and other fish. They even built Chinese-style fishing junks from which they tended their nets. Some of the catch was delivered fresh to markets and street vendors for retail sales, but most of it was boiled in salted water and dried. It could then be shipped into the mountains, where the Chinese miners used it to season their rice, or more likely packed for transport back to China, where the appetite for dried seafood was nearly inexhaustible. By the 1850s, it was estimated that roughly a thousand Chinese fishermen were working San Francisco Bay. Their methods were so efficient and the mesh on their bag nets so fine that the other fishermen complained that they were clearing every swimming thing out of the bay. Enforcement of fishing laws was impossible: the Chinese simply paid their fines or did their jail time and then returned to the same practices. One journalist estimated that $1 million worth of dried shrimp and fish\u2014including sturgeon sinews, a Chinese delicacy\u2014was being shipped back to China every year. Despite these complaints, and competition from Italian and Portuguese immigrants, the junks sailed in California waters until the twentieth century, when the large-scale Chinese fishing industry finally dwindled away.\n\nFrom San Francisco's residential districts to the far-flung mining camps, the Chinese produce peddler was a regular sight on the dusty streets and paths:\n\nWe have Chinese vegetable peddlers, who, braving the vicious boys, wicked men, and ugly dogs, visit every part of the city, and travel far out over the sand-hills to supply their regular customers. These men rise long before daylight and go to the great markets and to the market-wagons, fill their panniers and then return home to breakfast; after which they sally out, each man on his regular route, to return to their lodging-houses about noon with a few more dimes in their pockets than they spent at the market in the morning. It would astonish some persons should they look into a pair of these panniers, to see what a variety of articles they may contain\u2014cabbage, beans, peas, and celery; potatoes, turnips, carrots, and parsnips; apples, pears, and the small fruits; with fish, and _bouquets_.\n\n_Figure 4.2. A painter's depiction of a Chinese fishmonger with his wares, late nineteenth century. White fishermen complained that their Chinese competitors were stripping San Francisco Bay of all living sea creatures._\n\nMuch of this produce was grown on the small Chinese garden plots that ringed many communities and on larger farms tilled by Chinese owners or leaseholders. Using skills learned on the intensively cultivated plots of the Pearl River Delta, the immigrants had begun to grow vegetables soon after arriving\u2014at first, the greens were for their own use, as they craved fresh toppings for their midday rice. But as they learned the business, and how to grow food crops in the dry but temperate California climate, they came to dominate this agricultural niche; some writers claimed that their labor fed all of San Francisco.\n\nAs in the fishing industry, a cultural clash soon arose over traditional Pearl River Delta farming methods. In Auburn, the \"miasmata\" arising from Chinese gardens supposedly caused diseases:\n\nThe evil consists mainly in the Chinese mode of cultivation, which is filthy and disgusting in the extreme. Their gardens are made on low grounds, and the soil is stimulated to rank productiveness by the application of the most offensive manures. Large holes are excavated in the ground, which are filled with human ordure, dead animals, and every imaginable kind of filth, water is added, and the feculent mass is left to thoroughly decompose, when it is ladled and scattered broadcast over the garden.\n\nThe result of these methods was vegetables that \"acquire a richness of flavor grateful to Chinese stomachs, but intolerable to most white palates.\" In fact, most whites were able to overcome their finer feelings and purchase the familiar corn, squash, peas, tomatoes, lettuce, and the like. The farmers also grew elongated Asian radishes, unfamiliar cabbages, bitter melons, foot-long string beans, and so on, destined solely for Chinese consumers.\n\nThanks to their imports, as well as farming and fishing, the Chinese of California clearly had the raw materials to replicate even the finest dishes of Cantonese cuisine. In 1853, a writer for the _San Francisco Whig_ was \"escorted to the crack Chinese restaurant on Dupont street called Hong fa-lo, where a circular table was set out in fine style.\" This eatery may have been the earliest incarnation of Chinatown's famous Hang Far Low restaurant, at 713 and then 723 Grant Avenue, which finally closed in 1960. The evening's host, a merchant named Key Chong, had spared no expense; birds' nests, sea cucumbers, and mushrooms that cost $3 a pound were among the dishes. The other ingredients included fish, dried oysters, \"China lobster,\" ducks, \"stewed acorns,\" chestnuts, sausages, shrimps, and periwinkles. The whites in attendance were often flummoxed as to what they were eating. According to the newspaper, the menu included \"Course No. 2\u2014Won Fo (a dish oblivious to us, and not mentioned in the Cook Book). No. 3\u2014Ton-Song, (ditto likewise). No. 4\u2014Tap Fan, (another quien sabe).\" Despite the author's humorous take, he and the other white guests seem to have genuinely enjoyed their meal:\n\n_Figure 4.3. A Chinese peddler sells fruit and vegetables to a San Francisco housewife. These peddlers were a common sight in western cities and towns._\n\nWe came away, after three hours sitting, fully convinced that a China dinner is a costly and elaborate affair, worthy the attention of epicures. From this time henceforth we are in the field for China against any insinuations on the question of diet a la rat, which we pronounce a tale of untruth. We beg leave to return our thanks to our host, Key Chong, for his elegant entertainment which one conversant with the Chinese bill of fare informs us must have cost over $100. Vive la China\n\nIt was rare, but not unheard-of, for non-Chinese San Franciscans to initiate a Chinese banquet. In 1857, four \"claiming to be white\u2014one a Maj. U.S. Army\u2014two Capts.\u2014and one legal gentleman\" decided to enjoy a \"dinner got up in the most approved style of the Celestials, laying aside everything like fastidiousness in regard to material or taste, conforming to, and partaking of, the full course, come as it might, whether fricasseed monkey or baked rats made any part of the bill of fare or not.\" They invited along Lee Kan, a Chinese newspaper editor who arranged the meal, as well as an important Chinese merchant and the head of the Sze Yap Company. The name and location of the restaurant was not recorded, but it possessed a \"sumptuous dining-hall, furnished with all the elegancies and appurtenances believed by the Chinese to be indispensable to such an apartment.\" The first course would have done justice to a wealthy merchant's kitchen back in Guangzhou and included soups of birds' nest and sharks' fin, \"calf's throat cut in imitation of mammoth centipedes,\" quails, duck feet, fish maws, sea cucumbers, crab balls, and herring heads. The whites attempted to down these delicacies using chopsticks and failed. When they saw that their Chinese guests were way ahead of them, they \"felt constrained to resort to knife, fork, and spoon, in self defense.\" Then, on to the second half of the meal:\n\nTea; cake made of rice flour; water nuts, called in Chinese Ma Tai and truly delicious; preserved water lily seeds; pomelo, a kind of orange, preserved; Chinese plums; jelly made from sea-weed; ducks' hearts and gizzards with shrimps; cakes of minced pork and other ingredients of doubtful character; fish gelatine; eggs preserved in ley [thousand-year-old eggs?] and oil\u2014very fine; almonds salted and baked; oranges; preserved water melon seeds; two other kinds of cake made from rice flour; cigars; white wine, made from rice; a third proof liquor made from rice; and finishing off with an opium smoke, and Chinese cigaritas.\n\nThose cakes of \"doubtful character\" are probably dim sum, which often accompanied Chinese banquets of this magnitude. Three days and nine hours after this unique event, a participant wrote, \"We are all alive!\" He never indicates whether or not he enjoyed the food, but he does give a warning: the bill was $42, an astronomical sum for post\u2013Gold Rush San Francisco. Nevertheless, he says, it was worth it; the memory, and probably the bragging rights, would \"last us as long as we live.\" Of course, these wealthy diners were an exception. The only Chinese-owned restaurants that most whites entered in post\u2013Gold Rush San Francisco were the myriad cheap caf\u00e9s where they could chew on a gristly steak or plate of pork and beans, not Chinese food.\n\nDuring the late 1860s and 1870s, San Francisco had well over a dozen Chinese restaurants, including three or four elaborate, multistory establishments whose chefs could prepare banquets featuring the same costly ingredients and sophisticated preparations used by Guangzhou's finest chefs. These did not draw regular customers from the non-Chinese population, as whites picked up on the sentiments first expressed in the _Chinese Repository_ decades earlier, that the dishes were on the whole inedible:\n\nalmost everything has the same taste of nut oil sicklied over all, and few western palates can endure even the most delicate of their dishes. Shark's fins, stewed bamboo, duck's eggs boiled, baked and stewed in oil, pork disguised in hot sauces, and other things like these, are the standard dishes of a Chinese bill of fare, though they have an infinite variety of sweetmeats which are really palatable, and of sweetcakes, which are inviting in their quaint, odd forms and decorations, but are ashes and wormwood to taste.\n\nMoreover, a rumor spread that the chefs used the same unclean methods as the neighborhood Chinese laundrymen:\n\nIn the preparation of sauces he even surpasses Soyer's countrymen. The art with which Chinese washermen regulate the fineness and direction of the spray from his [ _sic_ ] mouth upon the garments, has been a source of admiration to the uninitiated. Their admiration would increase were they to witness the dexterity with which the cook would mix the various condiments by blowing from his mouth the exact quantity needed by the dish before him. Many dishes depend entirely on adjuncts for savor; and the taste as a rule inclines to rancid oil and doubtful lard.\n\nBehind this disgust was more than simple differences in taste. Agitation against the presence of Chinese in the West was growing, and it became politically and socially dangerous to admit to having a taste for Chinese cuisine.\n\nIn fact, culinary prejudices were so deep that even those few local whites who supported Chinese rights could not stomach their food. The New York\u2013born Methodist minister Otis Gibson had labored for 10 years in Fujian Province. When he moved to San Francisco to continue his mission, he was shocked at the \"ignorance, bigotry, prejudice and selfishness\" of the anti-Chinese crusaders, who also targeted missionaries like himself. Although his 1877 book _The Chinese in America_ does exhibit old missionary intolerance\u2014\"the mass of [Chinese] people are untruthful, selfish and cruel\"\u2014he strongly defends the Chinese presence in the American West. His reasons were partly economic (the Chinese were good for business) and partly moral (the Chinese in their sins were no worse than the American masses). Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to enjoy the food, due to the same problematic flavor of \"rancid oil or strong butter.\" Yet when missionary guests from the East arrived, he set aside his culinary objections and showed them the wonders of the Chinese quarter:\n\nIn company with the Rev. Dr. Newman, Mrs. Newman, and Rev. Dr. Sunderland, of Washington City, and Dr. J T. M'Lean, of San Francisco, I once took a Chinese dinner at the restaurant on Jackson Street. Dr. Newman took hold and ate like a hungry man, and when I thought he must be about filled, he astonished me by saying that the meats were excellent, and were it not that he had to deliver a lecture that evening, he would take hold and eat a good hearty dinner. Dr. Sunderland did not seem to relish things quite so well. But Mrs. Newman relishing some of the meats, and failing to get the pieces to her mouth with the chopsticks, wisely threw aside all conventional notions, used her fingers instead of chopsticks, and, as the Californians would say, \"ate a square meal.\"\n\nIn nineteenth-century America, the idea of a cultured, Christian lady tossing aside manners to stuff herself with strange pagan food was shocking. Then again, these were visitors from the East, perhaps with more sophisticated ideas of right and wrong.\n\nIn fact, tourists often eagerly embraced the experience of eating in the quarter now known as Chinatown. San Franciscans only visited the district if they had to; but visitors from the East and Europe considered it a must-see stop on the city's tourist trail. According to one local correspondent, the typical tourist \"wants to see it all\":\n\nHe wants to be shocked by the Oriental depravity that he has heard so much about, or if he is one of the large class who believes that the Chinese are a much-maligned race of virtuous and enlightened people, he desires to see for himself that John Chinaman has been libeled . . . . The great majority indulge in this Oriental \"slumming.\" They come out of it with a confused impression of tortuous alleys, underground dens reeking with the odor of tobacco and opium, and faces so villainous that they haunt one's dreams like the Malay that tyrannized over De Quincey's opium-fed imagination.\n\nTo see beyond the facades of the curio shops to the \"inside\" Chinatown, tourists would hire a local police officer, particularly for nighttime tours of the district's netherworld. The itinerary usually included the Chinese temple, a barber shop, the Chinese theater, a \"thieves' lodging house\" (where one officer amused visitors by \"playfully jerking the long cue of one or two Chinamen he could reach without trouble\"), a gambling hall, an opium den, and a restaurant or two.\n\nPaying 5 or 10 cents a meal, the mass of Chinese city-dwellers of modest means found regular sustenance at these eateries, which were usually below street level and furnished with benches and tables that served as beds at night. Typically, the kitchen setup was of the most basic kind, \"with its rickety little furnace, lumps of pork frying and sputtering, bowls of rice, square bags of sausage meat, fruit, fresh and dried fish, chop sticks of the approved style, and a general flavor of the cook shop grown old and stale.\" The tourists would never think of eating at one of these establishments, but they did like to peek into the pots:\n\nThe raw material, so far as we could see with our inexperienced eyes, consisted of the sprouts growing out of potato-eyes, pig's (or dog's) ears pickled, and green leeks. (Now, I don't want to say anything mean against the Chinese; but I do believe that the funny little things we saw at the bottom of a deep earthen jar were rat's-tails skinned).\n\nThe local Chinese also ate at their places of work, which were equipped with kitchens and dining areas. The employees of a well-to-do merchant enjoyed the traditional communal meals: \"Their meat and vegetables are hashed, or cut into small pieces, and are brought to the table in a common dish, from which each one helps himself with his chopsticks. It is the usual custom to have two meals a day, one about eleven o'clock, and the other late in the afternoon.\" At the opposite end of the spectrum, the district's poorest residents could buy from street vendors who sold \"fish, vegetables, rice-cakes and innumerable nameless Chinese comestibles,\" or cooked modest meals on small charcoal braziers set up on balconies or even in apartments, creating one more Chinese threat for nativist agitators to attack.\n\nThe other culinary sight on the typical Chinatown tour was one of the fancy, three-story banquet restaurants, like Hong Heong. Sometimes the tourists went in simply to stare at the diners, but more often they actually sat down for a bite to eat:\n\nTry some of this unbaked biscuit with the red letter painted on top. It is a sort of pallid doughball or dumpling filled with dark and finely cut meat: it certainly does not look edible, and its faint flavor suggests\u2014well, nothing at all: it is entirely negative. Then here is a block of pure white marble two inches square, and on its polished top again the red-painted character: this is fairly artistic in its perfect resemblance to a block of stone with clear-cut edges and sharp corners. It is some preparation of rice flour, about the consistency of stiff jelly or blanc-mange, and is of a pleasantly sweetish taste and fairly good, or at least very unobjectionable as food. We are getting reassured and bold: let us try a sample of this yellow affair. It is round like a biscuit, but a brilliant saffron-yellow in color, with of course the omnipresent red character painted on top. Shut your eyes and bite boldly. Dust and ashes! what can this be? Do they use the sacred dust of their ancestors to feed the barbarian on? Bah! this mouldy medicinal taste, this mouthful of dry yellow ashes, is positively nasty. No more, thank you! and please pass the sweetmeats: let us forget in the familiar taste of ginger this tidbit from the tombs. Finish, if you like, with the dried sweets and the pellucid and cloying syrups: I have had enough, and shall be glad to get out.\n\nWhat this author is describing, of course, is a meal of dim sum\u2014tea with some savory and sweet snacks. The \"pallid doughball\" is probably _char siu bau_ , a steamed roast pork bun, while the block of \"marble\" is likely an almond-flavored agar jelly, both mainstays of the dim sum table. The tourists usually tried them once\u2014for the adventure and so they could tell their neighbors back home about it\u2014and then returned to more traditional restaurant fare. For the Chinese of San Francisco, these snacks may have been largely an upper-class pleasure. In 1868, the _Overland Monthly_ reported that the \"tea gardens and tea halls\" of the Middle Kingdom had been replaced by \"the restaurant and coffee stand\": \"These are much frequented on holidays and at evening. But California Chinese are frequently seen calling for the cup of coffee and cigar, instead of the tea cup and the long pipe with the mild Chinese tobacco.\"\n\nEventually, a few white San Franciscans swallowed their prejudices and began to frequent a handful of Chinese restaurants, including Tune Fong's at 710 Jackson Street. What drew them was not food but fine, aromatic Chinese tea: \"genuine, delicate, strong as old wine of the cob-webbed vintage of '36. This was what our grandmothers who chinked up their hearts on 'washing-days' with Cowper's 'cup that cheers,' sighed for, and like the ancient leader, died without the sight. It sets tongues running.\" For local artists under the influence of the Orientalist aesthetic, the ritual of tea preparation was also a ceremony worthy of admiration:\n\n_Figure 4.4. A lavish San Francisco banquet restaurant, c. 1905, the year before the great earthquake. Tourists visited these eateries for Chinese teas and sweets, not full meals. Tourists drawn to the d\u00e9cor of multi-story banquet restaurants were sometimes tempted to try the food, but it was not until after the 1906 earthquake that Chinese cuisine gained traction with California European-Americans._\n\nWatch him as he brings the tea, and learn the only true and proper way to concoct the beverage. First, two little pewter holders, in which the cups are set, and so prevented from tipping; then some tea leaves, I don't know how many or how much; then the cups are filled with boiling, fiery, red-hot water, and covered in a trice with saucers fitting just inside their rims. We stand our cups in saucers; he stands his saucers upside down in the cup. The tea-kettle, though, is a regular copper-bottomed Yankee affair, not particularly pleasing, perhaps, to the aesthetic eye, but encouraging, as a sign of the advance of our Western civilization. After waiting five minutes or so, take the cup with the thumb and second finger, with the forefinger resting on the cover, and tilting it gently, pour the tea\u2014real tea it is\u2014into that other cup standing before you. Skillfully done, you will have a cupful of amber, with the perfume of \"Araby the Blest.\"\n\n(Of course, tea came from East Asia, not the Middle East, but never mind.) Chinese restaurateurs learned that white tea-drinkers had no stomach for the savory side of the dim sum menu. With the beverage, they now only served sweets: ginger chow-chow, candied and pickled fruits, and the like. The repast became more like English afternoon tea, an established part of the European American culinary tradition, than the traditional Cantonese morning snack. Most white San Franciscans did not acquire a taste for any other type of Chinatown meal until after Chinatown itself was transformed in the wake of the great earthquake of 1906 (see chapter 5).\n\nDespite their aversion to the food of China, many white city residents had Chinese cooks in their home kitchens and regularly ate western food prepared by Chinese hands. The average middle- and upper-class household needed servants to clean, wash, shop, deal with tradespeople, and cook. In San Francisco in the 1860s and 1870s, the choice was between Irish and Chinese servants, and most chose the latter: \"Irish house-servants demand $25 and $30 per month for chamber-work, cooking, or general housework. The Chinese, who as soon as they learn a little English, are much superior to the Irish as servants, ask $12 to $16.\" The \"Bridgets,\" as the Irish servants were known, had a reputation for being stubborn and wasteful; the Chinese were considered quick and careful, if a little devious. One housewife found her perfect servant in one Hop Sing. After a little glitch was straightened out (he secretly rented his basement room in the family home to \"a goodly throng of unwashed Celestials\") he became a trusted servant: \"And he was such a cook! Beefsteaks tender and juicy, roasts done to perfection, feathery breakfast cakes, and delicious bread regularly proceeded from his bony yellow hands. His teaspoonful of soda or cream of tartar was judiciously piled to the same height at each baking, and the result was that he could always be depended upon.\" When he had saved $600, his employer wrote, he planned to return home and \"live like a grandee on lizard pies and rat catsup for the rest of his life.\" One couple with three children had a \"white woman\" to take care of the upstairs tasks and a Chinese cook in the kitchen, where he prepared \"a divine salad, an incomparable lemon pie, and coffee that is a continual temptation.\" In many households, the work in the kitchen was probably more like this lesson from a phrasebook for Chinese immigrants: \"Boil some wa-ter. Boil the rice. Cook the meat. Bake the bread. Make tea. Get some bread. Broil some beef. Fry the beef rare. It is not done yet. It is done. Come to din-ner.\" We never hear of Chinese cooks preparing their own dishes in whites' kitchens, although they presumably cooked rice and toppings and the like for their own consumption. Nor is there any evidence that white employers were curious about whether their Chinese cooks really ate lizard pie and rat catsup. The stereotype of Chinese food as odd, smelly, and repulsive was so ingrained that no housewife would think of tasting it, even in the privacy of her own kitchen.\n\nSan Francisco's Chinese community was North America's largest and most vibrant but by no means the only one in California or in the American West. From the earliest days of the Gold Rush, Chinese immigrants pursued opportunities that took them to some of the rawest and most remote outposts in North America and carried their culinary traditions with them. A provision network that transported foodstuffs, kitchen equipment, and tableware extended from the Pearl River Delta to San Francisco, up to the gold fields via Sacramento or Stockton, and further into the interior. In 1856, the missionary William Speer wrote that miners up in the hills could buy Chinese rice, tea, soy sauce, preserves, sugar, and candy, as well as Asian spices like star anise, cassia, \"China root\" (probably of the sarsaparilla family), cubeb, galangal, and turmeric. In addition to these imports, the miners consumed \"potatoes, cabbage, pork, chickens, flour, and almost every article of vegetables raised in this State.\" The daily diet of the Chinese workmen was the South China staple of rice with a little vegetable or meat as seasoning. Whatever food they bought they supplemented with what they gathered or grew in little gardens next to their camps. On holidays they liked to splurge. In 1857, a miner and storekeeper named Herman Francis Reinhart, who probably lived on salt pork, beans, pancakes, and coffee, was invited to dine at a nearby Chinese camp on Sucker Creek:\n\nThey were called very frugal in their meals and considered close to their provision as to cheapness but these I knew [had] once invited a lot of us storekeepers to a great dinner for the Americans, and they had a special table with the best of victuals, such as pies, cakes, roast pig, oysters in soup, or oyster pie, and all kind of can goods and fresh meats the market afforded in great profusion. And only us white[s were assigned] to the same table; they had their own table to themselves, and they waited on us as gentlemen; after eating they had wine and lemonade and nuts and oranges, figs and raisins and apples\u2014in fact, as well got up as we could have done ourselfs.\n\nFrom San Francisco, Chinese immigrants also moved north and south along the Pacific coast, finding work in farming, fishing, and logging, and further inland as they followed the trail of gold and silver. In 1859, just as California's gold mines were becoming depleted, an enormous silver lode was discovered just over the border at Virginia City, in what would become Nevada Territory. In the rush that followed, the Chinese came to dig wealth out of the mines or to earn their livings as shopkeepers, vegetable gardeners, laundrymen, servants, or cooks. At its height, Virginia City's \"Chinese quarter\" had a population of seven hundred (out of a total of twenty-five thousand), mostly living in a jumble of one-story wooden buildings. In 1863 or 1864, a young writer who used the pen name Mark Twain described a tour of this district for the local _Territorial Enterprise_ , including a visit to a Chinese store:\n\nMr. Ah Sing keeps a general grocery and provision store at No. 13 Wang Street. He lavished his hospitality upon our party in the friendliest way. He had various kinds of colored and colorless wines and brandies, with unpronounceable names, imported from China in little crockery jugs, and which he offered to us in dainty little miniature wash-basins of porcelain. He offered us a mess of birds'-nests; also, small, neat sausages, of which we could have swallowed several yards if we had chosen to try, but we suspected that each link contained the corpse of a mouse and therefore restrained. Mr. Sing had in his store a thousand articles of merchandise, curious to behold, impossible to imagine the uses of, and beyond our ability to describe. His ducks, however, and his eggs, we could understand; the former were split open and flattened out like codfish, and came from China in that shape, and the latter were plastered over with some kind of paste which kept them fresh and palatable through the long voyage.\n\nThe latter were probably palatable only to the Chinese, because they sound exactly like thousand-year-old eggs, with their distinct odor of sulfur and ammonia. Despite Twain's obvious biases against Chinese food, he did stop in a \"celestial\" restaurant to sample some \"chow-chow with chop-sticks.\" This account is a rarity, one of the only descriptions we have of a white eating Chinese food in the western territories. In fact, most of what we know about the diet of Chinese in the interior West comes from archaeological excavations. Even in the most remote mining districts of northern Idaho, with their short growing seasons, the Chinese planted vegetable gardens in which they raised both their own sustenance and cash crops. They also purchased imported provisions from San Francisco. In Pierce, Idaho, a mining camp where hundreds of Chinese lived during the 1860s, archaeologists have found soy sauce jars, ceramic pots for imported pickles, and cans of vegetable oil for cooking. Despite great distance and adversity, the Chinese miners still managed to find ways to enjoy the foods of their native land, somewhat augmented by the miraculous canned American specialties like corned beef and oysters.\n\nIn 1865, the railroad magnate Charles Crocker hired fifty Chinese men as an experiment. Construction had just begun on the Central Pacific Railroad, which would link California and the East, and he was having trouble finding workers. The whites he found, mainly Irish immigrants, were often drunk and unruly, so he decided to try Chinese laborers. By 1868, the Central Pacific's workforce included twelve Chinese men who were digging and blasting their way through some of the most treacherous mountain passes in the West. The white laborers had been hired as individuals; the Chinese were hired in work gangs, each with its own Chinese \"agent,\" who mediated with the contractors, and its own Chinese cook. The whites ate the usual frontier diet of company-supplied \"beef, beans, bread and butter, and potatoes.\" The Chinese had their own store in a car that followed them as they laid track. In 1872, Charles Nordhoff, a travel writer and correspondent for the _New York Tribune_ , visited a railroad under construction in the San Joaquin Valley and explored the wares of one of these traveling stores:\n\nHere is a list of the food kept and sold there to the Chinese workmen: Dried oysters, dried cuttle-fish, dried fish, sweet rice, crackers, dried bamboo sprouts, salted cabbage, Chinese sugar (which tasted to me very much like sorghum sugar), four kinds of dried fruits, five kinds of desiccated vegetables, vermicelli, dried sea weed, Chinese bacon, cut up into small cutlets, dried meat of the abelona [ _sic_ ] shell, pea-nut oil, dried mushrooms, tea, and rice. They buy also pork of the butcher, and on holidays they eat poultry. . . . At this railroad store they also sold pipes, bowls, chopsticks, large, shallow, cast-iron bowls for cooking rice, lamps, Joss paper, Chinese writing paper, pencils, and India ink, Chinese shoes, and clothing imported ready from China. Also, scales\u2014for the Chinaman is particular, and reweighs everything he buys, as soon as he gets it to camp. Finally, there was Chinese tobacco. The desiccated vegetables were of excellent quality, and dried, evidently, by a process as good as the best in use by us.\n\nBy the 1880s, Chinese workers had helped build thousands of miles of railroads. The American West was now linked to the rest of the country by four main railroad lines, and smaller railways connected many western communities and mining areas. Many of the laborers settled in towns along the tracks, like Tucson and El Paso, where they found work in farming or by opening stores, laundries, and restaurants. Cheap caf\u00e9s owned by Chinese had been around since the 1850s in California, so it was not a surprise when these eateries sprang up. The waiters or waitresses were often white (or Mexican American in some locations), while the Chinese cook-owner stayed back in the kitchen. The menu was strictly inexpensive American fare\u2014steak and eggs, beans and coffee, though a Chinese customer could probably get a bowl of rice or noodle soup if he stepped back into the kitchen. The local whites along the railroad lines weren't yet ready to convert to Chinese food.\n\nFrom railroad dining rooms to the chuck wagons that followed cattle drives, Chinese cooks helped feed the American West. During the 1870s, the Central Pacific dining room in Evanston, Wyoming, featured Chinese waiters in native costume serving \"excellent\" western food prepared by Chinese hands in the kitchen. As in Gold Rush\u2013era San Francisco, Chinese cooks in the remote mining districts learned to prepare American staples just like the natives. At the Polyglot House store and restaurant in Hangville, California, the kitchen churned out dishes that were more fuel than food: \"pork, badly baked bread, and beef hardened but not cooked in hot grease,\" imitating \"the American style with a painful accuracy.\" If the diners didn't like the food, they would often beat the cook. After his work was done, the cook would retire to the Chinese camp nearby, where he would enjoy more civilized fare and company. During the Black Hills Gold Rush of the 1890s, Deadwood, South Dakota, boasted seven Chinese-owned eateries with names like the Philadelphia Caf\u00e9, the Sacramento Restaurant, the Lincoln Restaurant, and the Chicago Restaurant. Although the owners kept bottles of rice wine for their customers to sample, the menu was strictly inexpensive American\u2014T-bone steak and apple pie. Deadwood was a rare western community that was relatively accepting of Chinese, so the owners didn't have to keep to the kitchen and hire white waiters or waitresses to tend to diners. During the great cattle drives of the 1870s and 1880s, Chinese chuck wagon cooks prepared the biscuits, beans, coffee, and bacon that fueled the cowboys. Like all Chinese in the West, the camp cook lived with the possibility that whites could turn against him at any time. Generations later, the 1930s song \"Hold That Critter Down\" (written by Bob Nolan) described torturing the cook as part of roundup fun:\n\nWhen the sun goes down and the moon comes 'round \nTo the old cook shack we're headin.' \nWe'll throw the pie in the Chink cook's eye \nAnd tie him up in his beddin.' \nAnd make him run to the tune of a gun \nSo hold that critter down. . . .\n\nAfter the Civil War, the anti-Chinese racism that had long simmered in the West came to a boil. The migrants who now streamed into California, many of them from Ireland, discovered that most of the jobs on the major construction projects\u2014the railroads\u2014were reserved for Chinese. These white migrants formed \"anti-Coolie\" leagues and trade unions that made expulsion of all Chinese people from the West one of their prime goals. Politicians discovered that promoting the cause that \"the Chinese must go!\" could win elections. Newspapers jumped on the bandwagon, reprinting Bayard Taylor's most incendiary writings and fanning the flames in order to sell more papers. Local governments passed a number of discriminatory laws designed to make the lives of California's Chinese more difficult. The Chinese could not vote, but they did fight back with lawsuits and diplomatic initiatives, which were only partially successful. In October 1871, during a gunfight between two Chinese gangs in the street nicknamed \"Nigger Alley,\" the heart of Chinatown in Los Angeles, a white man was killed in the crossfire. In retaliation, a mob of a thousand white men armed with \"pistols, guns, knives, ropes\" stormed the quarter and killed over twenty Chinese people. Eight men were eventually found guilty of the murders, but their convictions were overturned. This massacre caused widespread revulsion, but that wasn't enough to stop the anti-Chinese movement, particularly after a financial panic caused record unemployment in California.\n\nJust in time for the 1876 elections, the issue of Chinese expulsion caught the ear of Washington, and a special joint congressional committee was sent to San Francisco to investigate the situation. The congressmen queried a succession of local white \"experts,\" but no Chinese, on such topics as Chinese crime, morality, sanitation, disease, economic competition, and refusal to assimilate, and on \"natural\" racial hierarchies and the dangers of miscegenation. Food was barely mentioned, except in the testimony that their cheap, rice-based diet was one reason the Chinese could compete so well against white workers, who needed red meat and bread to live. (In 1902, American Federation of Labor president Samuel Gompers expanded on this idea in an essay, \"Some Reasons for Chinese Exclusion. Meat vs. Rice. American Manhood against Asiatic Coolieism. Which Shall Survive?\") Outside, workers marched and held mass meetings calling for the expulsion of the Chinese from California and the hiring of whites only. The following summer, a big demonstration in sympathy with railroad strikers back East turned ugly when the members of an anti-Coolie group joined in. The demonstrators marched to Chinatown, where they burned buildings, sacked laundries, and left four Chinese dead. White workers gathered in the empty sand-lot across from City Hall, where an Irish immigrant named Denis Kearney soon captured leadership of the crowd with his virulent anticapitalist, anti-Chinese oratory. In October 1877, he was elected president of the Workingmen's Party, which demanded the expulsion of all Chinese from the United States, either by law or by force. Kearney became the leader of the anti-Chinese movement, helping Workingmen's Party candidates win local offices and pushing for expulsion. As he barnstormed across the country, California's Chinese citizens endured a spate of threats, beatings, shootings, and arson attacks. \"Accidental\" fires, in fact, became a favorite method of emptying the state's many Chinatowns. If whites had been unlikely to eat in Chinese restaurants before, now the culture of racial violence made a visit outright dangerous.\n\nKearney was more rabble-rouser than politician; audiences soon tired of his oratory, and he was reduced to selling coffee and doughnuts in a San Francisco squatter's camp. But the anti-Chinese movement remained one of the most powerful political forces in the American West. In 1882, President Chester A. Arthur, with the strong support of California's congressional delegation and labor unions, signed the Chinese Exclusion Act, which effectively blocked Chinese immigration and naturalization\u2014the first U.S. law to bar a group from entering the country on the basis of its ethnicity. The only exceptions allowed in were merchants, teachers, students, and their personal servants. In 1892, the more onerous Geary Act, replacing the Exclusion Act, imposed even sterner restrictions on Chinese immigration and curtailed Chinese residents' recourse to the courts. Across the West, many whites decided that now was the time for Chinese to leave their cities and towns, as local governments passed even more discriminatory laws. Many California Chinatowns, including in Pasadena, Santa Barbara, Oakland, San Jose, Sacramento, and Sonoma, were emptied under threats. On September 2, 1885, whites in the coal mining town of Rock Springs, Wyoming, decided that the Chinese no longer had any right to live and work there. A mob of men, mostly members of the Knights of Labor, surrounded the local Chinese settlement and opened fire with Winchester rifles. Any Chinese person who ran was shot, and the whites beat with gun butts anyone they could catch. Houses were burned to the ground, some with their Chinese residents inside. By nightfall, at least twenty-eight Chinese were dead, with many more injured and hiding in the hills. Afterward, sixteen whites were arrested and charged with various crimes, but after a grand jury could find no one to testify against them, they were eventually released, to loud cheers from the community. Although eastern newspapers and politicians strongly condemned the violence, westerners generally supported the murderers. Indeed, the Rock Springs massacre seemed to embolden the anti-Chinese forces. In the coming months, Tacoma and Seattle, Washington, expelled their Chinese populations, and mobs across the Northwest attacked and often killed groups of Chinese miners, loggers, and farmworkers. Most Chinese, excepting those in enclaves in cities like San Francisco and Portland, decided that it was time to leave the West. In the late 1870s, they began to flee\u2014to China on ships, never to return; across the border to Canada or Mexico; or, by the railroads they had built, to the big cities of the Northeast.\n\n## **CHAPTER FIVE** \nA Toothsome Stew\n\nAt the start of 1884, a New York writer named Edwin H. Trafton sent out an invitation to six fellow \"connoisseurs of good living\":\n\nWill you join a few other good fellows in chop-stick luck next Saturday night at the Chung Fah Low? As you of course know, this is the Chinese Delmonico's of New York, at No.\u2014\u2014Street (upstairs), sign of the Been Gin Law. Apropos of which the _chef_ assures me in his most elegant pigeon English, \"I cookee allee talkee,\" which, being freely translated means, \"I can cook in every language.\" I know that you have a cosmopolitan palate and a cast-iron digestive apparatus, else I should not have asked you to come. The first course will be brought on at seven sharp, and stomach pumps may be ordered at nine o'clock.\n\nThe point of this dinner, aside from providing Trafton with the material for an article, was to answer the question \"How do you do?\" Or to phrase it as the Chinese would, \"Have you eaten?\" To \"answer so comprehensive a conundrum,\" Trafton decided, \"one must eat Chinese food; to become imbued with the spirit essential to a categorical, succinct and unequivocal response, one must have wielded chopsticks.\" His six guests had eaten widely in the city, from the fare offered in the dining room of the newest, most elegant hotel\u2014the Windsor on Fifth Avenue\u2014to the pork and beans at Hitchcock's dime restaurant down by the newspaper buildings on Park Row. For these gourmands, this feast would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, like \"going up in a balloon; going down in a diving-bell; the sensation of being hanged, drowned or guillotined; what seasickness is like, or the eating of a Chinese dinner.\"\n\nA few days before the event, Trafton ventured to Mott Street, the heart of New York's Chinatown. At that time, there were only two Chinese restaurants on Mott, both at the south end of the street close to its intersection with Chatham Square. One was Chung Fah Low, above a Chinese grocery store at number 11. \"Dingy, low-walled and ill-lighted,\" this eatery was a step down from the elegant, three-story establishments of San Francisco's Chinatown. Trafton climbed some rickety stairs and found himself in the restaurant's back office, with two tables, a counter and shelves holding pots, chinaware, and an assortment of dried foodstuffs imported from China. The front room overlooking the street had been turned into the dining room, furnished with a single large table and six smaller ones, where placards with large Chinese characters shared the walls with cheap American color prints. Behind the office was the chef's lair, the kitchen, which Trafton recognized as clean but nevertheless contained \"ghastly piles\" of plucked ducks, unidentified meats and vegetables, and pots \"like witches' caldrons\" filled with mysterious broths emitting pungent odors. These sights and smells notwithstanding, Trafton was determined to order his banquet.\n\n\"What you want?\" the owner asked, suspicious of the white man snooping around. When he heard that Trafton hoped to arrange a dinner party, the \"round-faced, mooneyed\" owner turned friendly, offering him a cigar, a cup of Chinese \"rice gin,\" and some tea. Never learning the owner's name, Trafton called him \"Ah Sin,\" after the mild-looking but devious Chinese character in Bret Harte's celebrated and widely reprinted poem \"The Heathen Chinee.\" Trafton and the owner were joined by the chef and the bookkeeper, and the group attempted to work out the evening's menu. Unfortunately, the language barrier and Trafton's ignorance of Chinese food made their task difficult. \"Ah Sin\" tried to help him by pulling out samples of the raw materials\u2014\"chunks of india-rubber, dried fish of all sorts and sizes, and some things that I could identify and classify a hundred years from now by their odors\"\u2014but Trafton could not imagine them made edible. Luckily, the writer's Chinese friend, Hawk Ling, arrived just at this moment to help sort out the muddle. An agent for a wholesale grocer who wore American clothes and spoke \"very good\" English, Hawk Ling had probably recommended this restaurant as the site for Trafton's dinner. Together, they worked out a menu of bird's-nest soup, pungent-smelling \"bull-fish,\" dried oysters, Chinese codfish, duck, pork, tea, Chinese wine, and rice, for a total cost of $8\u2014a very modest feast compared to what one could get in San Francisco.\n\n_Figure 5.1. This second-floor Port Arthur restaurant attracted wealthy white \"slummers\" to Mott Street in New York's Chinatown._\n\nWhen Saturday evening arrived, half the party went missing, giving excuses that \"were more ingenious than satisfactory.\" The dinner went on with four diners, including Hawk Ling. The brave eaters were greeted by a table set with concessions to \"American taste and table habits\": a white tablecloth, red napkins, slightly tarnished knives and forks of a \"primitive farm-house pattern,\" and little dishes of mustard covered with oil. (Mustard later became ubiquitous on Cantonese American restaurant tables, usually accompanied by plum sauce and deep-fried chop suey noodles.) China plates, bowls, and spoons completed the dinner service. After a little fun with the menu\u2014\"Ah Sin\" at first handed them a Chinese laundry bill\u2014the Americans learned that duck and pork would not be included in the meal. The restaurant owner had decided that these meats were too common and that his guests would be served only \"imported food, mostly fish of some kind, and of the sort only enjoyed by 'high-toned gentlemen in China.'\" (Yuan Mei would not have approved.) Assuming a false bravado, Trafton ordered chopsticks to use instead of forks and commenced to eat. Beyond a reference to \"lice\" (rice), his report skimps on the details of what they ate, attempting only this description:\n\nThe flavors were unlike anything known to our more familiar gastronomy, and the fundamental article of each was so artfully concealed as to defy identification. One course consisted of a hard, white gelatinous substance; another, contained strips of what resembled tripe; another, small rolls of pale-yellow Russia leather, but the _pi\u00e8ce de resistance_ was the bowl of bull-fish.\n\nThis final item was the imported delicacy that Ah-Sin said \"smell heap.\" As soon as the last course was finished, the guests thanked Hawk Ling and the restaurant's owner and hightailed it to the nearby Astor House hotel on Broadway. Over drinks, they compared notes. Trafton said his \"palate testified to having lunched off a rainbow soaked in brine,\" while a \"fashionable New York editor and magazinist\" in the party felt as though he had eaten a \"rare-done nightmare.\" They had experienced their Chinese dinner as a novelty, to be boasted about but never to be repeated\u2014an attitude reminiscent of 1844 Macau or 1850s San Francisco.\n\nTen years later, in one of the greatest cultural shifts in American culinary history, New Yorkers would be flocking to Mott Street to eat Chinese food. The developments that preceded this revolution in taste were gradual, and began with the original founding of New York's Chinese community. The first arrivals began to come in the early nineteenth century in a slow but steady trickle\u2014some from the West, others from Cuba, Peru, and the Middle Kingdom itself. The first to begin to put down roots were sailors who stayed between ships in the boardinghouses down by the East River docks. Others arrived as members of theatrical exhibitions, including a Guangzhou \"princess\" named Afong Moy, P. T. Barnum's \"Chinese Family,\" the crew of a Chinese junk that was heading to London's Crystal Palace show, and a Chinese opera company that became stranded when their backers went broke. By the 1850s, New York's permanent Chinese community was based in the Irish boardinghouse district of the Fourth Ward, near the docks. Working as sailors, cigar and candy peddlers, cooks, stewards, and store owners, these men earned modest livelihoods, and many married Irish or German women. In 1873, Wo Kee, a businessman, opened a store and lodging house at 34 Mott Street, just below Pell Street, the first outpost in what became Chinatown. At this time, a _New York Times_ reporter estimated that five hundred Chinese lived in the city, most visible as the cigar and candy peddlers who frequented City Hall Park. The centers of the community were three or four lodging houses, a temple and club on Baxter Street, and another club in Wo Kee's building on Mott. Here the reporter encountered some men playing a version of Chinese chess and witnessed meal preparations over a corner stove:\n\nTwo men were engaged at this in preparing a meal for some dozen others who were anxiously waiting. What they were cooking is a mystery, only to be fathomed by the brain contained in some \"becued\" head. It appeared to be a mixture of all the vegetables and meats known to the City markets. The man who seemed to be the head cook first put about half a pound of lard in a monster frying-pan; his assistant in the meantime chopped up a large head of white cabbage, and as soon as the lard was melted threw it, and about half a dozen scraped carrots, into the pan. Salt and pepper were shaken profusely over this, and then came a layer of chopped meat. Cold boiled potatoes followed, the whole being supplemented by what looked like pulled codfish. The fumes that ascended from this peculiar cookery can be better imagined than described. . . . The Chinese seemed very much offended when it was intimated that the smell of their kitchen was not very pleasant, and that the meal that was being prepared was likely to prove to those of a dyspeptic constitution slightly indigestible.\n\nThis one of the earliest accounts we have of the mixed stir-fry, one of the Pearl River Delta's village specialties, that would have an outsized influence on the American perception of Chinese food.\n\nDuring the 1860s and 1870s, New York journalists predicted the imminent arrival of hordes of Chinese immigrants from the West, and these prophecies became more frequent as work on the railroads ended and anti-Chinese violence spread. In reality, those hordes never materialized, and Chinese immigrants continued to flow in, as they always had, gradually. The journalists, following the lead of the San Francisco newspapers, descended on the city's nascent Chinatown to nose out any signs of gambling, poor sanitation, and particularly opium use. In 1880, a _Times_ reporter visited Mott Street's little Chinese community expecting to find \"dragons' wings scattered over the floor, and ends of serpents' tails disappearing under the bed\" but admitted: \"none of these things are there.\" He had to enlist a police officer to take him behind a combined restaurant and gambling parlor to find one tiny opium den where he could indulge his fantasies of Oriental depravity. Generally, however, these writers couldn't muster as much moral condemnation of Chinese vice as had Bayard Taylor. With more curiosity than outrage, they explored the rules and odds of the Chinese gambling games and sampled a few puffs of opium to learn how it was smoked.\n\nThis relative lack of hysteria may have been due to the fact that the thousand or so Chinese in New York were only a drop in the bucket compared to the size of other immigrant groups. In May 1880, the _Times_ noted that since the beginning of the year more than one hundred thousand immigrants had passed through the processing facility at Castle Garden on Manhattan's southern tip. The majority were German, English, Irish, French, and Scandinavian. The masses of Italians and East European Jews began to arrive a few years later. Most paused only long enough to collect their baggage before they were whisked off to other parts of the country, but thousands stayed and settled in the crowded immigrant districts of the Lower East and West Sides. The Chinese were certainly the most exotic new immigrants, but they were unlikely to be seen as an economic threat when compared to the flood of Europeans.\n\nLike their compatriots in California, New York City's Chinese residents soon began to remake their environment to suit their culinary needs. By 1878, a pair of Chinese farmers named Ah Wah and Ah Ling were growing Asian vegetables on a three-acre plot in the Tremont section of the Bronx. (Within a few years they were joined by another farmer in the Bronx and then Chinese farms in Astoria, Queens.) Store owners like Wo Kee sold imported specialties like pickled, salted, and dried vegetables as well as the usual array of Chinese dried seafood. In 1880, an agent of the Ichthyophagus Club scouting Chinatown for piscatory oddities for its annual dinner found sharks' fins, dried oysters, salted octopus and squid, sea cucumbers, and birds' nests. The appearance of these alien culinary items soon led to the city's first controversy over Chinese food. In 1883, a \"short, stout, excitable Frenchman\" named Dr. Charles Kaemmerer accused a Chinatown grocer of cooking cats and rats. He was visiting a saloon at 199 Worth Street when he noticed a \"very peculiar odor\" in its back courtyard, which it shared with a Chinese grocery at 5 Mott Street. Looking outside, he saw \"some Chinamen standing there handling some things that looked like very small cats or very large rats.\" He told a reporter: \"I didn't see them eat the animals . . . but I don't know why they shouldn't do so.\" (After all, a popular street ditty went: \"Chink, chink, Chinaman\/Eats dead rats, \/ Eats them up\/Like gingersnaps.\") A reporter later accompanied Dr. Vermilye, the sanitary inspector, to the premises and found:\n\nThere was no offal in the yard, nor cat or rat skins, and no stench. By the open window a Chinese cook was seen preparing the dinner. He was making a stew, which was composed of salted Chinese turnips, soft-shelled crabs, and pig's ears. These and various other articles of food were washed and sliced on a huge butcher's block with a butcher's cleaver. The cook was as deft as a hotel _chef_ , and did his work with as much care and cleanliness. He shelled fresh peas, sliced a wholesome-looking cabbage head, and peeled fresh potatoes whose skins were almost white. There was nothing suggestive of rats or cats about the place, and the doctor said that he should report that there was no cause for complaint.\n\nThat wasn't enough for the editor of New York's first Chinese newspaper, Wong Ching Foo, who was very different from the rest of the Chinese population. He had been raised in the Shanghai region, not the Pearl River Delta; he had been educated at an elite academy, not a village school, and had even worked as an interpreter in the imperial court. He was also a sharp-tongued gadfly, not afraid to speak out against the California racist rabble-rouser Denis Kearney or anyone else who wished to deprive the Chinese of their rights. In fact, his aggressive defense of his compatriots may be part of why the anti-Chinese movement failed to gain traction in New York. By 1883, the year he founded the _Chinese-American_ , he was the veteran of at least two national lecture tours, one defending his \"pagan\" beliefs and the other attacking the anti-Chinese movement. When he heard Dr. Kaemmerer's accusations, he offered a $500 reward to anyone who could \"prove that a Chinaman ate rats and cats\" and threatened a slander suit. In all his travels through China, he declared, he had never heard of anyone eating cats or rats: \"They drew the line at dogs.\" Nobody took Wong up on his challenge, but the event apparently inspired him to write an article on food, the first in English by a Chinese, for the _Brooklyn Eagle_ :\n\nThe epicure flourishes in the Orient as well as in the Occident. In Europe he bows down before the genius of France; in Asia, before that of the flowery kingdom. The renown of Chinese food and cooking is more than deserved. For generations the followers of Confucius and Buddha have studied the art which Brillat-Savarin and Blot rendered famous, and have evolved a system which, while it may not in all respects meet the approval of the Western races, yet possesses an individuality and merit of the highest order.\n\nWong goes on to make the daring suggestion that Chinese cooking may be better, because of its far broader range of ingredients and the mandarin gourmet's preference for \"extraordinary\" and expensive foods over the European gourmet's cheap and common turkey, duck, lamb, or beef. To further compare the two styles, Wong uses Caleb Cushing's old trope of the Chinese as the opposite of the American:\n\nWhere the Americans use ice water they use hot tea; where we sweeten tea and coffee they drink these beverages plain; where we salt fish they dress it with sugar; with them the dessert comes in the first stages of the meal; everything in their menu is cooked so thoroughly as to lose entirely its original character, while with us rare meats, raw vegetables, Russian salad, simple fruits, oysters and clams are served almost in their natural condition.\n\nThere's a little confusion between \"us\" and \"them\" here; the author is Chinese after all. This confused viewpoint appears in a number of places in his article. No Chinese person would have been likely to say that Chinese food is overcooked, because the Chinese considered Westerners the masters of overcooking. In fact, Wong later praises the Chinese practice of steaming, saying that it lets cooks serve vegetables \"with every line and point unbroken.\" Yet Wong certainly had noticed the presence of raw and barely cooked food on New York tables. All this leads one to surmise that it's the editor, not Wong Ching Foo, who speaks in many places in the article.\n\nWong mentions the Ichthyophagus Club's work in bringing some of China's \"extraordinary\" dishes to Western palates, and then describes some dishes that could be \"well adapted for cosmopolitan use,\" including hellbenders, sturgeon's swim-bladders, poultry feet, and sharks' fins, which he compares (strangely) to both pickled herring and shad. Finally, he arrives at a list of \"other special dishes,\" giving us the earliest reliable glimpse we have of the ordinary restaurant food of Pearl River Delta immigrants in the United States. Here are sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf (a dim sum staple), \"Wun-hawn,\" or wonton; \"Yak-o-men,\" wheat noodles with meat in broth; \"Sai-fun,\" seafood with rice noodles; beef, chicken, pork, or bacon balls (popular in soups or as dim sum); curried rice with meat or seafood; \"Bo-ahp,\" duck boiled with orange peel; and \"Chop soly,\" for which \"each cook has his own recipe. The main features of it are pork, bacon, chickens, mushroom, bamboo shoots, onion and pepper. These may be called characteristics; accidental ingredients are duck, beef, perfumed turnip, salted black beans, sliced yam, peas and string beans.\" This, Wong claims, \"may be justly termed the national dish of China.\" Having traveled widely in China, Wong must have known this statement was incorrect. Perhaps he included it because \"Chop soly\" was already becoming popular with Western diners, who knew the dish also as \"chow-chop-sui\" and later \"chop suey.\" Wong sums up: \"Chinese cooking is better and cheaper than our own. It utilizes almost every part of food animals, and many plants, herbs and trees, both terrestrial and marine, unknown to our pantries.\" And those stories about cats, dogs, and rats? Fictitious. Poor people will eat them in times of famine, but those animals \"are not recognized articles of diet in the great restaurants, any more than at Delmonico's or the Brunswick.\" That was the kind of white lie that would help protect Chinese from the Kearneys of this world.\n\nWong Ching Foo's article appeared at a very particular time in the history of Gotham: the middle of the Gilded Age, when the city was awash with money. The newspapers were filled with articles about the lavish homes and outrageous parties of millionaire families like the Vanderbilts, Goulds, and Astors. On Fifth Avenue, old and nouveau riche wealth fought for status against a background of constantly shifting social mores. Those who had \"arrived\" in high society attempted to keep the socially ambitious out of it by deploying the weapons of snobbery and exclusion. Social arbiters like Ward McAllister limited the elite to four hundred, the number of people who would fit into Mrs. Astor's ballroom, and devised a series of elaborate rules for their behavior. According to McAllister, no expenditures were too great when it came to entertaining, including on the food one provided. The dishes at a dinner party must be classic French cuisine, so the family's chef must of course be French as well. In 1890, McAllister wrote: \"twenty years ago there were not over three _chefs_ in private families in this city. It is now the exception not to find a man of fashion keeping a first-class _chef_ or a famous _cordon bleu_.\" In preparing for a dinner, the hostess must have a detailed knowledge of French cuisine in order to inspire her temperamental chef to new heights and to decide whether he should follow the truffled _filet_ , served with black sauce, with a _riz de veau \u00e0 la Toulouse_ or a _supreme de volaille_ with white sauce. If her own dining room wasn't large enough, she would turn to one of the city's palatial restaurants, Delmonico's on Madison Square above all, where she would negotiate the menu with Mr. Delmonico or his famous chef, Charles Ranhofer. If her taste proved correctly exquisite\u2014and if enough money reached the right society columnists and editors\u2014then all New York would recognize and reaffirm her status at the top of the social heap. In this world, encompassing not only socialites but jewelers, florists, dressmakers, and journalists like the \"fashionable magazinist\" in Edwin H. Trafton's party, there was a right way and a wrong way to comport oneself. You could dine in Chinatown once, and laugh about it over cigars and drinks at the Astor House afterward, but you could not make a habit of it.\n\nHowever culturally influential the elite were (or thought they were), not all of New York strove to copy their ways. Another group arose that seemed to take pleasure in flouting every rule McAllister's four hundred held dear. They called themselves Bohemians\u2014a name taken from Henri Murger's story \"La Vie de Boh\u00e8me,\" set in the Latin Quarter of 1840s Paris. Murger's characters were free-spirited but starving artists; the Bohemians of late nineteenth-century New York were free-spirited but frequently well-fed artists and writers. In fact, one way American Bohemians defined themselves was by where they ate. If Mrs. Astor dined at Delmonico's, they chose dark and dingy restaurants down in the immigrant districts where the food was cheap and the clientele disreputable; they were the first \"underground gourmets\" and \"chowhounds.\" During the 1850s, the favorite haunt of the first generation of city Bohemians (including Walt Whitman) was Pfaff's saloon, a German beer cellar below the sidewalk at Broadway near Bleecker Street, where they drank, talked, sang, caroused, and made love. Twenty years later, a new generation of writers and artists rendezvoused at eateries like the Grand Vatel and the villainous Taverne Alsacienne in the \"French Quarter,\" south of Washington Square. At the former, one could order a filling and \"not unpalatable\" three-course dinner, along with wine, coffee, and a roll, for a mere 50 cents. The purpose of these Bohemian visits to the immigrant restaurants was not just to enjoy cheap food and the company of fellow artists but also to be transported into a milieu that more accurately reflected the true nature of the city than all the Fifth Avenue ballrooms. So when a little community of Chinese appeared along lower Mott Street in the late 1870s, it became a natural destination for Bohemians. With (relatively) open minds, hungry stomachs, and a metaphoric thumb in the eye of the four hundred, they led the charge across the boundaries of taste.\n\nThe journalist and editor Allan Forman was tutored in the delights of Chinese food by a friend, a \"jolly New York lawyer of decidedly Bohemian tendencies, who one day suggested, 'Come and dine with me.'\" \"Where?\" Forman asked, knowing the lawyer's taste for reveling in \"dirt and mystery and strange viands\" down in the immigrant district.\n\n\"Oh, over at Mong Sing Wah's, 18 Mott street. He is a Celestial Delmonico,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Thanks awfully. But my palate is not educated up to rats and dogs yet. Let me take a course in some French restaurant where these things are disguised before I brave them in their native honesty,\" I answered.\n\n\"I'm surprised to find this prejudice in you,\" he exclaimed, rather petulantly. \"A Chinese dinner is as clean as an American dinner, only far better. I'll tell you what I'll do. You come with me to Mong Sing Wah's tonight and I'll show you his kitchen. If it is not as clean as that Italian place where you eat spaghetti I'll pay for the best dinner for two you can order at Delmonico's.\"\n\nSo on a bitterly cold night early in 1886, the two white men took the Third Avenue streetcar down to Chatham Square and Mong Sing Wah's restaurant, hidden in a courtyard behind 18 Mott. The lawyer surprised Forman by greeting the owner and then ordering dinner in apparently fluent Chinese: \"'Chow-chop-suey, chop-seow, laonraan, san-sui-goy, no-ma-das,' glibly ordered my friend, and the white-robed attendant trotted off and began to chant down a dumbwaiter.\" This dinner was not a banquet of rare ingredients imported from China but a meal off the menu\u2014the everyday restaurant food eaten by New York's Chinese. When the food appeared, Forman seemed to forget his fears about rats and dogs:\n\nChow-chop suey was the first dish we attacked. It is a toothsome stew, composed of bean sprouts, chicken's gizzards and livers, calfe's tripe, dragon fish, dried and imported from China, pork, chicken, and various other ingredients which I was unable to make out. Notwithstanding its mysterious nature, it is very good and has formed the basis of many a good Chinese dinner I have since eaten. Chopseow is perfumed roast pork. The pork is roasted and then hung in the smoke of various aromatic herbs which gives it a most delicious flavor. It is cut into small pieces, as indeed is everything at a Chinese restaurant, that it may be readily handled with the chop sticks. No bread is served with a Chinese dinner, but its place is taken by boiled rice, or fan as it is called in Chinese. A couple of bowls of rice is [laonraan], the F being dropped when the number is prefixed, and such rice, white, light, snowy; each grain thoroughly cooked yet separate. Fish is delightfully cooked, baked in a sort of brown sauce, and masquerades under the name of san-sui-goy.\n\nForman and his friend washed the food down with tea and little cups of \"no-ma-das,\" a Chinese rice liquor. At the end of the dinner, Forman was shocked to realize that he had wholeheartedly enjoyed it: \"The meal was not only novel, but it was good, and to cap the climax the bill was only sixty-three cents!\" For almost the next century, that would sum up the main attractions of Chinese food for Americans: tasty, exotic, and cheap.\n\nIn the 1880s, untold numbers of non-Chinese New Yorkers trekked to Chinatown to eat. In 1885, Wong Ching Foo claimed that thousands of New Yorkers had already tried \"oriental\" dining; three years later, he declared that at least \"five hundred Americans take their meals regularly in Chinese restaurants.\" Almost all of these were situated on the block of Mott Street between Chatham Square and Pell Street. Wong identified Yu-ung-Fang-Lau at 14 Mott as the only high-class restaurant, the favorite of \"Canton importers, Hong Kong merchants, Mongolian visitors from Frisco, flush gamblers, and wealthy laundrymen.\" The half dozen or so other eateries catered to all the rest of the Chinese: servants, cooks, cigar makers, and most of all laundrymen from the poor Sze Yap district of the Pearl River Delta. Very few of them had wives, so during the week they prepared simple meals (rice with a little meat or vegetable) in their workplaces or rooming houses. On Sundays they came to Chinatown to shop, socialize, catch up on the news, and have a meal in a restaurant. If they could afford it, they liked to splurge on pricey imported delicacies from the top end of the menu. The Bohemians and other non-Chinese did the opposite: \"Many of these Americans have acquired Chinese gastronomical tastes, and order dishes like Chinese mandarins; but as a rule the keepers do not cater to any other trade than Chinese, because the Chinaman frequently orders two-dollar and three-dollar dishes, while the American seldom pays more than fifty or seventy-five cents for his Chinese dinner.\" Out of the array of dishes the Americans preferred, the earthy mixed stir-fry called \"chow chop suey\" stood out as their favorite. \"Chop suey\" is more accurately transcribed as \"za sui\" (Mandarin) or \"shap sui\" (Cantonese). \"Shap\" means mixed or blended together; \"sui\" means bits or small fragments. Read together, the most common translation is \"odds and ends.\" As a culinary term, \"shap sui\" refers to a hodgepodge stew of many different ingredients; when this dish is \"chow,\" that means it's fried. You could call it a stir-fried Chinese hash.\n\nToday, chop suey is a relic in most parts of the United States, another food fad that has ended up on the trash heap of culinary history. Those who remember it at all know it only as a preparation of sliced pork or chicken cooked with bean sprouts, onions, celery, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts until everything is mushy and flavorless, then served with a gummy, translucent sauce over white rice. Yet in nineteenth-century New York, the definition of chop suey was anything but fixed. Most early descriptions tell of chicken livers and gizzards, or perhaps duck giblets, stir-fried with tripe, bean sprouts, \"fungi\" (probably wood ears), celery, dried fish, and whatever else the cook felt inspired to add, including spices and \"seow\" (soy sauce). Wong Ching Foo and other reporters describe chop suey as the staple food of the New York Chinese and even the \"national dish of China.\" In 1893, now an expert on the subject, Allan Forman wrote: \" _Chow chop suey_ is to the Chinaman what the _olla podrida_ is to the Spaniard, or pork and beans to our own Bostonians.\" Considering the vast, ancient, and complicated tradition of Chinese cuisine, this clearly was not true. But if Forman had only been exposed to Chinese from the Pearl River Delta, then he may have been correct in noting their preference for chop suey. In any case, there's little doubt that this dish\u2014in its manifestation as a stir-fried organ meat and vegetable medley\u2014originated in the Sze Yap area around Toishan. Decades later, a distinguished Hong Kong surgeon named Li Shu-Fan reminisced about a childhood visit to Toishan, which was his ancestral home:\n\nI first tasted chop suey in a restaurant in Toishan in 1894, but the preparation had been familiar in that city long before my time. The recipe was probably taken to America by Toishan people, who, as I have said, are great travelers. Chinese from places as near to Toishan as Canton and Hong Kong are unaware that chop suey is truly a Chinese dish, and not an American adaptation.\n\nNow launched on a slow but sure path to acceptance, Chinese food, and in particular chop suey, was poised to become a national fad. In the spring of 1896, New Yorkers learned that one of China's most powerful statesmen, the de facto foreign minister, would be visiting their city that year. American China watchers considered Li Hongzhang, the viceroy of Zhili (the provinces around Beijing), as China's best hope for strengthening and modernizing China. The purpose of Li's visit was to shore up relations with the United States and to protest the unfairness of the Exclusion Act as well as the mistreatment of Chinese immigrants. (This might, in turn, shore up his reputation at home, then under a cloud due to the recent humiliation his force had suffered at the hands of the Japanese navy.) In late August, he arrived in New York harbor aboard the steamship _St. Louis_. From Chinatown to Fifth Avenue, all of New York was agog at this elderly and somewhat frail man, wearing a magnificent yellow silk jacket. A troop of cavalry escorted him from the pier up to the Waldorf Hotel, at Fifth Avenue and Thirty-third Street, where he was installed in the royal suite. Every step of the way, teams of reporters from the city's many competing newspapers recorded his actions.\n\nOn Mott Street, at Delmonico's, and in the Waldorf kitchens, phalanxes of chefs made preparations to feast the famous visitor. Meanwhile, anxious to pick up any scrap of color to entertain its readers, William Randolph Hearst's _New York Journal_ planted reporters in the Waldorf's kitchen to record every move of Li's four chefs, who had traveled with him from China. A sketch artist drew them at work, depicting their tools and the lacquer tray that was used to carry the viceroy's food up to his suite. At public events, journalists watched every morsel of food that passed Li's lips\u2014or at least some of them did. The _Times_ reporters at the Waldorf banquet in Li's honor wrote that he ate sparingly from the classic French menu but dove in when a servant brought his Chinese food: \"It consisted of three dishes. There was boiled chicken cut up in small square pieces, a bowl of rice, and a bowl of vegetable soup.\" This was the food of either an invalid or a gourmet in the spirit of Yuan Mei. The _Washington Post_ reported of the exact same event: \"At the table he barely nibbled the delicate dishes before him, and would not touch the wines. This was noticed by his hosts, and in a few moments chop suey and chop sticks were placed before him, and he ate with relish.\" According to the _Journal_ 's careful accounting, Li never ate chop suey during his New York stay, but many other newspapers and the wire services that sent articles across the country repeated the news that he had done so\u2014simply because chop suey, the only Chinese dish most white Americans had tasted, had become emblematic of Chinese food as a whole. (The Chinese diplomats reading those accounts must have been shocked by the idea that a high official from Beijing would stoop to the level of Pearl River Delta peasant food.)\n\n_Figure 5.2. Li Hongzhang's 1896 visit to New York stimulated a craze for Chinese food. However, the one dish he did not eat was chop suey._\n\nLi Hongzhang spent a little more than a week in the United States, traveling to West Point, Philadelphia, and Washington before heading north to Toronto and then across Canada to take a boat home. (He purposely shunned California because of its mistreatment of the Chinese.) Meanwhile, New Yorkers went China mad. They flocked to Chinatown to buy curios and eat chop suey. The _Brooklyn Eagle_ advised: \"The woman who is looking for something in the way of novelty for a dinner may find it in this suggestion: A real Chinese dinner may be gotten up from the favorite recipes of Li Hung Chang's cook, and which were prepared for the great and quaint Chinese statesman during his stay at the Waldorf in New York.\" Those dishes were lifted from a full-page spread entitled \"Queer Dishes Served at the Waldorf by Li Hung Chang's Chicken Cook\" that had appeared in the _New York Journal_ 's Sunday supplement. These recipes included boiled rice, bird's nest soup, fricasseed giblets (\"chow chop sui\"), chicken soup, pork sausage, shark's fin soup, and many others; they were almost the first Chinese recipes printed in the United States. Here are the directions for chop suey, a dish the author admits had already achieved some celebrity:\n\nCut up equal amounts of celery, and wash and soak some dried mushrooms and bits of raw ginger. Fry the chicken giblets in peanut oil until they are nearly done, then add the other ingredients and a very small quantity of water. A favorite addition to this dish is scraps of pork and slices of dried cuttlefish, also rice which has been left on a damp floor until it has sprouted. These sprouts, about two inches in length, are remarkably tender and palatable. A little soy should be put into the chop sui while cooking and peanut oil to furnish the grease. Eat freely of it. If you can digest it you will live to be as old as Li Hung Chang.\n\nThis is still the earthy mixed stir-fry, but not one that was ever prepared for Li Hongzhang. In fact, this list of recipes is remarkably similar to the menus of the Cantonese restaurants that lined Mott and Pell streets in Chinatown, leading one to suspect that it came from a local restaurateur. No matter; that's how the story that Li Hongzhang introduced chop suey to the United States was born\u2014an urban legend that's still repeated today.\n\nLi Hongzhang's visit ushered in an era when American attention was suddenly and aggressively trained on the outside world. The turning point came on February 15, 1898, the day the United States battleship _Maine_ mysteriously exploded in Havana harbor. Deliberate or not, journalists and military men seized on that violent event in order to revive the somewhat moribund concept of Manifest Destiny and demand that the United States invade Spain's colonies in the Caribbean and across the Pacific. Their not-so-hidden agenda was to assert America's \"God-given\" right to expand its territory. One of them, the journalist Margherita Arlina Hamm, a prominent suffragist and one of the first \"globetrotting\" woman reporters, had lived in China as the wife of a United States consul. In 1895, an article she wrote for _Good Housekeeping_ , \"Some Celestial Dishes,\" presented the first Chinese recipes published in the United States. (Although she claims she has learned these recipes\u2014including one for chop suey\u2014in China, they are thoroughly westernized, containing ingredients like tomato sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and potatoes.)\n\nHamm had no patience for China's traditional way of life or its system of government. To her, the only hope for civilizing China was for the western powers, including the United States, to divide it up into protectorates. The Chinese, of course, had other ideas. In 1899, the Society of the Right and Harmonious Fists, known in the West as the Boxers, began an effort to violently expel all foreigners and foreign religions from the Middle Kingdom. With the backing of the dowager empress, this movement culminated in 1900 with the siege of Beijing's legation quarter, where, ironically, trapped Westerners were forced to eat taboo foods they'd looked down on for so long: horse meat and rice. The siege was finally lifted, and the Boxers were defeated by an eightnation force made up of soldiers from Japan, the United States, and the European powers, who promptly went on a looting rampage in the Chinese capital. Back on Mott Street, these events seemed to cause no animosity toward the local Chinese community (whose members had little sympathy for the Manchus who ruled in Beijing). In fact, the episode generated curiosity about the culture, at least to the extent that people bought souvenirs, toured opium dens, and ate Chinese food:\n\nThe streets of Chinatown yesterday resembled Coney Island walks with a few hundred Chinese thrown in. The newspaper prominence which the quarter has had since trouble began in China brought curious crowds from all parts of the city. . . . The Chinese restaurants, of which there are many, attracted the young men who were showing their best girls through Chinatown. One couple at least knew a great deal more about Chinese food after finishing their first meal than they did when they started. They studied the bill of fare so long that even the lazy stoic who waited on them grew tired.\n\n\"We'll have chop suey soup,\" said the young man at last. \"I've heard a lot about that, and I don't believe there are any rats in it.\"\n\nThe rumors about Chinese eating vermin lingered, but whites were able to put them aside as they discovered the \"safe\" side of Chinese restaurant menus.\n\nThat same year the first Chinese restaurants appeared outside Chinatown; rather than wait for customers to come to Mott Street, restaurateurs now took chop suey to them. They opened \"chop sueys,\" as the restaurants became known, on Third Avenue, along Sixth Avenue in the Tenderloin nightlife district, up on Long Acre (now Times) Square, even in Harlem. Their menus were much shorter than those on Mott Street, focusing on chop suey, chow mein, and yat gaw mein (or yokaman, yock a main, etc.), a wheat noodle soup containing boiled chicken and hardboiled egg. As cooks catered to the more conservative tastes of uptown diners, chop suey, the dish of odds and ends, lost all of its earthy and mysterious ingredients and became a bland stew of some readily identifiable meat or seafood with a m\u00e9lange of bean sprouts, bamboo shoots, onions, and water chestnuts, all cooked to exhaustion.\n\n_Figure 5.3._ The Latest Craze of American Society, New Yorkers Dining in a Chinese Restaurant, _a 1911 magazine announces. Chinese cuisine had by then spread far beyond the bounds of Manhattan's Chinatown._\n\nAlthough the chow mein that was cooked in the Pearl River Delta was a distinct dish, as served in the uptown joints chow mein was simply chop suey over fried noodles instead of rice. (In Roy L. M'Cardell's humorous column \"Conversations with a Chorus Girl,\" his attractive but ditzy protagonist touts the wonders of chow mein: \"Gee! I like it. You'd think the vermicelli was Saratoga chips [i.e. potato chips] cut into strings.\") Customers found these restaurants fit their tastes precisely. They liked the cut-rate, exotic d\u00e9cor of red lanterns and prints of pretty Chinese girls and landscapes; the savory, filling, and inexpensive food (a bowl of chop suey cost a mere 25 cents); and the distinctive ambiance, utterly unlike the rude bustle of the cheap lunch counters or the stuffiness of Delmonico's:\n\nThere is also a free and easy atmosphere about the Chinese eating house which attracts many would-be \"Bohemians,\" as well as a goodly share of the class below the lowest grades of the city's many graded Bohemia. Visitors loll about and talk and laugh loudly. When the waiter is wanted some one emits a shrill yell which brings an answering whoop from the kitchen, followed sooner or later by a little Chinese at a dog trot. Any one who feels like it may stroll into the kitchen and try a little pidgin English on the cook. The proprietor will teach anybody to use the chopsticks and roar with laughter over the failures of the novice. Everybody does as he or she pleases within certain very elastic bounds.\n\nIn the Tenderloin and on Long Acre Square, the late hours kept by these \"chop sueys\" also made them a favorite of both the after-theater set and nighttime revelers who wanted some food in their bellies before they stumbled home to bed. As long as customers behaved themselves\u2014and paid their bills\u2014the proprietors didn't discriminate as to whom they served. In the tenement districts, the cheapest Chinese restaurants catered to \"the rounder, the negro and the wandering poor.\" Indeed, African Americans were the main customers in some neighborhoods: \"They seem to like the Chinese,\" one reporter wrote, \"and, indeed, the noise in the kitchen reminds one of the similar condition of Southern kitchens under negro management.\" Meanwhile, the \"real Bohemian\" remained down in Chinatown, looking for new culinary adventures:\n\nIt is the Bohemian fad to expatriate himself, to seek strange and bizarre environments. As soon as a place begins to attract civilization he flees it for some new hiding place. When he chooses a Chinese dinner he must have a restaurant where no white man has ever before trod, if he can find one. . . . As soon as others begin to frequent it also, again he flies.\n\nUp and down the East Coast, chop sueys spread to all the big cities and many of the larger towns, a tribute to both the business acumen of Chinese restaurateurs and the attractions of their food. The Chinese communities of Boston and Philadelphia were founded around 1870, again beginning with a handful of laundries and grocery stores. At first, the natives kept their distance from Chinese food, warned by reports of suspicious sauces, appallingly \"fresh\" entrees, and odd eating implements. Less than a decade later, the _Boston Daily Globe_ admitted that the \"chop sui\" at Moy Auk's at 36 Harrison was \"very palatable.\" In 1891, one of the _Globe_ 's reporters, stopping by another restaurant, heard music from above and investigated up the stairs:\n\nA door, the upper half of glass, met him. Another rest was taken, when lo, before him and within he caught sight of some of the 400 of Boston, ladies and gentleman, gathered at a feast. The reporter stood entranced. What next? The cream of society eating Chinese viands in a Chinese restaurant, served by Chinese waiters and breathing in soulful Chinese music.\n\nAmong the dozen members of the city's Brahmin elite present were Mr. and Mrs. William Dean Howells, the Orientalists Ernest Fenollosa and Edward S. Morse, and sundry academics and artists dining on bird's nest soup, duck, chicken, sturgeon, rice, and, of course, chop suey. With such a testimonial, the reporter decided, \"it's plain, the Chinese must not go.\" In Philadelphia, meanwhile, the city's Chinatown had formed along Race Street, where by 1899 nearly a dozen \"chop sueys\" had opened and were very popular with the late-night crowd. As in New York and San Francisco, many of the ingredients were imported, but the fresh vegetables came from nearby Chinese farms that had been established just over the New Jersey state line. The little Chinatown of Washington, D.C., for better or worse, was the social center of the local Bohemian set:\n\nAs for this new Bohemia\u2014this imitation of an imitation\u2014I went down the other night to see what it was like. I really have a dark brown taste in my mouth yet. It was simply unutterable. . . . There were several women in the front room, painted, soggy creatures in loud clothes. In the middle room sat two or three Johnnies, out for the \"devil of a time.\" They were very much frightened and cast apprehensive glances at the men about them. No wonder. . . . Most of the animals fed on noodle soup and chop-suey. If you want to see a sight, go and watch one of them get hold of the end of a six-foot noodle and commence to consume it. The chop-suey was a nasty-smelling dish, fairly bathed in grease.\n\nA few critics notwithstanding, these restaurants continued to spread into communities that had only small Chinese populations, carrying with them their very particular mix of food, price, customers, and atmosphere. From Atlanta to New Haven to Portland, Maine, eating a bowl of chop suey at midnight among a crowd of ruffians, fallen women, and thespians meant that you had achieved a state of worldly, urban sophistication.\n\nIn the Midwest, the arrival and acceptance of Chinese food followed a similar if somewhat delayed timeline. The first Chinese to visit the region were likely a troupe of jugglers who traveled up the Mississippi in the early 1850s. A handful of Chinese opened stores in Chicago and St. Louis during the following two decades, but the first groups of Asian immigrants didn't arrive until after the transcontinental railroad was completed in 1869. They founded little Chinatowns along Clark Street in Chicago and \"Hop Alley\" in St. Louis, once more earning their livelihoods by running laundries and shops and working as servants. In 1889, the _Chicago Tribune_ noticed two Chinese stores in the city, as well as three vegetable farms, two butchers, and a basement restaurant where the owners \"welcome Americans if they come to get a meal, but . . . fear the scoffers who gaze impudently at them, and enter only to ridicule.\" For the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, some local Chinese businessmen opened a \"Chinese Village,\" complete with a theater, temple, tea garden, and caf\u00e9. They didn't trust Americans to have a taste for Chinese food: the caf\u00e9 menu listed mostly American dishes (cold corned beef, egg sandwiches, potato salad, and the like) along with \"Chinese style\" rice, \"Chinese Cakes & Confections,\" preserved fruit, and tea\u2014in other words, all the fixings for a Western-style Chinese tea party. The following year, a young writer named Theodore Dreiser (six years shy of publishing his novel _Sister Carrie_ ) visited St. Louis's Chinese quarter to find some journalistic color. But he couldn't unearth any \"opium joints\" or gambling dens; he just found a block of South Eighth Street between Walnut and Market Streets where the immigrants liked to mingle on Sundays. Still looking for the unspeakably exotic, he arranged for a meal at one of the district's Chinese-only eateries, sampling duck, chicken, chicken soup, and something called \"China dish\":\n\nThis dish was wonderful, awe-inspiring, and yet toothsome. It was served in a dish, half bowl, half platter. Around the platter-like edge were carefully placed bits of something which looked like wet piecrust and tasted like smoked fish. The way they stuck out along the edges suggested decoration of lettuce, parsley and watercress. The arrangement of the whole affair inspired visions of hot salad. Celery, giblets, onions, seaweed that looked like dulse, and some peculiar and totally foreign grains resembling barley, went to make this steaming-hot mass.\n\nMaybe this too is chop suey, but who knows? Dreiser is too busy preserving the mystery to bother asking the restaurant owner. The article ran with an engraving showing the restaurant's supposed interior: three Chinese men holding their chopsticks wrong and eating bowls of rats beneath a sign that reads \"Stewed Rats Onions 15 Cents.\" Old stereotypes die hard. Less than a decade later, the _Chicago Tribune_ blared \"Chop Suey Fad Grows,\" as midwesterners crowded into Chinese restaurants in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Minneapolis, and beyond. The _Kansas City Star_ remarked: \"There are several chop suey restaurants in the city, but in none of them is real Chinese cooking served.\" It would be decades before anyone would realize what they were missing.\n\nFinally, we retrace our steps to the West, the last holdout against the enticements of Chinese food. In the early 1900s, San Francisco newspapers reported fights that started over \"chop suey,\" usually involving Irish immigrants or African Americans who refused to pay the Chinese owners of cheap eateries, but the actual dishes involved usually turned out to be American specialties like ham and eggs and potatoes. In 1903, the city's most avant-garde hostess, Mrs. Russel Cool, attempted to break cultural barriers by taking guests dressed in Chinese costume to a Chinatown banquet, \"from soup to soup again, all the way through chop suey and paste balls and bird's nests.\" Sadly, she was ahead of her time, as \"the few who were brave enough to swallow the courses had difficulty in picking up enough to swallow.\" \"I felt dreadfully guilty about it,\" she later admitted. The following year, a young society beauty broke numerous taboos by visiting Los Angeles's Chinatown every night, driven by her lust for noodles. At eleven o'clock, she would sweep into a joint \"where the chief patrons are outcast negroes and white damsels of no reputation,\" give the customers a haughty stare, and exclaim: \"Pigs! All of you. Pigs!\" Then she would order three bowls of Chinese noodles, each \"large enough to satisfy a hippopotamus,\" consume them with fastidious manners, and depart into the night, sated. By 1906, Los Angeles had chop suey restaurants like the Shanghai Chop Suey Caf\u00e9, where the local Credit Men's Association held its annual banquet. The menu included pork soup with vege-tables, ham omelettes, boneless duck with ham, chicken with chestnuts, chicken stuffed with birds' nests, and preserved fruit, tea, and cakes, along with the namesake dish.\n\n_Figure 5.4. A postcard for the Guey Sam Chinese Resturant in Chicago, 1958. Chinese-Americans changed little between 1900 and the 1960s._\n\nEarly on the morning of April 18, 1906, San Franciscans were thrown from their beds by the shocks of a massive earthquake. Rushing into the streets, they saw that the initial tremors had destroyed some buildings and damaged many, ruptured gas lines, and sparked fires. As aftershocks rattled the city, property owners set fire to their own buildings to try to recoup their losses (their insurance policies covered fire but not earthquakes). The city caught fire, and five hundred blocks were burned beyond repair. Within hours, troops were called from the Presidio military base and began patrolling the streets with orders to shoot looters on site. Chinatown was not spared the chaos, and eyewitnesses saw many whites, including National Guardsmen and \"respectably-dressed women,\" pawing through the rubble looking for spoils. (Decades later, shame-faced descendants were still donating looted Chinese goods to local museums.) The local newspapers cheered the destruction of Chinatown, which they long had claimed was the city's largest blight, an overcrowded ghetto teeming with crime and immorality. A committee was formed to forcibly remove the entire community from San Francisco, but the Chinese fought back by pointing out that they were property owners, too, and the city would lose huge amounts of trade if they moved their businesses elsewhere. Within weeks, they began to rebuild Chinatown\u2014bigger, cleaner, and with more Oriental flair. Gone, or at least better hidden, were the opium joints and the dark haunts of the hatchet men. This \"new look\" Chinatown attracted businessmen, tourists, and even local San Franciscans eager for an evening's amusement. In early 1907, the _San Francisco Call_ ran a small ad for a restaurant named The China, located at 1538 Geary Boulevard and serving \"novel Oriental dishes that please your palate,\" including chop suey, noodles, tea, and preserves. White San Francisco's fall into the clutches of Chinese food had finally begun, perhaps impelled by the shared suffering during the earthquake and its aftermath. Two years later, chop suey had so overwhelmed the West that the head of the California State Association declared that \"if chop suey houses and Chinese laundries were not eliminated from the United States the next century would be one of demoralization and decay.\" His finger in the dike was not enough; the chop suey flood continued, overrunning even the communities in the West that had been most adamantly opposed to Chinese immigration.\n\nFrom the distance of over a century, it's hard to understand the reasons behind chop suey's phenomenal popularity. To current tastes, the dish is a brownish, overcooked stew, strangely flavorless, with no redeeming qualities, and redolent of bad school cafeterias and dingy, failing Chinese restaurants. Any redemption is only possible through nostalgia; perhaps a forkful of the dish evokes memories of Sunday evening family meals down at the corner Chinese American eatery. To American diners of a century ago, chop suey was the food of the moment, both sophisticated and enjoyed by everyman. They liked chop suey because it was cheap, filling, and exotic, but there was something more. Chop suey _satisfied_ , not just filling stomachs but giving a deeper feeling of gratification. This links it to an important part of the western culinary tradition. Since at least as early as the days of ancient Rome, peasants and urban laborers in the west have subsisted on jumbles of meat and vegetables boiled down to indecipherability: mushes, porridges, burgoos, hodgepodges, ragouts, olla podridas, and the like. Perhaps in chop suey westerners tasted a bit of the same savory primal stew that has fueled them for so many centuries.\n\nInevitably, just as the craze for chop suey peaked, the backlash began. Its first act was comic, at least in the rendering of a _New York Times_ reporter. It seems that in 1904, a cook named Lem Sen, fresh from San Francisco, appeared in a Lower Manhattan lawyer's office claiming that he was the inventor of chop suey. Further, he remarked that \"chop-suey is no more a national dish of the Chinese than pork and beans. . . . There is not a grain of anything Celestial in it.\" To the contrary, he claimed, he had concocted the dish in the kitchen of a San Francisco \"Bohemian\" restaurant just before Li Hongzhang arrived in the United States: \"The owner of the restaurant . . . suggested that Lem Sen manufacture some weird dish that would pass as Chinese and gratify the public craze at the time. Lem Sen says that it was then he introduced to the astonished world the great dish.\" Then, he said, an American man stole his recipe, and Lem Sen wanted compensation: \"Mellikan man makee thousand dollar now. Lem Sen, he makee, too, but me allee time look for Mellican man who stole. Me come. Me find! Now me wantee [recipe] back, an' all stop makee choop soo or pay for allowee do same.\" (American newspapers of the time typically reported the speech of immigrants and African Americans in demeaning dialect.) Lem Sen's lawyer threatened to obtain an injunction \"restraining all Chinese restaurant keepers from making and serving chop suey.\" He never followed through, perhaps because New Yorkers knew that Len Sen's claim was absurd; they had been eating chop suey down on Mott Street for over a decade before Li Hongzhang's visit.\n\nThe idea that chop suey was not Chinese, though, had staying power. The following year, the _Boston Globe_ ran a photo of six Chinese students at a textile trade school in New Bedford, Massachusetts, each neatly dressed in a Western suit and tie, beneath the headline \"Never Heard of Chop Suey in China.\" The students, two from the Yangzi River area and the others from Guangzhou, claimed that \"not one of them had ever heard of chop suey until they came to this country.\" Rather, it was \"a cheap imitation of a dish which pleased Li Hung Chang at a banquet a dozen years ago.\" Of course, Li actually never ate chop suey, but never mind that detail.\n\nStories of the \"chop suey hoax\" proliferated from then on; the gist of the story was always that the dish was a fraud, invented for Americans too ignorant to recognize real Chinese food. The sources were American travelers just back from China or more often Chinese themselves, often highly educated diplomats or businessmen from anywhere but the hinterland of the Pearl River Delta. With their deep knowledge and experience of the Middle Kingdom, they uncovered an alternate tale of the dish's creation. It seems that in China, some beggars carry copper pots and go to the kitchen doors of houses pleading for leftovers. When they have enough scraps, they put their collection over the fire and cook up a miscellaneous \"beggar's hash\" or, as the Chinese call it, chop suey. The dish was first presented to Americans on some fateful night in Gold Rush\u2013era San Francisco, in a Chinese-run boardinghouse\u2014or was it a restaurant? Carl Crow, an American businessman in Shanghai, told the most elaborate version of the story, which he got from a Chinese diplomat:\n\nSoon after the discovery of gold the Chinese colony in the city was large enough to support a couple of restaurants conducted by Cantonese cooks, who catered only to their fellow-exiles from the Middle Kingdom. The white men had heard the usual sailor yarns about what these pigtailed yellow men ate, and one night a crowd of miners decided they would try this strange fare just to see what it was like. They had been told that Chinese ate rats and they wanted to see whether or not it was true. When they got to the restaurant the regular customers had finished their suppers, and the proprietor was ready to close his doors. But the miners demanded food, so he did the best he could to avoid trouble and get them out of the way as soon as possible. He went out into the kitchen, dumped together all the food his Chinese patrons had left in their bowls, put a dash of Chinese sauce on top and served it to his unwelcome guests. As they didn't understand Cantonese slang they didn't know what he meant when he told them that they were eating chop suey, or \"beggar hash.\" At any rate, they liked it so well that they came back for more and in that chance way the great chop suey industry was established.\n\nAccording to a _Philadelphia Inquirer_ headline, the moral of this tale was \"The Origin of Chop Suey Is an Enormous Chinese Joke.\" Even today, the dish is described as the \"biggest culinary joke played by one culture on another.\" In every version, the butts of the joke were the Americans who were too stupid to know that they were essentially eating garbage.\n\nIn reality, of course, the Sze Yap\u2013born residents of Chinatown apparently liked chop suey just as much as the barbarians, and there is no evidence of white San Franciscans eating chop suey before 1900. So why did the \"experts\" repeat a story that appears to have no basis in fact? Well, the tale about the bullying of the Chinese restaurant owner does ring true, and the punch line about eating garbage suggests a veiled revenge (analogous to the chef spitting in the soup) for decades of mistreatment. Call it a myth that conveys a larger historical \"truth.\" Despite these stories, the hungry American masses kept on gobbling chop suey with gusto, for now.\n\n## **CHAPTER SIX \nAmerican Chop Suey**\n\nIn 1909, Elsie Sigel, age nineteen, lived in New York City's Washington Heights and liked Chinese food and, apparently, Chinese men. Elsie's mother, devoting her energies to converting the Chinese to Christianity, regularly visited a mission down on Mott Street. Both mother and daughter frequented two \"chop sueys\"\u2014the one in their Upper Manhattan neighborhood and a high-class Chinese restaurant down on Mott Street named the Port Arthur. The Sigels' apartment was decorated with vases, tea sets, and other curios from Chinatown. Elsie's father, Paul Sigel, a government clerk whose father had been a revered general in the Civil War, detested his wife's mission work and often threatened to eject any Chinese men he found visiting the Sigel household. In fact, Chinese men often did visit; they came to ask for Mrs. Sigel's help and to court her daughter. Though not considered a beauty\u2014she had a broad, flat nose and bad teeth\u2014Elsie was pleasingly plump, dressed well, and possessed an agreeable, soft-spoken nature. Attracted by these qualities, both Leon Ling, the suave and well-dressed ex-manager of the Washington Heights chop suey, and Chu Gain, the manager of the Port Arthur, were among her suitors. Mrs. Sigel favored Chu Gain, who was rumored to be wealthy, but Elsie preferred Ling and had been writing steamy notes to him for over a year. Many guessed that she and Ling were having an affair. However, in the spring of 1909 Elsie seemed to be tiring of Ling and, swayed by her mother, turning her affections to Chu Gain. Those who knew the trio sensed that something bad might happen: Leon Ling was persistent and known to have a violent streak.\n\n_Figure 6.1. Elsie Sigel's unsolved_ 1909 _murder, dubbed the \"Chinatown Trunk Mystery\" by the national media, reinforced misgivings about the exotic world of that neighborhood. The police description of the main suspect as a \"Chinaman\" who \"usually dresses like an American\" and \"talks good English\" did not allay unease._\n\nOn the morning of June 9, 1909, Elsie Sigel told her mother that she was going to visit the grocer, the butcher, and then her grandmother in the Bronx. She made the first two stops but never arrived at her grandmother's. By evening, the family was worried, their fears only partially alleviated by the arrival of a telegram from Washington, D.C.: \"Don't worry. Will be home Sunday noon. E.J.S.\" Sure that her daughter had eloped, most likely with Leon Ling, they nevertheless hurried to Chinatown the next morning to see if they could locate her. (Fearing a scandal, they didn't report the disappearance to the police.) They scoured the neighborhood between Broadway and the Bowery, running into Chu Gain, who joined the search for Elsie, but not Leon Ling. Sun Leung, the owner of a restaurant over a bicycle store at Eighth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street, was also looking for Leon Ling, who worked there as a waiter. Ling shared an apartment with two other Chinese men on the fourth floor of the restaurant's building. Sun Leung knocked on the door of his room again and again over the next few days, until on June 18 he smelled a foul odor coming from behind the door. He ran for a policeman, who soon arrived with a locksmith to open the room. Inside the small, neat bedroom, they found a black trunk bound with rope. The policeman cut the rope, pried open the lid, and uncovered the decaying corpse of a young woman, wrapped in a blanket. Nothing in the trunk identified the body, but investigators found a letter in a bureau addressed to a \"Miss Elizabeth Sigel.\" They hurried to Washington Heights.\n\nPaul Sigel admitted that his daughter was missing, but on viewing the body, neither he nor his two sons would confirm that the young woman was Elsie. Positive identification came from Mrs. Florence Todd, the head of the Mott Street mission, and two days later the Sigel family held a private funeral at the Woodlawn Cemetery. Afterward, Mrs. Sigel retired to a sanatorium in Connecticut, and Elsie's father and brothers refused to make any further comment about the frightful case. Throughout the city and indeed across the nation, an uproar arose about the murder. \"Chinaman Is Supposed to Be the Murderer of Young Girl\" blared the _Ogden Standard_ out in Utah, one of the many newspapers that led with the story. In response to the outcry, the police began an intensive manhunt for Leon Ling, wiring descriptions of him around the country. They rounded up all the Chinese people associated with the case and submitted them to questioning that sometimes turned brutal. Out on the street, any Chinese man who looked \"Americanized\"\u2014in Western clothes and without a queue\u2014was viewed with suspicion. In upstate New York, Pennsylvania, Chicago, California, and elsewhere, local whites turned in dozens of Asian men, both Chinese and Japanese. Despite a watch kept at every major railroad station and the Pacific Mail steamship docks in San Francisco, the presumed murderer remained elusive. The New York police declared that they would soon get their man, but William M. Clemens, the _Chicago Tribune_ 's \"Famous Expert in Crimology,\" thought otherwise: \"The New York sleuths did not reckon with the Chinese mind. . . . A race that drinks its wine hot, shakes hands with itself in greeting, eats its eggs and melon only when old and dried\u2014such a race in criminal things can be looked upon for unexpected cunning.\" Ling was never caught, and the real story of how Elsie Sigel died remains a mystery.\n\nThe case received such widespread publicity partly because \"white slavery\" was a prominent issue at the time. Many influential people, including politicians, policemen, religious leaders, and feminists, believed that an epidemic of prostitution was sweeping across the country and young women were being forced into lives of shame. This conviction had many roots, including the fact that thousands of women were finding jobs and a new financial independence in cities, prejudice toward the masses of European immigrants (including many single young women) then arriving, and a few actual prostitution cases. The outcry over Elsie Sigel's murder helped link the nation's Chinatowns and their thousands of chop suey joints to the white slavery issue. Like public dance halls, brothels, gambling houses, and disreputable hotels, reformers declared that Chinese restaurants were places where unmarried women could be lured into depravity. On Mott Street, where the restaurants did the bulk of their business late at night, the police forced early closing times and temporarily barred unaccompanied white women from the district altogether. In her book _The Market for Souls_ , Elizabeth Goodnow describes her tour of Lower Manhattan's fleshpots, ending with Chinatown: \"We entered a house that had a chop suey place on the first floor. The rest of the house was filled with women and the fumes of opium came down the stairs.\" Goodnow ascends to the bordello and finds a small room furnished with gaudy Chinese embroidery and a Chinese idol. On the bed lies a white prostitute who has killed herself with an overdose of opium, another victim of the path to ruin that began with an innocent visit to Chinatown. The _Chicago Tribune_ reported:\n\nMore than 300 Chicago white girls have sacrificed themselves to the influence of the chop suey 'joints' during the last year, according to police statistics . . . . Vanity and the desire for showy clothes led to their downfall, it is declared. It was accomplished only after they smoked and drank in the chop suey restaurants and permitted themselves to be hypnotized by the dreamy, seductive music that is always on tap.\n\nMeanwhile, in South Bend, Indiana, the Board of Health was more direct, calling that city's Chinese restaurants \"nothing but opium joints with chop suey attachments.\" The police and other groups continued to associate chop sueys with sin for almost a decade, and news of Chinatown raids dominated headlines.\n\nBack on the women's page, something very different was happening. Instead of joining in the anti\u2013Chinese food frenzy, syndicated columnists like Marion Harland and Jane Eddington published numerous recipes for chop suey and other dishes, apparently due to public demand. As Eddington wrote in 1914 in the _Chicago Tribune_ , \"there is always a demand for chop suey recipes.\" One of the most prolific women writers of her time, Harland was always game to try new things, even at age eighty-three:\n\nSo many nationalities unite to make up the American people that it is only natural we should have diversities in our bill of fare. For myself, I like it. I enjoy trying new dishes and adding to my table combinations which have had their birth on the other side of the ocean. . . . We have gone further afield and eaten and enjoyed chop suey, and from a number of our constituency have come requests for full and minute directions for making this Chinese dish, for instructions how and with what to serve it.\n\nThe first Chinese cookbook for American readers, _Chinese Cookery in the Home Kitchen_ , had been written two years earlier by another newspaperwoman, Jessie Louise Nolton of the _Chicago Inter-Ocean_. The recipes replicated the menu of the average downtown Chinese restaurant: boiled rice, multiple kinds of \"chop sooy,\" \"eggs fo yong,\" roast pork and chicken, fried rice, and so on.\n\nFor more sophisticated housewives, preparing a bowl of chop suey for the family meal was not enough. In 1913, _Harper's Bazaar_ published a series of articles on how to cook and serve a Chinese dinner, luncheon, and tea party. These pieces were written by one Sara Eaton Boss\u00e9, the daughter of a Chinese mother and English father, who lived a distinctly Bohemian lifestyle as a painter and artist's model in New York. For her, these Chinese parties were theatrical events, a way of escaping from middle-class existence into the realm of East Asian exotica: \"A Chinese dinner, properly served, proves a delightful and novel form of entertainment. It should be served, of course, in the purely Chinese fashion, which lends an added charm and mystery to the dishes themselves.\" Preparation for these parties took days, beginning with trips to Chinatown (those in New York, Chicago, Boston, San Francisco, and Montreal are listed) to purchase the proper furniture, table settings, decorations, and finally ingredients. Luncheon hostesses seeking more \"authenticity\" required guests to come in Chinese costume and acquired a Chinese \"boy\" to wait on table (if not, the maid could be dressed in Chinese fashion and instructed to shuffle noiselessly). Wisely, Boss\u00e9 advises her readers to first taste the dishes in Chinatown before trying to cook them. The menus are fairly straightforward, resembling the set feasts that restaurants like the Port Arthur served to wealthy white slumming parties. Her Chinese dinner includes bird's nest soup, sweet and sour fish, pineapple chicken, duck chow mein, \"Gar Lu Chop Suey,\" saut\u00e9ed cucumbers, Chinese mushrooms with green peppers, and the usual assortment of preserved fruits and Chinese cakes for dessert. The following year, Boss\u00e9 and her sister Winnifred, writing under the pseudonym Onoto Watanna, published their ground-breaking _Chinese-Japanese Cook Book_. This milestone (the first Japanese cookbook written in English and perhaps the second Chinese), representing the cutting edge of cuisine at the time, was a perfect source for the hostess who sought to re-create a bit of Bohemia in her home.\n\nWe get another glimpse of how American women used these recipes and the suggestions for Chinese-themed parties in Sinclair Lewis's 1920 novel _Main Street_. Born in the small town of Sauk Centre, Minnesota, Lewis excelled at describing Middle America in the post\u2013World War I era. In much of his work, Chinese restaurants (\"lanterns painted with cherry-blossoms and with pagodas, hung against lattices of lustrous gold and black\") appear prominently as part of the downtown landscape of midwestern towns and cities.\n\nThe protagonist of _Main Street_ is Carol Kennicott, a young woman from Minneapolis who marries a doctor and goes to live in his dreary, conservative hometown, Gopher Prairie. A few months after arriving, she decides to throw a house-warming party, as people do in the city. She spends weeks on preparations, going to Minneapolis to buy supplies, new furniture, clothes, and a Japanese obi to hang on the wall. Her guests consist of Gopher Prairie's entire \"aristocracy\"\u2014doctors, lawyers, businessmen, and their wives. They expect a prim and proper entertainment, followed by a filling meat-and-potatoes meal, but Carol Kennicott has another idea: something \"noisy and undignified.\" After making her guests play a game she learned in Chicago\u2014in the dark, with no shoes, and on their hands and knees no less\u2014she produces paper Chinese masquerade costumes she has bought for everyone to wear. She also changes her dress, becoming \"an airy figure in trousers and a coat of green brocade edged with gold; a high gold collar under a proud chin; black hair pierced with jade pins; a languid peacock fan in an outstretched hand; eyes uplifted to a vision of pagoda towers.\" After regaling her guests with an impromptu \"Chinese\" concert, she leads them \"in a dancing procession\" to the dining room, where they find blue bowls of chow mein, with lychee nuts and ginger preserved in syrup. \"None of them save that city-rounder Harry Haydock had heard of any Chinese dish except chop sooey. With agreeable doubt they ventured through the bamboo shoots into the golden fried noodles of the chow mein.\" The eating guests allow Carol to rest for a minute, and she briefly considers one more gesture to shock them\u2014smoking a cigarette\u2014before dismissing the thought as \"obscene.\" In the social column of the local weekly, the editor (who attended the event) praises the party and its novel diversions, including the \"dainty refreshments served in true Oriental style.\" But a few days later, Carol's best friend tells her what the guests really thought: the party was too expensive, and the Chinese theme too novel: \"And it certainly is unfair of them to make fun of your having that Chinese food\u2014chow mein, was it?\u2014and to laugh about your wearing your pretty trousers.\" Carol bursts into tears, and no more Chinese food is served in Gopher Prairie. (A few chapters later, however, Carol and her husband escape for a quick trip to Minneapolis, where they visit a \"Chinese restaurant that was frequented by clerks and their sweethearts on paydays. They sat at a teak and marble table eating Eggs Foo yung, and listened to a brassy automatic piano, and were altogether cosmopolitan.\") The Chinese restaurant experience is something only urban sophisticates appreciate, at least in Minnesota in the 1920s.\n\nMechanical pianos, fixtures in many chop suey joints by World War I, propelled some Chinese restaurant owners into a new phase of business. These machines were the jukeboxes of their day: you put a nickel in the slot, and the piano's mechanism played fox-trots, jazz tunes, and popular songs. Unsettled by one such piano's \"whang and pulse,\" the members of the Women's Christian Temperance Union chapter in Hammond, Indiana, drilled holes in the floor of the apartment above the King Honk Low restaurant and poured dirty mop water onto the patrons in 1913. The mechanical piano's quick rise to popularity soon inspired entrepreneurial restaurant owners to bring entertainment\u2014music, dancing, and a floor show\u2014into their establishments. (They had been best known as _after_ -theater joints.) One of the earliest of these new nightclub-restaurants was the Pekin, at Broadway and Forty-seventh Street, which a 1916 New York City guidebook listed as \"an elaborate Chinese show restaurant; cabaret, music, dancing.\" This trend only accelerated when the Volstead Act banning the sale of alcoholic beverages went into effect in early 1920. In the first years of Prohibition, tens of thousands of restaurants and nightclubs across the nation, from Manhattan lobster palaces to Los Angeles cantinas, went out of business. Chinese restaurants, however, thrived, because they had never served alcohol\u2014tea had always been their most potent beverage.\n\nBy 1924, Broadway between Times Square and Columbus Circle was home to fourteen big \"chop suey jazz places.\" One Chinese nightclub owner, a former Essex Street laundryman, supposedly wore a huge diamond ring, rode in an imported car, and squired around a bottle-blond burlesque dancer. In San Francisco, most of these new nightspots were in Chinatown, probably beginning with Shanghai Low in the 1920s. Featuring all-Chinese singers, musicians, chorus lines, and even strippers, clubs like the Forbidden City attracted a clientele of politicians, movie stars, and businessmen out for an exotic good time. In smaller cities, the entertainment at Chinese restaurants, still revolving around the player piano, was more modest. On Atlanta's Auburn Avenue, the heart of the African American district, the Lum Pong Chop Suey Place had the danceable \"I'll Be Glad When You Are Dead, You Rascal You\" cued up on the piano.\n\nNearly all of these Chinese restaurant-nightclubs catered strictly to mass tastes; there was never a Chinese version of El Morocco or the Stork Club. A 1934 New York restaurant guide describes Chin Lee's, one of the largest of these joints at Broadway and Forty-ninth Street, as \"chop suey chef to the masses and dispenser of dim lights, ceaseless dance music, undistinguished floor shows, and tons of chow mein.\" As for its patrons, they were young, numerous, and hungry:\n\n_Figure 6.2. From_ 1938 _to_ 1962, _San Francisco's Forbidden City nightclub featured performances by Asian-American musicians, dancers, strippers, and magicians. Performers were given such nicknames as the \"Chinese Sinatra\" to attract non-Chinese clients._\n\nHere at any hour of the day, from eleven to midnight, you may find the girl who waits on you at Gimbel's, her boy friend, who is one of Wall Street's million margin clerks, noisy parties of Bronx handmaidens babblingly bent on a movie and subgum spree, college boys from Princeton (slumming, of course), and, perhaps, even your next-door neighbor. Within the not-so-occidental confines of Chin's, the girls dance with other girls, and the boys dance with anyone handy. The prices are scaled down to suit the toiling thousands, and Chin Lee's offers its clientele, for 55 cents or 85 cents, their idea of a $5 floor show. Though their idea may be a bit vague and thin, the customers seem to like it and applaud lustily between mouthfuls of fried noodles and oriental onions.\n\nThese restaurant owners were all too aware that they weren't selling caviar and champagne but chop suey, ham and cheese sandwiches, and the like\u2014food everybody liked but nobody wanted to spend much money on. The real profits were in volume and in liquor; the businessmen rented the largest possible spaces and featured a wide array of exotic cocktails on their menus.\n\nThe specialties of the Chinese American menu, from chop suey to moo goo gai pan to pepper steak, eventually lost their exotic associations. In his 1916 novel _Uneasy Money_ , P. G. Wodehouse listed chop suey among the \"great American institutions,\" up there with New Jersey mosquitoes, the Woolworth Building, and corn on the cob. In big cities like New York, the most popular Chinese restaurant dishes had become everyday food:\n\n[Chop suey] has become a staple. It is vigorously vying with sandwiches and salad as the sometime nourishment of the young women typists and telephonists of John, Dey and Fulton Streets. It rivals coffee-and-two-kinds-of-cake as the recess repast of the sales forces of West Thirty-Fourth Street department stores. At lunch hour there is an eager exodus toward Chinatown of the women workers employed in Franklin, Duane and Worth Streets. To them the district is not an intriguing bit of transplanted Orient. It is simply a good place to eat.\n\nIn midwestern towns like those Sinclair Lewis used as models for Gopher Prairie, Chinese food probably held on to its mystery through the 1930s. (For small-town sophisticates, the local Chinese restaurant was often the only eatery where they could find both glamour and late closing hours.) Beyond these establishments, chop suey was now served in soda fountains, coffee shops, school cafeterias, military messes, church suppers, and even Manhattan's ultrasophisticated Stork Club (whose version was made with wild rice, butter, celery, spinach, and big rib steaks). Forty years after its appearance on Mott Street, chop suey had become cheap, fun, and filling American food.\n\nAmericans' embrace of chop suey was impelled by more than the assemblage of ingredients, style of preparation, and lingering whiffs of the far-off East: chop suey penetrated the larger culture, mutating and changing its meaning depending on the context. Cookbooks gave housewives one way to prepare chop suey and other Chinese dishes, but soy sauce, bean sprouts, and the like remained hard to find outside big cities. By 1915, regional companies like Chicago's Libby, McNeil & Libby had started canning chop suey and selling it in grocery stores; apparently, these products were bland and unappealing and didn't really take off. In 1920, two men in Detroit, Wally Smith and Ilhan New, began growing bean sprouts in Smith's bathtub and canning them. Within four years, their company, which they named La Choy, had a whole line of canned Chinese foods on the market: bean sprouts, mushrooms, crispy chow mein noodles, Chinese vegetables (mixed water chestnuts and bamboo shoots), \"Chinese Sauce\" (soy sauce), and \"Brown Sauce,\" a kind of savory, molasses-based gravy. The labels claimed you could now make \"genuine Chop Suey or Chow Mein in ten minutes.\" According to the millions of recipe booklets La Choy distributed, all you had to do was fry up some meat, onions, and celery; mix in La Choy vegetables; spoon in the Chinese Sauce and Brown Sauce; and serve the resulting stew over rice or chow mein noodles. Semi-homemade chop suey tasted better than the canned version, and La Choy soon dominated the grocery aisles. (Now owned by ConAgra Foods, it remains the leader in canned Chinese American provisions today.)\n\n_Figure 6.3. The_ 1916 _menu for the Oriental Restaurant in New York's Chinatown contains dishes like birds' nest soup and sharks' fins, as well as \"chop sooy\" and chow mein._\n\nIn the early twentieth century, chop suey also took a lexical jump from Chinese restaurants onto other kinds of menus\u2014a testament to its penetration of the culture. Soda fountains began offering \"chop suey sundaes,\" described as \"chopped dates, cherries, figs, raisins, citron and different kinds of nuts, all forming a cherry colored syrup, [and] poured over a round allowance of cream; then . . . sprinkled with more nuts.\" Two decades later, this concoction had become a m\u00e9lange of chopped tropical and fresh fruits flavored with cherry syrup and served over ice cream with sliced bananas, nuts, and whipped cream. \"American chop suey,\" another faux version of the dish, was invented around the same time. The _Alton_ ( _IL_ ) _Evening Telegraph_ called the Chinese dish \"the high water mark of the delicacy\" and then described the American version as perhaps more satisfying to less sophisticated appetites. Here's the recipe:\n\nPlace in a spider a lump of butter, size of a walnut; in this, when hot, brown one and one-half pounds of Hamburg steak; heat a can of tomatoes, fry four medium-sized onions, and boil two cups of macaroni or spaghetti; seasoning each article well; drain macaroni and add it, with the onions and tomatoes, to the meat, and simmer five minutes. No side dishes are needed if this is made for lunch, as it makes a palatable, substantial lunch for six or seven people.\n\nHome cooks in rural New England and the Midwest today still prepare nearly the same recipe\u2014filling food for hardworking people. As the writer for the _Evening Telegraph_ admitted, chop suey was just another word for hash.\n\nAway from the restaurant counter and home dinner table, the practitioners of the other popular arts also embraced chop suey as a concept. As early as 1900, Chinese food was considered fun and lively, with plenty of mass appeal. Why not throw it into a song, a movie, or a vaudeville show? That year, chop suey was the centerpiece of a twenty-four-second short entitled _In a Chinese Restaurant_. Produced by the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company, it showed the Bowery personality Chuck Connors and two Chinese men seated at a table and eating chop suey while having an animated conversation\u2014a scene of intercultural fraternization that probably shocked many in the audience. Over the next few decades, Chinese restaurants appeared in a number of movies, usually as the quintessential urban, working-class eatery\u2014the kind of place where hard-bitten showgirls discussed their men, or the cop fell in love with the gangland moll. A few of these films also played with the old white slavery stereotypes. In Harold Lloyd's 1919 short _Chop Suey & Company_, a heroic but hopelessly na\u00efve policeman becomes convinced that evil Chinese are plotting to abduct a young woman eating in a chop suey joint. After many gags, it's revealed that she's really an actress rehearsing scenes for a play. Others traded in chauvinism, like Gale Henry's 1919 comedy _The Detectress_ , featuring special glasses that allow a character to see what's really in chop suey: dead dragonflies, rope, the sole of a shoe, and a puppy. One of the rare films to apply these stereotypes more seriously to the Chinese restaurant setting was the 1930 potboiler _East Is West_ , starring Lew Ayres. In it, young Ming Toy (played by Lupe V\u00e9lez!) is rescued from slavery and brought to San Francisco, where she attracts the attention of evil Charlie Yong (Edward G. Robinson), the city's chop suey kingpin. In the nick of time, they discover that Ming Toy isn't Chinese at all but the child of white missionaries and can finally marry Lew Ayres after all. (The _New York Times_ reviewer noted that even pulp magazines would hesitate to publish such a trashy story.)\n\nRace also figured in some of the early song lyrics that referred to Chinese food. The 1909 \"Chink, Chink, Chinaman,\" by Bert Williams, a popular African American vaudeville performer, begins: \"One time have chop suey house \/ on street where heap white boys, \/ all time sing 'bout chink chink chinee \/ all time make heap noise.\" The narrator decides to move to the African American neighborhood but discovers that even there the residents sing \"Chink chink chinee.\" By the 1920s, these stereotypes had become stale and overused, at least in their most blatant form. The era's most popular dance was the jazz fox-trot, inspiring tunes like the 1923 \"Hi Lee Hi Lo\u2014I Love You Chop Suey a la Foxee\" and Louis Armstrong's famous \"Cornet Chop Suey,\" an instrumental with a bright and lively melody. Two years later, Margaret Johnson recorded Sidney Bechet's humorous \"Who'll Chop Your Suey When I'm Gone?\"\n\nThere is something, honey baby, that grieves my mind. \nI'm thinking about your future, when I leave you behind. \nIt's got me up a tree\u2014here's the thing that worries me: \nWho'll chop your suey when I'm gone? \nWho'll corn your fritters Sunday morn?\n\nBorrowing from African American artists, white songwriters used food-related motifs for novelty songs, for example, \"A Bowl of Chop Suey and You-ey,\" from the 1934 Jack Oakie musical _Shoot the Works_ :\n\nTake a look at this place that we've wandered into, \nIt's not Arabian, it's not Hindu, \nIt's just a Chinese eat place, not a swell or elite place, \nI won't order rice or tea, here's what appeals to me. \nAll I want is a bowl of chop suey, a bowl of chop suey and you-ey, \nA cozy little table for two-ey with a bowl of chop suey and you-ey.\n\n(It goes on like this for far too long.) This stew of Chinese food, fun, and romance continued into the 1950s with songs like Louis Prima and Keely Smith's \"Chop Suey, Chow Mein\" (\"Chop suey, chow mein, tufu [ _sic_ ] and you, \/ I've got the craziest feeling . . .\"). Perhaps something about food as a theme encourages frivolity. Only Rogers and Hammerstein's song \"Chop Suey,\" from their 1957 musical _Flower Drum Song_ , resists cartoon imagery and addresses racial themes more earnestly, reflecting an era when these issues were beginning to be treated more seriously.\n\nVisual artists also began using Chinese restaurants in their paintings and drawings: the chop suey joint was now a quintessential urban setting. Images ranged from the stylized _Vanity Fair_ cartoons by the Mexican artist Miguel Covarrubias to the earthier and more realistic work of Reginald Marsh. His 1929 etching _Chop Suey Dancers_ #2 portrays three all-female couples dressed as flappers practicing their dance moves in a Chinese nightclub, probably during their lunch hour. A series of booths lines the wall in the background, where a shadowy figure in black, maybe a Chinese waiter, flits across the scene, appearing to leer at the women. Arguably the most famous of all Chinese restaurant paintings is Edward Hopper's 1929 painting _Chop Suey_. As in many of his works, a strong dose of melancholy infuses the scene. In the foreground we see two women, both in cloche hats, sitting at a little table in the dining room of a second-floor Chinese restaurant. Through the window we see the fragment of a large sign saying \"SUEY\" and a slice of fire escape ladder. It may be wintertime, because a woman's yellow coat hangs on a peg. One of the women, in a lilac blouse, has her back to us. Opposite her sits a woman in a green sweater, its color made pale by the sun. Under her hat, her face is stark white, with bright red lips and luminous eyes that seem to be stunned or saddened by something her tablemate has said. On the table between the two women stand a pale pink teapot and an empty blue bowl. Perhaps this unusual scene for a painting, the chop suey joint, was meant to help create a jarring suggestion of tension and loss.\n\nBy the 1920s, chop suey and chow mein had claimed a place in the national diet alongside ham and eggs, coffee and a slice of pie, and the Sunday pot roast. For those who were not part of the mainstream culture, eating Chinese food offered one way to join it, to prove one belonged. For the sons and daughters of Jewish immigrants, growing up in New York, Chicago, and many other urban areas, all the chop suey joints up one flight of stairs on side streets proved particularly attractive. By 1925, the United States was home to well over a million Jewish immigrants, the majority from Eastern Europe and Russia. Most of these immigrants continued to follow the religious practices of Old World Orthodox Judaism, where food and spirituality mingled: eating was another way of celebrating the divine. Each meal began with blessings over the wine, the bread, and the rest of the dishes. Of course, Jewish food was as much about what it was _not_ as about what it was. The laws of _kashrut_ (kosher practice) forbid a long list of foods, including pork, rabbit, eel, shrimp, lobster, insects (except for certain grasshoppers), and any meat that has not been ritually slaughtered by a kosher butcher. Meat and dairy products cannot be served together or heated in the same pot, and one is forbidden to consume many cooked foods unless they have been prepared by Jewish hands or under rabbinic supervision. Compare this with the anything-goes tradition of Chinese food, as Lin Yutang described it: \"We are too over-populated and famine is too common for us not to eat everything we can lay our hands on.\" In spite of\u2014and perhaps also because of\u2014this fundamental difference, for second- and third-generation American Jews, Chinese restaurants became a home away from home.\n\nDuring the 1920s and 1930s, Jews coming of age were being pulled in many directions. First, there was the weight of religious custom as practiced by their immigrant parents. After arriving, many settled in densely populated Jewish districts of the big cities. On New York's Lower East Side, synagogues could be found on nearly every block, and Yiddish, not English, was the lingua franca. These were insular neighborhoods, cultural ghettoes with little contact with the larger society\u2014in fact, these Lower East Siders rarely even visited nearby Chinatown. But for their American-educated children, this Old World Jewish identity was in many ways a dead end. Jews who emigrated from Europe had been cut off from their ancestral homes in the cities and shtetls by war, political unrest, and anti-Semitism. Their children born in the United States would probably live there for the rest of their lives. If they wanted to succeed, they had to speak English and drop the outward signs of being observant Jews\u2014beards and sidelocks for men and heads-carves for women. The necessity to assimilate grew as their families moved from the urban ghettoes out into newer and more ethnically mixed middle-class neighborhoods away from the city center. Part of that assimilation was becoming accustomed to the alien eating habits they were exposed to in schools\u2014a ham sandwich and a glass of milk\u2014and workplaces. Their immigrant parents had rarely, if ever, eaten out; they only felt comfortable with food they had cooked themselves. But young Jews employed in factories and offices were on occasion invited to go out with their workmates. Their destination was a place called a restaurant, with alien customs like ordering from a menu and mysterious food that didn't conform to kosher standards. During this era, the most popular restaurants to visit for a fun, after-work meal were Chinese.\n\nWe get a picture of the difficulty second- and third-generation Jews faced in crossing the culinary gulf to eating Chinese food from Herman Wouk's bestselling 1954 novel _Marjorie Morningstar_. Its story begins around 1933; the lead character is the daughter of successful immigrants from Eastern Europe who have already made the jump from the Bronx to the comfort of the El Dorado, a big apartment building on Central Park West. She attends Hunter College, where her beauty and talent land her the lead in a production of _The Mikado_. While working on the play, she meets Marsha Zelenko, and one night early in their friendship, Marsha takes Marjorie out to dinner:\n\nThey went to an old brownstone house on a side street, and up a flight of stairs to a doorway framed by a huge grinning gilt dragon mouth; _Mi Fong's Jade Garden_ , the sign over the dragon's ears read. They passed through the fanged jaws into a crimson-lit room smelling of incense and strange cookery. Marjorie was very glad she had not committed herself to eat. She half believed that cats, dogs, and mice were cooked in Chinese restaurants. The pervading odor seemed more or less to confirm the idea.\n\nMarsha, the personification of the adventurous, intellectual, assimilated Jewish New Yorker, tells her that the food is sublime, \"and it costs next to nothing. If you have forty cents on you, you can have a feast.\" The first dish arrives with their Singapore slings: a plate \"full of fat brown curved things\"\u2014shrimp. Marjorie demurs; she's never eaten shrimp. Marsha asks, \"You're kosher, aren't you?\" \"Well, hardly,\" Marjorie replies. \"My folks are. But pork or shellfish\u2014it's just the idea.\" Finally, Marsha cajoles Marjorie into trying some Chinese food, starting with the soup: \"Marjorie took a few spoonfuls, straining the liquid. The taste was very spicy, not bad. But when she found herself chewing what seemed to be a couple of rubber bands, or possibly worms, she emptied her mouth and pushed away the dish.\" Then comes \"Moo Yak with almonds,\" a main course made up of a \"number of greasy objects, some vegetable, some animal\" piled on white rice. The restaurant owner claims that the meat is lamb, but Marjorie knows what pork smells like. Nevertheless, she eats:\n\nNot wanting to insult Marsha by seeming to call her a liar, Marjorie made a hearty show of enjoying the dish, whatever it was; she scooped the rice from under the meat and ate that. But the light was dim and her instruments greasy for such delicate work. She soon found herself chewing a large piece of rubbery meat. She went into a coughing fit, got rid of it in her handkerchief, and pushed the food around her plate without eating any more.\n\n_Figure 6.4. Started in 1959, Bernstein-on-Essex on New York's Lower East Side was the pioneer of Chinese-kosher cuisine. From its menu you could order both moo goo gai pan and pastrami sandwiches._\n\nDespite her discomfort, the dinner is a watershed moment for Marjorie, because during it Marsha convinces her to make the theater her career.\n\nAlmost four hundred pages and perhaps three years later, Marjorie indulges in a second Chinese meal. Now she's a successful, world-traveled theater actress with a Bohemian playwright boyfriend named Noel Airman. After a dress rehearsal of his musical masterwork, there's a small party in his apartment where everybody drinks highballs and eats Chinese takeout:\n\nIt was quite a supper. A plate of sliced pink pork was part of the buffet, along with egg rolls, chow mein, fried lobster and rice. Marjorie had become quite free about the food she ate; but she had never yet deliberately helped herself to pork, though she had suspected more than once that she was eating it, and had gone on eating. It occurred to her now, when she saw little Mrs. Lemberg piling pork on her plate, that it was high time she shrugged off these hypocritical little distinctions of hers. She took a couple of pork slices; and by dipping them completely in mustard sauce she got them down without any trouble. Eating the pork gave her an odd sense of freedom, and at the same time, though she suppressed it, a twinge of disgust.\n\nHere we understand that Marjorie has finally cast off ancestral customs and become assimilated fully into American life. Later that night, after a few more highballs, she loses her virginity. This experience, too, gives her simultaneous feelings of liberation and disgust. By the novel's end, she has finally jettisoned her no-good boyfriend, married a nice but boring lawyer named Milton Schwartz, and settled down to raise a family in the Westchester suburbs.\n\nWouk's ending implies that Mrs. Milton Schwartz, now a kosher-keeping mother of four, has left the sinful, sexually tinged realm of Chinese food behind. But in the real world, most American Jews, including the observant ones, found chop suey, chow mein, fried shrimp, roast pork, and all those other forbidden foods too tempting to avoid. In 1936, the _Sentinel Jewish Cook Book_ , published in Chicago, included recipes for chop suey from scratch, chop suey from cans, and egg foo young. The same year, a Jewish newspaper noticed that Chinese restaurants had taken over even the Lower East Side; there were eighteen within blocks of Ratner's dairy restaurant and Katz's Delicatessen. Out in the sprawling neighborhoods of two-story row houses and middle-class apartment buildings that were covering the Bronx and Brooklyn, the neon signs of chop suey joints vied with Italian red sauce restaurants and American coffee shops to attract patrons. Within their walls, the children and grandchildren of eastern European immigrants were attracted by the same qualities that had drawn the rest of society: Chinese food was cheap, filling, and just mysterious enough. Ordering a plate of chow mein showed sophistication, setting one apart from the Old World immigrants with the odors of the shtetl still clinging to their clothes. Still, the match between the two cultures was not completely consummated. In the 1930s, there was still something absurd about the idea of Jews eating Chinese food.\n\nIn the 1938 movie _Mannequin_ , Joan Crawford plays a tough girl from Hester Street who marries her no-good boyfriend. The wedding takes place in a Chinese-Jewish restaurant, where a waiter named Horowitz is garbed in Chinese clothes and carries a platter of Chinese-style gefilte fish to the newlyweds' table. (Stranger things actually happened; many of the waiters at Ratner's on Delancey Street were Chinese and could trade rapid-fire witticisms with the largely Yiddish-speaking clientele.) In the story \"A Man Will Do Anything to Make a Living,\" by the Yiddish writer Sam Liptzin, a couple considers what to do after failing at a \"candy store, a grocery, a boarding house, a marriage broker's business, a restaurant, a bakery, a 5-and-10-cent store.\" Finally, the wife decides: a Chinese restaurant. So the husband adopts the name Yu Fang, learns to eat gefilte fish with chopsticks, and opens a restaurant with Chinese cooks, waiters, and dishwashers. They wait and wait, but after two months nobody comes. \"Yu Fang!\" says the wife. \"We must give up the business. We are Jews, not Chinese, we can't compete with them!\"\n\nOver time, American Jews noticed many similarities between their food and Chinese cuisine, including the use of garlic, onions, celery, and chicken and the avoidance of milk. Nevertheless, they still had to address the issue of kashrut and the prevalence of shellfish and pork. For those who followed the letter of Jewish law, Chinese food was definitely _treyf_ (unclean). But there is a tradition in Judaism of devising interpretations that find loopholes in the law in order to allow people some room to live. When faced with the question of how to eat Chinese food and keep their Jewish identity, hungry and creative minds came up with the idea of \"safe treyf\"\u2014food that is unclean but okay. A pork chop was still forbidden, but pork chop suey was okay, because the meat was sliced into little pieces and hidden under a mound of sauce-drenched vegetables. (There's definitely a streak of humor running through the concept of safe treyf.) Though almost always flavored with ham, Chinese soups were also permitted, because the pork was invisible. As for the shrimp and lobster? Somehow serving them in a Chinese restaurant converted them into acceptable foods, perhaps because the cooks and waiters were both non-Christian and even more alien in America than Jews. They would have felt much less comfortable eating in, say, a neighborhood Italian restaurant, because the memory of Europe's long history of Christian persecutions of Jews was fresh in their minds. The very newness of Chinese food gave them room to find a way to make it their own. During the next three decades, American Jews came to be identified as the minority group with a taste for eating Chinese.\n\nAs chop suey became Americanized, one group was relegated to the sidelines and almost forgotten: the Chinese themselves. Compared to the days in the 1880s when the Chinese had feared for their lives, this was an improvement. They had the ability to run their businesses without fear that a mob was around the corner ready to burn their homes and drive them from town. A new vision of the Chinese gradually supplanted the old prejudices\u2014particularly after Japan invaded China in 1937, when Americans began to see the Chinese first as victims and then, as they fought back, plucky freedom fighters. At the movies, wise, old Charlie Chan supplanted evil, hissing Fu Manchu. However, Chinese Americans still led lives on the margins of society. The Exclusion Act remained in force; immigration from China was banned, and Chinese still could not become American citizens. After the onset of the Great Depression, travel back to mainland China became much rarer. The ratio of males to females had improved (4:1 versus 25:1 in 1890), but the majority of Chinese residents still died childless. If trends continued, the country's Chinese population would dwindle away to nothing.\n\nThe one exception to this gloomy picture was the Territory of Hawaii, where Chinese had for decades dominated the restaurant industry. Chinese had begun to arrive in Hawaii back in the late eighteenth century. Between 1850 and 1882 (the advent of the Chinese Exclusion Act), thousands of contract laborers from Guangdong Province were brought to work in the islands' sugar industry. They were joined by South Chinese entrepreneurs who founded trading companies and stores, many based in Honolulu's nascent Chinatown. The Chinese Hawaiians were mainly Cantonese from the Zhongshan district (near Macau) of the Pearl River Delta and members of the Hakka ethnic group from eastern Guangdong. Like the Chinese adventurers who traveled to other parts of the New World, they brought their cuisine with them, mainly Cantonese and Hakka peasant fare. In the countryside, they opened general stores that also served Hawaiian and American food. In Honolulu, they owned most of the city's cheap caf\u00e9s. For the Chinese themselves, the place to eat was Chinatown, where they could enjoy the rural fare of the Pearl River Delta, mainly various kinds of soups, congees, noodle dishes, and dumplings. The Wo Fat restaurant, opened in 1882, was reputed to be the favorite of a young Zhongshan native named Sun Yat-Sen, who became one of China's most revered revolutionary leaders. In 1901, at least one Honolulu restaurant existed where one could order more sophisticated banquet food\u2014\"preserved chicken, shark's fin, fresh lotus nest, duck, edible bird's nest with chopped chicken, preserved yellow fish heads, preserved snow lichen, almonds and fresh turquoise [turtle?], gold coin chicken, [and] Chinese fancy tarts\"\u2014but this was the exception.\n\nIn 1890, 20 percent of Hawaii's population were Chinese; thereafter, their numbers slowly dwindled due to harsh immigration restrictions. Nevertheless, the Chinese retained an important role in the islands' life, mainly as farmers, merchants, and factory owners. Many intermarried with local Hawaiians, with an accompanying blending of cultures, and missionaries were pleased to note a surprisingly large number of Chinese converts to Christianity. As tourism from the mainland boomed, the demands and expectations of the visitors necessitated changes in the local businesses: most Chinese restaurants added \"chop suey\" to their name\u2014Wo Fat became Wo Fat Chop Suey\u2014so that the tourists would know what to expect. Nonetheless, the Chinese Hawaiians relied on their numbers, cultural strength, and proximity to China to keep their traditions alive. In 1941, the Chinese Committee of the Honolulu YWCA compiled a cookbook entitled _Chinese Home Cooking_ ; it was probably compiled by Mary Li Sia, a cookbook author and the YWCA's Chinese cooking instructor. The book's well over a hundred recipes unabashedly exhibit local Chinese tastes, including gingered pigs' feet, bitter melon with beef, abalone with vegetables and gluten balls, numerous \"long rice\" (rice noodle) dishes, and nine varieties of chop suey. Their mode of preparation might not have been exactly what the tourists remembered from back home, but they were outnumbered by the palates and wallets of Chinatown residents. The Chinese Hawaiians retained their distinctive culinary culture far longer than their compatriots on the mainland.\n\nDuring the 1930s and 1940s, Chinese Americans continued to rely on restaurants and family laundries for their economic survival. However, they now had competition; big mechanized laundries were putting the Chinese laundrymen out of work. And they had lost their monopoly on chop suey and chow mein as Americans learned to cook the dishes, and with Prohibition over, non-Chinese nightclubs were now crowding out the vast chop-suey-and-dancing halls. There were still twenty-eight Chinatowns across the country, but the only ones where the populations were increasing were those in San Francisco and New York. In a striking reversal, the largest, in San Francisco, was now famous not as a dingy and mysterious ghetto but as a bright, modern tourist trap:\n\nIndeed, Chinatown today is not only clean but quaint, a sort of permanent exhibit of the Orient, colorful and exotic, set down amid the gray uniformity of American city life. The architectural and decorative embellishments of its buildings are often typically Oriental in color and design. Here are shops which allure tourists with displays of Oriental art, and josshouses on the upper floors of \"benevolent association\" buildings, where friendly guides sound deep-voiced gongs, burn incense, shake the fortune-telling sticks before the gloriously carved and colored shrine of Kwan-yin, the goddess of mercy, and dispense souvenirs\u2014for a consideration\n\nThe main streets of the two most important districts\u2014Grant Avenue in San Francisco and Mott Street in New York\u2014were lined with blinking chop suey signs and curio shops. In the side streets, the Chinese themselves conducted their business\u2014in grocery stores, tea shops, doctor's offices, noodle factories, printing shops, and bakeries. Indeed the Chinatowns of these two cities were the central manufacturing and distribution points for a wide range of products necessary for Chinese eateries, from imported tea and soy sauce to almond cookies and restaurant menus. These goods were shipped from New York to restaurants east of the Mississippi; San Francisco handled the trade for the western half of the country.\n\nThe Chinatown restaurants of New York and San Francisco were of two types: those catering to Chinese diners and those primarily feeding everyone else. In 1939, the Chinese needed big banquet restaurants as much as the Chinese in 1865 San Francisco had\u2014for events like holidays, weddings, anniversaries, and business gatherings. That year, the Committee to Save China's Children hosted a fundraising banquet at the China Clipper restaurant on Doyers Street in New York's Chinatown that featured bean curd soup, brown stewed duck with almonds, diced squab with Chinese vegetables, chicken with \"Chinese brown cheese\" (bean curd), Cantonese noodles, sweet and pungent shrimp, rice, dessert soup, and lotus wine. This was real Cantonese banquet fare, albeit the relatively restrained Sze Yap version. Meanwhile, at Lum Fong's over on Canal Street, the mainstays were chop suey, chow mein, egg foo young, yat gaw mein, fried rice, tomato beef, pepper steak, and egg rolls\u2014an item Lum Fong claimed to have introduced to American menus. For a dollar or two more, diners could order moo goo gai pan (chicken with mushrooms), lobster Cantonese, shrimp with lobster sauce, and a few other specialties. Some eateries also listed fried wontons, which they described as _kreplach_ (Yiddish for small, meat-filled dumplings). In other parts of the United States, the Lum Fong's type of Chinese American menu was the only game in town. If one wanted more interesting dishes, one could usually call ahead and order off the menu. A Chinese family in Omaha, Nebraska, could probably find a reasonable Cantonese meal in that city. But you had to know that possibility existed and want to act on that knowledge. Around the early 1940s, the menus in Chinese restaurants stopped evolving. Their food stagnated into bland and unexciting dishes that were now far removed from the preparations of the Pearl River Delta; and they were losing ground to the competition. The magic and excitement were gone from Chinese food. Unless something changed, Chinese restaurants were in danger of fading away into obscurity.\n\n_Figure 6.5. In 1900, Mott Street's King Hong Lau served white patrons noodle soups and chop suey, with tea and sweets for dessert._\n\n## **CHAPTER SEVEN \nDevouring the Duck**\n\nIn the decades following World War II, Chinese restaurant owners hung on by adapting their businesses to changes in the larger society. They followed Americans out of the center cities, opening eateries in new suburbs like Levittown, New York, and Park Forest, Illinois. There they encountered competition from the new fast food hamburger stands, fried chicken restaurants, and pizza parlors that were catering to hungry, busy Americans. To compete, Chinese restaurants capitalized on one of their longtime strengths: the ability to sell large portions of inexpensive food. The centerpiece of their menus was the \"family dinner,\" a multicourse meal of Cantonese American favorites for one low price. The cheapest two-person family dinner at New Joy Young in Knoxville, Tennessee, featured four courses: wonton or Chinese vegetable soup, egg foo young or fried rice, subgum chow mein, and egg rolls, all for $3.20. (Some restaurants divided the choices into columns; hence the \"one from column A and one from column B\" that many associate with eateries from this era.) For only $1.25, you could enjoy fried rice, one egg roll, and chicken chow mein. You could also order \u00e0 la carte dishes: lobster Cantonese, moo goo gai pan, American steaks, lobster Newburg, and sandwiches. For better or worse, the cheap, familiar Chinese dinners drew the most customers.\n\nThe trials of the Chinese restaurant business were outlined in a 1958 article in the _Washington Post_. There were 110 Chinese eateries in the District of Columbia, and for most of them business was not good: \"A few restaurants turn a tidy profit; others supply a comfortable income; many furnish a bare subsistence.\" The leaders of the local Chinese community considered the restaurant business moribund, an enterprise that had less and less to do with the Chinese-ness of its product. One businessman complained to the reporter about the restaurant owners: \"They have to do a job of public relations. They have to improve their food, their service, their atmosphere. A Chinese restaurant should have pleasant Chinese surroundings\u2014not chrome and neon and juke boxes. Why look how Washington has grown. But the Chinese restaurants haven't.\" One of the many problems was that young cooks with any ambition refused to work for $4,000 a year, so most of the food was prepared by old-timers whose methods were mired in the past. Some of the larger restaurants had attempted to import trained chefs from Hong Kong or Taiwan but had run into prohibitive immigration restrictions.\n\n_Figure 7.1. Inexpensive \"family dinners,\" like these offerings at New Joy Young in Knoxville, Tennessee, were the mainstay of 1950s Chinese-American restaurants._\n\nIn a 1954 _Mad_ comic strip entitled \"Restaurant!\" by the artist Will Elder, Dad decides to take the family for lunch on a typical Sunday afternoon in America. Elder packed the piece with what he called \"chicken fat,\" visual gags that filled every corner of his panels. A lot of these are at the beginning: the nebbishy Sturdley family waits to be seated in a crowded restaurant filled with shouting, fighting customers, pets, flies in the soup, kids running around with chamber pots on their heads, stray characters from other comic strips, and so on. Next come the usual indignities: getting a booth, waiting for the greasy dishes of previous diners to be cleaned away, waiting for the waiter, and waiting for Uncle Smurdley to make up his mind. Finally, the chow mein arrives. Dad savors the aroma of crisp noodles, stewed onions, bean sprouts, strips of chicken, and snowy rice. Just as he's about to put the first chopstick-full into his mouth, Baby announces that he has to go to the bathroom. Finally Dad is able to eat, but further humiliations ensue, including getting smacked on the head by the cute kid in the next booth. Afterward, the family vows to stay at home, only to find themselves once again\u2014\"eyeballs protruding, tongues gently lolling\"\u2014waiting for a booth at the same eatery the next Sunday. What's remarkable about the scene Elder depicts (aside from his manic visual imagery) is how un-Chinese the restaurant is. You have to look closely to notice the red lanterns scattered here and there. Only one of the waiters appears to be Asian, and a peek into the kitchen reveals no Chinese but a bunch of sweaty, unshaven hash-joint cooks. Despite all this, habit\u2014and price\u2014still pulled diners back to the Chinese American restaurants.\n\nIn and around cities like New York, Chicago, and San Francisco, some restaurant owners with deeper pockets experimented with changes in design and new menus. The classic Chinese restaurant aesthetic had not changed in decades: booths along the wall, tables in the center, lanterns hanging from the ceiling, a few cheap Chinese prints on the walls, a counter for the cash register, and a display of cigars and cigarettes by the entrance. In the late fifties, owners began to hire architects to convert their interiors into something dramatic and modern. Sometimes, they became a little too modern; the _New York Times_ described Manhattan's Empress restaurant as a \"distracting\" blend of contemporary Danish with Chinese influences: \"the walls are of black and scarlet, the banquettes are of gold and the napkins of rich pink.\" This trend reached a peak in 1973, when the firm of Gwathmey Siegel Associates renovated Pearl's Chinese Restaurant, then popular with Manhattan movers and shakers. The _Times_ 's architecture critic praised the design's elegance, sophistication, and simple geometric forms (which made the dining room reverberate with noise). However, at most restaurants where the modern d\u00e9cor was meant to complement the clientele's taste, the menus remained the same.\n\nIn 1934, an ex-bootlegger and beach bum named Ernest Raymond Beaumont Gantt opened in Hollywood a nightspot he called Don's Beachcomber. He served exotic rum drinks\u2014including the Zombie, a concoction he'd invented\u2014from a bar decorated with tropical motifs. Three years later, he revamped his establishment as the Don the Beachcomber restaurant, serving Cantonese food with a few Polynesian touches, mostly on the pupu platter. The concept was so successful that he changed his name to Donn Beach. The buzz about it caught the attention of Victor Bergeron, the young owner of Hinky Dink's Tavern, a bar in Oakland. He copied Don the Beachcomber's rum cocktails, tropical look, and Cantonese menu and renamed his restaurant Trader Vic's. He also added such creations as rumaki, crab Rangoon, and Calcutta lamb curry to his menus. However, the main culinary offerings of both restaurants were Cantonese: egg rolls, wonton soup, barbecued pork, almond chicken, beef with tomato, fried rice, and so on. By the 1950s, branches of Don the Beachcomber and Trader Vic's had opened across the country, followed by a host of imitators, including many with Chinese owners. The Kon-Tiki Club in Chicago advertised: \"Escape to the South Seas!\" You could also enjoy a complete Cantonese dinner there for $1.85 to $3.25. (The low food prices were offset by bar profits and turnover in the large, often full dining rooms.) This craze for \"Polynesian\" restaurants with Cantonese food continued well into the 1970s, particularly in suburban New Jersey, where the commercial strips were dotted with colorful eateries like the Orient Luau, featuring a popular all-you-can-eat \"Hawaiian smorgasbord.\" (Today, the few that remain are patronized largely by senior citizens, baby boomers on nostalgia visits, and devotees of the revived Tiki bar cult.)\n\nThese gimmicks were not enough to save the classic Chinese American restaurant formula. By the 1960s, it was clear that chop suey, chow mein, egg foo young, and the like were ageing along with the Chinatown old-timers. The last of the \"bachelor\" generation (almost all male), who had grown up during the early decades of the Exclusion Act era and had manned Chinese kitchens across the United States, were slowly dying out. Restrictions had been eased, so new immigrants from China were finally beginning to enter the country. These changes had been incremental. First, the Magnuson Act of 1943 ended Chinese Exclusion and allowed the Chinese people who were living in the United States to become naturalized citizens at last. Alien wives of citizens were admitted in 1946. In 1947, the War Brides Act opened the door to approximately six thousand Chinese brides of Chinese American soldiers. In San Francisco, the number of births to Chinese couples more than doubled. After the Communist takeover in China, further changes were made in immigration laws, allowing some political refugees from China to gain citizenship. In 1965, the Immigration and Nationality Act abolished quotas based on national origin and made reunification of families a priority, and thousands of immigrants streamed into the United States from Taiwan and Hong Kong, all of them bringing with them their food traditions. Increased communication between the Chinese American community and their families in East Asia reinforced the economic and cultural ties between the two regions. Slowly at first, Chinese food in the United States began a transformation.\n\nThe first glimmerings that Chinese food consisted of more than a small set of Cantonese American specialties came from a cookbook. In 1945, a Chinese immigrant, Buwei Yang Chao, published a little cookbook, _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_. Trained as a doctor, Chao was born in 1889 in Nanjing, a large city in the lower Yangzi basin. She married a professor of philology, and they raised four daughters while her husband held teaching positions in China, Europe, and the United States. By World War II, the family was settled in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he taught at Harvard, and she began work on the cookbook. She had been raised in an upper-class family and had not learned to cook as a child. In a note, she tells us that she only began cooking while studying medicine in Japan: \"I found Japanese food so uneatable that I had to cook my own meals. I had always looked down upon food and things, but I hated to look down upon a Japanese dinner under my nose. So by the time I became a doctor, I also became something of a cook.\" Accompanying her husband on his research trips around China, she had studied regional cuisines while he studied regional dialects. She says she began to write her cookbook at the urging of a fellow faculty wife, but it's clear that the suggestion struck some deeper chord within her, because _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_ is far more than a compendium of favorite dishes she served at faculty parties. With the help of her husband and her daughter Rulan, Chao set a more ambitious goal for herself: re-creating the traditional Chinese way of eating on United States soil.\n\nShe discusses this topic for fifty pages before presenting any recipes. First, she describes how the Chinese organize their meals, from breakfasts at home to big restaurant banquets. Here many readers first discovered congee and dim sum\u2014\"dot hearts,\" in Chao's translation\u2014and learned of the intricacies of communal family meals and dinner party etiquette. Chao also delineates a number of China's regional cuisines\u2014for nearly the first time in English. Next, she broaches a delicate question: \"Do you get real Chinese food in the Chinese restaurants outside of China? The answer is, You can get it if you ask for it . . . . If you say you want real Chinese dishes and eat the Chinese way, that is, a few dishes to eat in common and with chopsticks, then they know that you know.\" She mentions the existence of only three eateries that are not Cantonese\u2014Tianjin restaurants in New York and Washington and a Ningbo one in New York. Regarding the fare offered in the typical Cantonese restaurant, she comments:\n\nMany times the trouble is that because the customers do not know what is good in Chinese food they often order things which the Chinese do not eat very much. The restaurant people, on their part, try to serve the public what they think the public wants. So in the course of time a tradition of American-Chinese food and ceremonies of eating has grown up which is different from eating in China.\n\nThat's a nice way of saying she doesn't recognize chop suey and chow mein as Chinese, although she does include a recipe for American-style egg foo young. She goes on to systematically discuss raw materials, seasonings, utensils, and cooking methods. Finally come the recipes; in this part of the book, she subverts the normal cookbook order of rice, soup, and main dish by beginning with meats and ending with rice and noodles. The sense of unfamiliarity is further heightened by the book's many word coinages, for example \"wraplings\" (pot sticker\u2013type dumplings) and \"ramblings\" (wontons), which enhance the reader's sense that this isn't the Chinese food they've tried but something new and interesting.\n\nWhen _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_ appeared, Jane Holt, a _New York Times_ food writer, called it \"something novel in the way of a cook book.\" Although she disavowed expertise on the subject, Holt said \"the book strikes us as being an authentic account of the Chinese culinary system, which apparently is every bit as complicated as the culture that has produced it.\" Repeatedly cited in succeeding years as the best cookbook for those interested in Chinese cuisine, the book continued to sell; after the 1968 third and final edition, reprints appeared well into the 1970s. It's difficult to judge how many people actually prepared the recipes in _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_ , but it's clear that fans often returned to the book to help them understand the culture of Chinese food and guide them toward new eating experiences.\n\nIn the years after World War II, restaurants opened that pioneered a new taste in Chinese food. The entrepreneurs behind them were often either Chinatown businessmen frustrated with the low profits and cultural embarrassment of the chop suey joints or members of China's elite, mainly academics and diplomats, who had been stranded abroad by war and then the Communist takeover. The Peking Restaurant on Connecticut Avenue in Washington, D.C., one of the first, was founded in 1947 by C. M. Loo\u2014once a Chinese diplomat's chef and later the butler at the Chinese Embassy\u2014along with four partners. The menu featured \"Peking Style Native Foods,\" including moo shu pork and the house specialty, Peking duck. Patrons included members of the local diplomatic community and many \"China hands\" who had fallen in love with Chinese food during their service in mainland China. The groundbreaker in San Francisco was Kan's, the brainchild of Johnny Kan, a local businessman:\n\nOur concept was to have a Ming or Tang dynasty theme for d\u00e9cor, a fine crew of master chefs, and a well-organized dining room crew headed by a courteous maitre d', host, hostesses, and so on. And we topped it off with a glass-enclosed kitchen. This would serve many purposes. The customers could actually see Chinese food being prepared, and it would encourage everybody to keep the kitchen clean.\n\nKan's sought to revive the tradition of the high-end banquet restaurants that had flourished in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. Customers who wanted to order chop suey were not so gently encouraged to order something else. The thick menu, not limited to Cantonese cuisine, listed expensive dishes like bird's nest soup and Peking duck. Soon enough, culinary tourists streamed to Chinatown for dinner at Kan's or upscale competitors like the Empress of China and the Imperial Palace. Many were locals: a century after its arrival, San Franciscans were now eager to spend serious money for Chinese food.\n\nIn 1961, a new restaurant called the Mandarin opened up in a hard-luck location outside Chinatown. Its owner, Cecilia Chang, had lived through the some of the most dramatic events in modern Chinese history. Born into a wealthy family, she had been forced by the Japanese invasion to flee for 2,500 miles, largely on foot and wearing dirty peasant clothes as a disguise. She married a Nationalist diplomat and then fled again, this time to Japan to avoid the Communist takeover. By 1958, she had arrived in San Francisco, where she decided to open a restaurant: \"I named the restaurant the Mandarin, and selected dishes for the menu from northern China, Peking, Hunan and Szechwan: real Chinese food, with a conspicuous absence of chop suey and egg foo young.\" With the backing of influential columnists like Herb Caen, the Mandarin was a success, introducing dishes like tea-smoked duck, pot stickers, and sizzling rice soup. By 1968, the restaurant had expanded to three hundred seats and become even more elaborate, featuring fine Chinese paintings and embroideries and an open Mongolian barbecue. Meanwhile, other restaurants bearing the name Mandarin and featuring non-Cantonese food were opening across the country, with a large cluster in Chicago. In New York, the first was Mandarin House, owned by Emily Kwoh, a Shanghai native. She had entered the restaurant business in the mid-1950s with the Great Shanghai at Broadway and 103rd Street, serving food from three menus: Cantonese, American, and Shanghai. (For the next three decades, the stretch of upper Broadway from Eighty-sixth to 110th Street was a mecca for Chinese food aficionados.) At Mandarin House, which opened in 1958, Kwoh served non-Cantonese specialties like beggar's chicken, sesame-sprinkled flatbread, and, most important, _mu xu rou_ (moo shu pork).\n\nThe menu quickly caught the attention of someone who didn't know much about Chinese food, except that he liked it: the _Times_ 's food editor, Craig Claiborne. In the late 1920s, when he was seven or eight years old, Claiborne had been taken on a family trip from his home in tiny Sunflower, Mississippi, to the bright lights of Birmingham, Alabama:\n\nI remember\u2014to tell the truth, it is the only thing I do remember about that trip\u2014being taken to a Chinese restaurant. There were hanging Chinese lanterns and foreign waiters and real Chinese china and chopsticks and very hot and exotic tea. I cannot recall the menu in precise detail, but I did eat won ton soup and a dish that contained bean sprouts. . . . It is reasonable to suppose that the food I ate then was quite spurious, adapted to the Southern palate, and dreadful. But it kindled a flame.\n\nThirty years later, when Claiborne went to work at the _Times_ , he knew little more about Chinese food than he'd picked up that day in Birmingham. But he was eager to expand his horizons beyond chop suey and chow mein. He apprenticed himself to a series of Chinese cooking instructors, most notably Grace Chu (who taught classes at Mandarin House) and Virginia Lee (with whom he wrote a cookbook). He also befriended and learned from many of the chefs who were beginning to open the non-Cantonese restaurants. He filled his pages with glowing reviews, and the exposure helped make Chinese cooking schools, cookbooks, and above all, eateries hugely popular.\n\nPerhaps the restaurant that benefited most from Claiborne's promotion was Shun Lee, owned by its chef, Tsung Ting Wang (from Shanghai via the Peking Restaurant in Washington), and Michael Tong, its Shanghai-born manager. When Shun Lee first opened in the early sixties, Claiborne described it as \"a large, bustling and physically colorless Chinese restaurant with unadorned walls and artificial flowers.\" Inside, diners could eat cheap chicken chow mein luncheon specials or order more elaborate dishes like squab in casserole. Two years later, the restaurant reopened at Second Avenue and 49th Street as Shun Lee Dynasty, with a spectacular interior by the designer Russel Wright. Egg rolls and chow mein were still offered, but now what Claiborne really was interested in was the Sichuan side of the menu: chicken in hoisin sauce, shrimp in \"Szechuan sauce,\" and the like\u2014the hotter the better. He complained, however, that the \"Szechuan foods . . . are not so highly spiced as they should be, which is a concession to the public's taste.\" Just as with chop suey seventy-five years earlier, the newly arrived dishes were being adapted to the dominant American palate. No matter; Claiborne's infatuation with the food at Shun Lee continued unabated, reaching its apotheosis when he gave Shun Lee Dynasty four stars in the 1969 _New York Times Guide to Dining Out in New York_ , the highest ranking ever for a Chinese restaurant in the United States.\n\nThe new climate of receptivity to adventurous Chinese restaurants drew a small group of chefs from Taiwan to New York City. They had trained under the great master chefs who had fled the Communist takeover and opened restaurants in Taipei. When the Immigration Act of 1965 opened the door to the United States, they decided to seek out new opportunities there. Many of them opened restaurants serving Shanghai and Sichuan specialties, like the Four Seas on Maiden Lane in New York, which were primarily aimed at a clientele of China hands and expatriates. But then, led by Claiborne and _New York_ magazine's column \"Underground Gourmet,\" a new group of culinary Bohemians began to patronize restaurants serving Sichuan food and demand dishes that were hot, hotter, hottest. Claiborne warned diners that some dishes could literally bring tears to their eyes, but that didn't seem to matter. Eateries like Szechuan Taste on Chatham Square, David Keh's Szechuan on Broadway and Ninety-fifth Street, and Szechuan East on Second Avenue and Eightieth Street flourished and spread as chefs followed opportunities. Fans of Chinese food relished the thrill of the hunt, finding out where the top chefs were cooking and which restaurants were serving the newest and most \"authentic\" dishes. When aficionados learned that chef Wang Yun Ching had moved from the Szechuan Restaurant to the Peking Restaurant just down Broadway, the lines moved to the Peking for his lamb with scallions.\n\nIn the New York food world, Chinese was hot; and it was just at this moment that President Nixon made his ground-breaking trip to Beijing. One frigid February evening in 1972, television lights shone brightly inside the Great Hall of the People, the vast banquet room and meeting chamber on the western side of Beijing's Tiananmen Square. The lights illuminated a large O-shaped table situated next to the stage in the Great Hall's main banquet room. A low mass of greenery dotted with orange kumquats filled the table's center. On the white tablecloth, twenty places were set with plates, chopsticks, knives and forks, tea cups and glasses, and artfully arranged servings of cold appetizers. In the host's seat, with his back to the stage sat Communist China's premier, Zhou Enlai, soberly dressed in his dark grey Mao suit. On either side of him sat the guests of honor: President Richard M. Nixon, his face incongruously brightened with pancake makeup, and Mrs. Nixon, her blonde bouffant hairdo glowing in the bright light. Premier Zhou unfolded his napkin onto his lap and picked up his chopsticks\u2014the signal that the banquet had begun.\n\nThe more than six hundred American and Chinese guests seated at the room's smaller tables began to reach for their food. President Nixon fitted his chopsticks into his hand, plucked a morsel of appetizer from one of the plates, gazed at it quizzically for a moment, put it into his mouth and began to chew. As a bank of television and movie cameras whirred, millions of people around the world watched the president of the United States eat Chinese food.\n\n_Figure 7.2. President Richard Nixon shares a meal\u2014and a turning point in history\u2014with Premier Zhou Enlai on February 21, 1972. The event was watched by millions of TV viewers around the world._\n\nNixon's trip to China was one of the great turning points in world diplomatic history, when two implacable foes met on the road to friendship. The enmity between the two countries dated to 1949, when the Communist Party under Mao Zedong had completed its takeover of the mainland. Diplomatic relations were soon cut off; American soldiers fought Red Army battalions during the Korean War; and the People's Republic of China aligned itself with the Soviet Union. But by the 1960s, the Soviets and the Chinese had become bitter enemies, their troops facing off along their long mutual border. As a presidential candidate in 1967, Nixon proposed resuming relations with China as a way of breaking up the Communist bloc and bringing the billion or so Chinese out of self-imposed isolation. After he became president, it took two years of veiled messages and secret meetings for the two sides to overcome their mutual distrust and begin serious negotiations. Journalists, scholars, and the participants themselves have amply documented the complicated road to this new relationship. They have not discussed the importance of food, particularly Chinese food, during this whole affair. Nixon's China trip not only changed the course of American foreign relations but also helped instigate a revolution in Americans' perception of Chinese food.\n\nNixon conceived the opening of relations with China, but the mastermind who turned it into a reality was his Machiavellian national security advisor, Henry Kissinger. Operating with utmost secrecy, Kissinger oversaw the delicate diplomatic dance whose purpose was to convince the Chinese that the United States was serious about rapprochement. Both sides were hampered by the fact that they knew remarkably little about each other's country. Nobody in Washington had any firsthand knowledge of conditions inside the People's Republic; most of the knowledge the CIA had was gleaned from defectors and from reading the Chinese press at the CIA's monitoring station in Hong Kong. For American journalists and scholars, visas for China had been essentially impossible to get, particularly since the start of the Cultural Revolution in 1966. The exception was the old American \"fellow traveler\" Edgar Snow, who had been invited to visit Chairman Mao and was photographed with him reviewing a parade. (The Americans learned only later that the Chinese had been trying to send a message to _them_.) For help, Kissinger relied on two trusted advisers: his right-hand man, Winston Lord, who was married to a Chinese woman (the novelist Bette Bao Lord), and Charles \"Chas\" Freeman, a China expert at the State Department who had spent years studying, and eating, in Taiwan. When the time came, the White House turned to experts like Lord and Freeman for advice on how to handle a pair of chopsticks.\n\nIn July 1971, Kissinger, three aides, and two very nervous Secret Service agents found themselves on a Pakistani airliner flying over the Himalayas into Chinese airspace. The secret trip, code-named Polo I, was a leap into the void. As Kissinger looked out at the stark, snow-clad summits of the Rooftop of the World, his mind was filled with questions: How would they be received? Would the trip be a success or an international embarrassment? Would they meet Chairman Mao himself? How would they handle the delicate issue of Taiwan? And what would they eat during their allotted fifty hours in China?\n\nThe Americans had heard that the decades since the Communist takeover had not been good for Chinese cuisine. The best chefs had fled and their restaurants closed; both peasants and city folk had been forced to give up their family-centered meals and eat in communal dining halls. By the 1960s, the quality of the food had sunk to little better than livestock feed. During the Cultural Revolution, the chefs who remained became targets of denunciations and beatings by Little Red Book\u2013waving mobs. But then Chairman Mao decided to temper the devastation of the forces he himself had unleashed. He sent the angry mobs to the countryside, where they could focus their energies on tilling the soil, and he ordered Premier Zhou Enlai to reestablish contact with the non-Communist world by wining and dining foreign leaders. Within a few months, the Chinese read of state banquets again being held in the Great Hall of the People. There were limits, of course: the meals were kept to six or eight courses, not the hundreds typical of the old Qing imperial era. Still, not everyone agreed with the change in policy: \"Class struggle exists even at the tips of one's chopsticks,\" one radical wrote in _Red Flag_ in 1970. \"As the common saying goes, if you eat the things of others you will find it difficult to raise your hand against them.\" Nevertheless, the chairman had given the order, so the banquets continued. There was one ironclad rule, which reflected Chinese nationalism more than Communism: only Chinese cuisine was allowed on the menu. Serving Western food to American guests would be left to imperialist lackeys like Taiwan's Chiang Kai-shek. In the People's Republic, foreigners adapted to Chinese tastes, not the other way round.\n\nThe Pakistani jet touched down in Beijing on July 9, 1971. Kissinger and his aides were met on the runway by the stern-faced Marshal Ye Jianying, a vice-chairman of the Chinese Communist Party. A closed motorcade whisked the party to the secluded Diaoyutai guesthouse where the most important foreign visitors usually stayed. There, the aged Marshal Ye hosted a multicourse feast for the Americans\u2014their first meal on Chinese soil. It was all a bit unreal. The Americans, jet-lagged and culture-shocked, were unable to believe that they were actually in Beijing sitting down at a table with a group of friendly Red Chinese. Kissinger, probably exaggerating, told Nixon that the dishes had been of \"staggering variety and quantity\"; Winston Lord remembers that it was merely a \"good meal.\" Either way, it was quickly overshadowed by the next event of the afternoon: the arrival of Premier Zhou Enlai, unaccompanied, at the guesthouse. Elegant, cultured, ruthless, and brilliant, Zhou was the nation's main contact with the outside world. While living in Chongqing, the capital of Nationalist China during World War II, he had met and entertained many Americans and learned how they thought and how they ate. The Chinese and the Americans repaired to a meeting room, and for the next seven hours Kissinger and Zhou debated and discussed the future of U.S.-Chinese relations. In his memoir, Kissinger would call Zhou one of the two most impressive world leaders he ever met (the other was Charles DeGaulle).\n\nDiscussions resumed on a much harsher note in the Great Hall of the People the next morning. Zhou gave a \"scorching\" lecture on the state of the world, emphasizing China's great differences with the United States. Kissinger felt he had to respond in kind, but just as he was getting warmed up for his tough talk, Zhou interrupted: \"I believe the second item which you wanted to go into is Indochina, which is also very long. I suggest rest now and relaxation. Otherwise, you will be under tension and the duck will be cold.\"\n\n\"That would be most calamitous,\" Kissinger replied. \"Tension we can take.\"\n\nZhou escorted the Americans to a dining room next door, where they were seated at a large round banquet table. White-jacketed waiters began to pass around the plates of what would be their most memorable meal in China. \"If I could choose a last meal on Earth,\" said Lord, \"it would be Peking duck\"; and this meal featured not just one serving of duck; it was a complete, traditional Peking duck dinner, with duck parts for every course, including the crispy skin, feet, gizzards, and brains and a soup made from the bones. The pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance was tender, juicy duck meat dabbed with a rich, salty-sweet-tart sauce and wrapped in a thin pancake with scallions or slivered cucumbers. The consummate Chinese host, Zhou himself deftly wrapped these succulent packages for the enjoyment of his honored guests. As they ate, the tension of the meeting mellowed, carried away on a sea of duck fat. Zhou steered the conversation to the subject of the Cultural Revolution, which he said had caused immense disruption in the country and killed many, including party officials. Used to the image of the implacable, inscrutable Chinese Communist, the Americans felt that with this statement Zhou had bared something of his soul, his deepest anguish.\n\nAfter lunch, the premier insisted that his guests pile into a tiny elevator and ascend to a special kitchen, apparently designed for the sole task of preparing Peking ducks. Its only occupant was a soldier scrubbing the floor of the spotless room. John Holdridge, a Kissinger aide, wrote: \"The stunned look on his face when he saw a band of foreigners in his kitchen guided by none other than the Chinese premier was alone well worth the trip.\" Zhou showed them the special ovens for roasting the ducks and explained how apple and cherry wood coals helped give the birds their flavor. The Americans were impressed, according to Holdridge: \"This whole episode shows the great hospitality, graciousness, and effort to put us at ease displayed by Premier Zhou Enlai, surely one of contemporary China's greatest leaders.\"\n\nWhen the two sides returned to the conference room, Kissinger resumed his forceful rebuttal of Zhou's speech. However, his heart\u2014or should we say his stomach?\u2014wasn't in it. A mood of duck-fueled geniality pervaded the room, and the talk soon returned to the more welcome subject of President Nixon visiting China. In fact, this meal set a pattern that was followed again and again during the Americans' advance trips to China. Whenever the discussion became a little too heated, or the Chinese felt that the Americans needed to unwind a bit, Zhou would suggest another duck dinner. During Kissinger's \"Polo II\" trip in October 1971, Zhou invited the Americans to dine on roast duck just as negotiations bogged down over the wording of an important Chinese-American communiqu\u00e9. He decided that his two guests of honor would be Kissinger, of course, and, as the youngest American present, Nixon aide Dwight Chapin (later a bit player in the Watergate scandal).\n\n\"Premier Zhou did our pancakes for us,\" Chapin recalls, \"because that's what a gracious Chinese person does. I had no knowledge this was going to happen. So delicious: I don't have the words to express the taste delight. Then at the end, they bring out the topper\u2014the head of the duck, split in half. Zhou gives one half of the head to Kissinger and one half to me. He tells us to eat the brain. I can tell you that I touched it to my lips, but didn't eat it.\"\n\nAfterward, the premier suggested to a duck-happy Kissinger a radically different organization for the communiqu\u00e9, one that laid out the Chinese and American positions side by side without any attempt at synthesis. \"It was unprecedented in design,\" Kissinger wrote. \"It stated the Chinese position on a whole host of issues in extremely uncompromising terms. . . . But as I reflected further I began to see that the very novelty of the approach might resolve our perplexities.\" Stuffed with duck, Kissinger agreed to Zhou's proposal.\n\nUnfortunately, one cannot subsist on Peking duck alone. The American advance parties had to endure almost daily Chinese banquets, with their complicated etiquette and dizzying array of dishes. Acting as a stand-in for Nixon, for whom he had worked as a glorified gofer since the early 1960s, Chapin wrote notes to his boss counseling him on how to handle the river of unfamiliar dishes he would encounter. Eat light from the start, he advised, because it keeps coming. The president should also be prepared to use chopsticks and to expect his host to place choice pieces of food on his plate. In addition, it was proper etiquette to try everything. If they were in Shanghai, that \"everything\" could be particularly dangerous. During the Polo II trip, the Party leaders in Shanghai served Kissinger and his team a dish they called \"Dragon, Tiger, Phoenix\" that turned out to be a stew of snake, cat, and chicken. During the January 1972 advance trip headed by General Alexander Haig, the standout dish in Shanghai was a plate of tiny brown deep-fried birds. \"Gentlemen,\" their host gleefully announced, \"this is a salute to spring\u2014a sparrow! Yes, the sparrow that flies.\" Chapin only hesitated a moment: \"I just threw one in my mouth. It was very crunchy, but not bad.\" (Only much later did the Americans learn that their Shanghai hosts weren't exactly warm to renewing relations with the United States. After Mao's death, they would become key members of the radical Communist group known as the Gang of Four.)\n\nAnother challenge the Americans faced was chopsticks. Although they found forks and knives at each table setting, Lord advised them to use chopsticks to show respect for their Chinese hosts. Unfortunately, Kissinger proved utterly incompetent at wielding chopsticks during the Polo I trip and had to resort to his fork. To make matters worse, the Chinese waiters removed it at the end of each course, and he further lost face by having to ask for another. His clumsiness became a running joke. When he and his aides were in Hawaii at the start of the Polo II trip, Holdridge saw his chance and pounced. He called everyone together and formally presented Kissinger with \"a handy, dandy practice kit for using chopsticks,\" consisting of \"three types of chopsticks\u2014wood, ivory, and silver\u2014plus an assortment of different items to be picked up by the chopsticks: mothballs, marbles, and wood chips. I can't recall any other occasion in my tenure with him during which he was absolutely speechless,\" Holdridge recalled. Four months later, Chapin sent a pair to everyone on the White House staff going to China, along with the suggestion: \"Borrowing from the Chairman the old 'Practice makes perfect,' I suggest you become acquainted with using the enclosed chopsticks.\"\n\nIn early February 1972, when the final advance team was holed up in Beijing's Hotel of the Nationalities and working virtually around the clock to prepare for the presidential visit, the Chinese head of protocol posed a question to Ron Walker, director of the White House Advance Office: \"What is President Nixon's favorite Chinese food?\" The query was relayed by satellite phone back to Washington, where Chapin brought it to H. R. Haldeman, Nixon's chief of staff. A veteran ad man who had worked on Nixon campaigns since 1956, Haldeman understood the real question: what did they want the world to see him eat?\n\nIf Americans knew one thing about Richard M. Nixon's eating habits, it was that he ate cottage cheese, and lots of it. He was obsessed about his weight and not looking fat on national television. His regular lunch, which he ate either alone or with Haldeman, was a scoop of low-fat cottage cheese with some pineapple (the California touch) or a splash of ketchup for flavor. But on the occasions when this tightly wound man allowed himself to indulge, he had sophisticated tastes\u2014for a politician. He liked rich, meaty food. At home, this meant steak, meat loaf, spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, and chicken fricassee. Eating out, he liked to frequent the best French restaurants in Washington and New York, where he ordered dishes like beef stroganoff and duckling a l'orange. All washed down with copious amounts of the best wine and liquor; the manifest for Air Force One showed, among other bottles, thirty-year-old Ballantine's Scotch, Chateau Margaux 1966, Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1966, Chateau Haut-Brion 1955, and Dom Perignon champagne, mostly for the president's consumption. To put it bluntly, the most powerful man in the world was a very heavy drinker (and particularly at the end of his presidency). One cuisine he apparently didn't eat much of was Chinese. The main Washington hangout for the younger Nixons was the nearby Trader Vic's, but the president and first lady did not take their much-publicized walk over to the Tiki Temple for another year. At this moment, Nixon had more important concerns than gustatory satisfaction, like winning the upcoming election. Haldeman and Nixon mulled over the question for a while and then sent word back to Chapin. Within a few hours, Walker had his answer for the Chinese: \"The President will eat anything served to him.\"\n\nHaldeman had decided that Nixon's trip would highlight visual image over political substance. The reason was twofold: they wanted to distract the public from the pesky details of any treaty the United States and China might sign\u2014particularly one involving the hot-button question of Taiwan's status. And for the campaign, they needed to show Nixon as a confident, sophisticated world leader: negotiating international agreements, conversing with Chairman Mao, contemplating history at the Great Wall of China, and eating authentic Chinese food (while Democratic opponents Edmund Muskie and George McGovern were choking down stale doughnuts in New Hampshire coffee shops). They didn't tell the public that when Air Force One took off from Andrews Air Force Base on February 17, 1972, its hold was stuffed with frozen steak, hamburger, lobster tail, Campbell's bean and bacon soup, Wishbone salad dressing, ketchup, white Pepperidge Farm bread, apple and cherry pies, and three flavors of ice cream. On short notice, Zosimo Monzon, the Nixons' personal steward, could turn all this into a good American meal. When cameras were present, though, the only food that would pass the president's lips during his week on foreign soil would be Chinese.\n\nThe passengers on Air Force One that day dutifully carried their chopsticks and their fat briefing books stamped with the presidential seal. These contained everything they needed to know for the upcoming trip, from a history of U.S.-Chinese relations to a description of what they would encounter on the table: \"Banquet food served in the Peoples' Republic of China is to the 'Chinese food' served in restaurants in the U.S. as Beef Wellington is to a cafeteria hamburger.\" One might be served things like sharks' fins, birds' nests, sea cucumbers, snake, dog, bears' paws, and who knows what else. \"Fortunately, one's taste buds are a more reliable guide to the excellence of these delicacies than one's imagination. Most Westerners are surprised to find, once they have tasted them, that they like them very much.\" As for the tricky question of Chinese etiquette, which promised to be radically different from what one was used to at Washington's state banquets and embassy dinners, \"the Chinese relish their cuisine,\" Mrs. Nixon read. \"You should not be offended at the noisy downing of soups, or even at burping after a meal. These are unconscious table habits accepted in Chinese society.\" There would be toasts at the banquets, of course\u2014with fiery mao-tai, a 106-proof liquor distilled from sorghum. Nixon was warned not to actually drink it during toasts; just touching it to your lips would be enough. Finally came the delicate matter of table topics: What do you talk about with the ageing Long March veteran who is your tablemate? Why, food, of course: \"While citizens of many countries regard their native cuisine as the finest in the world, the Chinese have more basis than most for their pride. They react with much pleasure to compliments about the truly remarkable variety of tastes, textures, and aromas in Chinese cuisine.\" There was one caveat: \"It is wise not to say a particular dish is 'good' or 'interesting' when in fact you do not like it, as your hosts, in an effort to please, may serve you extra portions to your embarrassment.\" The best course was to remember the experience of Caleb Cushing's party more than a century earlier\u2014\"gape, simper, and swallow!\"\n\nAs Air Force One approached Beijing on February 21, Nixon and his aides still had no idea whether their China trip would succeed or fail. The first signs were ominous: no welcoming crowd awaited them at the airport, just forty officials in dark coats and a military honor guard. While a burly aide kept everyone else inside, President and Mrs. Nixon, who wore a flaming red coat, descended alone the stairs to the tarmac. There, Nixon and Zhou shook hands for a long minute, both to ensure that every camera got the shot and to erase an old diplomatic slight. (In 1954, secretary of state John Foster Dulles had refused Zhou's handshake at a peace conference.) The Americans were then hustled into a motorcade and driven to the now familiar Diaoyutai guesthouse for lunch. We are told only (by Kissinger again) that the spread was \"opulent.\" Afterward, Zhou pulled Kissinger aside and informed him that Chairman Mao wanted to meet Nixon at his residence, immediately. Ageing and seriously ill, Mao was still China's paramount leader and was obsessed with his place in history. There wasn't much substance to their hour-long discussion, but one clear message was sent: Mao bestowed his blessing on the process of rapprochement. Afterward, Nixon barely had time to change into a fresh suit for what promised to be the biggest media event of the trip, the official welcoming banquet.\n\n_Figure 7.3. Adroitly wielding her chopsticks, Mrs. Nixon enjoys some spicy eggplant on her visit to the kitchens of the Peking Hotel, February 1972. The White House used the interest in Chinese food to distract attention from more substantive issues._\n\nFor the Chinese, the evening was far more than just another state dinner; it was also a coming-out party, a signal to the world that the People's Republic was emerging from twenty-two years of self-imposed isolation. They planned every phase of the event with meticulous care, mobilizing their nation's limitless human resources, shipping in the best ingredients, and requisitioning the top hotel and restaurant chefs for the kitchens at the Great Hall of the People. While there had never been any question whether the banquet would follow Chinese standards of cuisine and service, certain limits had been imposed. For the past seven months, the Chinese had been testing the culinary sophistication of the Americans visiting China on the advance trips. After these trials, the Chinese protocol staff had given the Americans one guarantee: President Nixon would not have to eat sea cucumbers during his China visit.\n\nThe Nixons arrived in a boxy, Chinese-made \"Red Flag\" limousine and entered the Great Hall of the People, passing under a huge portrait of Chairman Mao. Zhou Enlai escorted them up a grand staircase for photographs and then down a long receiving line into the banquet hall itself. Here the American TV networks picked up the story. Back in the States, millions of Americans eating breakfast watched the cameras pan over the empty tables and the white-jacketed waiters standing at attention, as the reporters desperately tried to fill the time. Barbara Walters of NBC commented to Ed Newman back in New York: \"We had our first taste of food and, Ed, you know what? It tasted like Chinese food! We had been told that it was so very exotic and so different that we might not recognize it, but we did indeed\u2014it's just better than the Chinese food that we get in our country.\" She also revealed that the Chinese serve their \"most esteemed\" foreign guests nine-course banquets, while lesser visitors receive fewer courses.\n\nFinally President Nixon and Premier Zhou Enlai entered, and the meal began under the glare of the television lights at the big round table next to the stage. In addition to the cold hors d'oeuvres\u2014salted chicken, vegetarian ham, cucumber rolls, crisp silver carp, duck slices with pineapple, three colored eggs (including thousand-year-old eggs with their aroma of sulfur and ammonia), and Cantonese smoked salted meat and duck liver sausage\u2014a sharp-eyed viewer could spot big rosettes of butter and slices of white bread at every place. The barbarians would not have to sneak loaves in their pockets. Walters was awed at what she was seeing: \"Mrs. Nixon using chopsticks!\" The perfect Chinese host, Zhou selected a delicacy from one of the dishes and gave it to Mrs. Nixon. She gingerly pushed the food around her plate for a minute or two, finally inserted something into her mouth, and ever-so-slowly began to chew. Watching from New York, Ed Newman observed: \"I think we can also see that President Nixon is using chopsticks and apparently doing very well with them.\" Over on ABC, Harry Reasoner was also impressed: \"Here is a tremendous picture: the President of the United States with chopsticks!\" The next day, the _New_ _York Times_ television critic wrote: \"Some images were simply beyond words or still photographs,\" including the sight of \"Mr. and Mrs. Nixon carefully wielding chopsticks.\"\n\nChopsticks were quickly forgotten as Zhou rose to toast the friendship of the Chinese and American peoples. The reporters declared that he was \"warm and gracious\" and had dispelled the chill that had descended at the airport. Then Nixon took the stage and read his toast, suggesting that the two nations should, in the words of Chairman Mao, \"seize the day, seize the hour.\" After complimenting the chefs for preparing such a magnificent banquet, Nixon descended to toast each top Chinese official with mao-tai. He didn't forget his instructions: the level of drink in his glass hardly dropped. The president, Dan Rather opined, looked \"energetic and triumphant.\" For two more hours, the meal continued, through entr\u00e9es including spongy bamboo shoots and egg-white consomm\u00e9, shark's fin in three shreds, fried and stewed prawns, mushrooms and mustard greens, steamed chicken with coconut, and a cold almond junket for dessert. These were served with assorted pastries, including pur\u00e9e of pea cake, fried spring rolls, plum blossom dumplings, and fried sweet rice cake. Finally came a simple dessert of melon and tangerines, and then the banquet ended. For those present, it had been an amazing, history-making evening, even if the details were a bit vague after all those firewater toasts. Of all the Americans present, only Charles Freeman, the veteran of Taipei's dining scene, opined the meal's offerings had merely been \"very good, standard Chinese banquet food.\"\n\nThe American television audience did not see the entire banquet because the networks cut back to their regular programming right after the toasts. Before that happened, the viewers received a message from their sponsors. On CBS, McDonald's promoted its deep-fried cherry pies to celebrate Washington's Birthday. Meanwhile, over on NBC was heard the bouncy jingle \"East meets West. La Choy makes Chinese food _swing_ American. La Choy makes Oriental recipes to serve at home.\" A crisply coiffed nuclear family sat in a spotlessly white dining alcove. A baritone voiceover announced: \"Let East meet West at your home. Enjoy La Choy Chicken or Beef Chow Mein. Exotic recipes from scratch? Use La Choy ingredients: Chinese vegetables, bean sprouts, water chestnuts, soy sauce.\" The camera closed in on the family smiling down at a serving platter in the center of the white table: a mound of steaming chicken chow mein. Given the moment, La Choy's ad buyers may have thought this savvy marketing. They did not realize, however, that the coming fad for Chinese food would include everything but chop suey and chow mein.\n\nEven before Nixon departed, Americans had been going crazy for things Chinese\u2014a reprise of the China fad during Li Hongzhang's visit. People were swarming to classes in Mandarin and in Chinese cooking; department stores sold Chinese handicrafts (the Mao suits quickly sold out at Bloomingdale's in New York); publishers rushed books on the People's Republic into print; and Chinese restaurants suddenly began to fill up. After they saw the images of Nixon eating banquet food in Beijing, customers began to use chopsticks and ask about sharks' fin soup and Peking duck. In New York, Chicago, and Washington, D.C., restaurant owners anxious to cash in on the trend quickly whipped up special nine-course menus that supposedly replicated Nixon's meal with Zhou Enlai. In response, Taiwan's government flew in a team of chefs to show that they were the true guardians of Chinese culinary tradition. Banquet fever lasted for weeks\u2014the first time Americans chose that most sophisticated format for a Chinese meal. Yet as they threw themselves into new eating experiences, they discovered that they needed a new set of skills to properly enjoy Chinese cuisine. That included ordering the right balance of contrasting (soft vs. crunchy, fried vs. boiled, etc.) dishes, selecting the correct beverage, using chopsticks, eating communally, and making sure that the food was prepared to Chinese and not American tastes. The ability to read and speak a little Chinese couldn't hurt either. If all else failed, the _Wall Street Journal_ advised: \"put yourself in the chef's hands by letting him decide the menu based upon what's fresh in the kitchen that day and what he feels like creating. But be sure to let him know you are capable of enjoying his extra efforts. Chinese chefs, perhaps the most artistic in their profession, love appreciative clients.\"\n\nAnd diners appreciated the food. During the recession of the 1970s, when many high-end restaurants, including the famous Le Pavillon, went out of business, Chinese eateries flourished and expanded, particularly those serving adventurous new menus. Shortly after Nixon's trip, the owners of the Shun Lee restaurant empire further jolted the food world by introducing a new Chinese regional cuisine: Hunan, which they advertised as \"hot-hot-hot.\"\n\nTheir restaurant, called Hunam, immediately earned four stars from the _New York Times_ and was followed by imitators like Uncle Tai's Hunan Yuan. In 1974, Henry Chung opened his Hunan Restaurant in San Francisco, probably the first such eatery west of the Mississippi. The original list of Hunan specialties served in the United States included harvest pork, beef with watercress, and honey ham with lotus nuts. Soon diners also began to notice a dish of chicken chunks in a savory, spicy sauce. Shun Lee called it \"General Ching's Chicken\"; other eateries called it \"General Tso's Chicken.\" The restaurant impresario David Keh told Roy Andries de Groot of the _Chicago Tribune_ a complicated story of how General Tso, a real military hero, had invented the dish in his retirement, when he had \"turned his creative energies to the development and improvement of the aromatic, peppery, spicy Hunanese cuisine.\"\n\n_Figure 7.4. In 1972, the Hunam restaurant introduced diners to the \"hot-hot-hot\" caisine of China's Hunan province. General's chicken and Lake Tung Ting Shrimp are now served by Chinese restaurants across the country._\n\nIn reality, however, the chef who invented General Tso's chicken, Peng Chang-kuei, was then cooking on East Forty-fourth Street in Manhattan. Born in 1919 in the capital of Hunan Province, Peng had been apprenticed to one of Hunan's most prominent chefs and ended up, after the Communist takeover, in Taiwan. There he met President Chiang Kai-shek, who appreciated his cooking skills and invited him to prepare banquets for VIPs and foreign visitors. During this period, he invented a number of signature dishes, including General Tso's chicken, made from chunks of dark meat chicken marinated in egg whites and soy sauce. After being quickly deep-fried, the chunks are stir-fried with ginger, garlic, soy sauce, vinegar, cornstarch, sesame oil, and dried chili peppers. Chef Peng named it after the general because he admired this hero from his home province. Many young chefs who later moved to the United States learned how to make his dishes, including Chef Wang of Shun Lee and Uncle Tai. Word of their success reached Chef Peng, and in 1974 he decided to try his luck in New York. His first restaurant, Uncle Peng's Hunan Yuan on East Forty-fourth Street, quickly went bust, leaving him nearly broke. Unwilling to return to Taiwan in shame, he borrowed from friends and opened the Yunnan Yuan restaurant on Fifty-second Street. Before long, its prime patron was Kissinger, fresh from opening China. Building on this hard-earned success, Chef Peng returned to the Forty-fourth Street location and opened his most famous U.S. restaurant, simply called Peng's. In 1984, he decided he had proved his mettle and that it was time to return home. He sold his restaurants and moved back to Taiwan, where he started his chain of highly successful Peng Yuan restaurants. His most famous dish had already spread from Manhattan to the suburbs and then across the United States, changing every time a new chef prepared it. Already in 1978, a dish of General Tso's served in New Jersey was described as \"slightly peppery, batter-fried chicken.\" The adaptation of Hunan and Sichuan food to American tastes was well under way.\n\nWhile Americans celebrated their love affair with spicy Chinese food, another great change was taking place. For the first time in a century, waves of Chinese immigrants began arriving in the United States. They came not only from Hong Kong and Taiwan as in decades past but also from Vietnam, Malaysia, Singapore, Burma, Thailand, and, most significantly, the People's Republic of China. The Cantonese among them, already linked to the United States by family and clan associations, usually settled in existing Chinatowns\u2014most importantly, in Manhattan and San Francisco. Others sought a fresh start, building Chinese communities in neighborhoods like Flushing, Queens, and Sunset Park, Brooklyn, both a quick subway ride from jobs in Manhattan. On the West Coast, the most vital Chinese district was founded in Monterey Park, a city in Los Angeles County's San Gabriel Valley. Wherever these Chinese immigrants settled, they opened restaurants. Filled with Taiwanese, Monterey Park was dubbed Little Taipei and boasted dozens of Taiwan-style eateries catering primarily to recent immigrants. Other parts of the country saw the appearance of establishments specializing in dishes from Shanghai, Fujian, Chaozhou, Dongbei (China's far northeast), Xinjiang, the Hakka ethnic group, and the Chinese communities in Singapore, Vietnam, Malaysia, and even Cuba. Not to be outdone, the Cantonese opened sprawling banquet halls doubling as lunchtime dim sum parlors, like New York City's HSF (short for Hee Seung Fung). (San Franciscans yawned at this development\u2014they had been eating Chinese tea pastries for a hundred years.) From the 1980s on, Chinese food flourished wherever new immigrants congregated.\n\nMeanwhile, the owners of the Sichuan and Hunan restaurants improved their business skills, smoothing out the uncertainties. The epicenter of this transformation was \"Szechuan Valley\" (also known as \"Hunan Gulch\"), the stretch of Upper Broadway in Manhattan where nearly every block had its Sichuan or Hunan restaurant. Now managers standardized their menus so that they didn't need a temperamental and high-priced artist to make the dishes, just a team of competent Chinese cooks. The offerings at Empire Szechuan, which grew into a chain that covered Manhattan, included not only Sichuan-style dishes like Ta Chien chicken, Kung Pao shrimp, and beef with broccoli but lobster Cantonese, egg drop soup, and chicken chow mein. (By 1993, you could also order sushi, teriyaki chicken, dim sum, and low-fat steamed vegetables with brown rice at Empire Szechuan.) And the recipes were altered once more to appeal to local, non-Chinese tastes. Shun Lee's Michael Tong noticed that \"Americans like anything spicy, anything sweet, anything crispy.\" At many eateries, chefs now dunked their cubes of meat in a thick all-purpose batter, deep-fried them, and served them in different slightly spicy, cloyingly sweet sauces. In order to maximize trade, owners also began offering delivery, slipping thousands of folded paper menus under apartment doors across Manhattan. No longer did you have to wait in line on a freezing winter night to get a table: one phone call, and the food would be at your door in twenty minutes. Business boomed, but the connection with customers was lost\u2014it was far too easy to eat at home.\n\n_Figure 7.5. Many storefront Chinese restaurants, like this one in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, are run by recent Fujianese immigrants. Like the chop suey joints of the 1920s and 1930s, they serve Chinese food adapted to American tastes._\n\nIn the late 1980s, the restaurant business attracted the attention of one of the largest new groups of Asian immigrants, those from the province of Fujian, just up the coast from Guangdong. After Deng Xiaoping unleashed his free market reforms in the late seventies, the new development zones around the provincial capital of Fuzhou experienced a massive influx of people looking for capitalist opportunities. The economic upheaval caused widespread social dislocation in the region as the old Communist way of life broke down. Like their adventurous South China forebears, many decided to emigrate in order to look for better prospects. Unable to get visas, they paid \"snakeheads\" tens of thousands of dollars to smuggle them into the United States. Once they landed in New York's Chinatown, they were steered to a warren of tiny employment offices in the blocks under the Manhattan Bridge, where they found listings for jobs in restaurants throughout the East, from Florida to Maine. After a phone call, they were put on the next bus for Baton Rouge, Pittsburgh, or Winston-Salem, to work as dishwashers and busboys for $1,000 a month. For these Fujianese immigrants, like others before them, restaurants became a stepping-stone to success. After years of working long hours, a family could amass enough money to buy a storefront Chinese eatery in some Alabama town or across the street from a housing project on Chicago's South Side. Like the chop suey joint owners of the 1920s and 1930s, these immigrants aspired to nothing more than earning a living. Their menus hewed to the formula of the tried and true: spring rolls, chicken lo mein, beef with broccoli, fried rice, barbecue spare ribs, pork chow mein, and so on. Meanwhile, behind the counter, the Fujianese restaurant workers enjoyed their staff luncheons of noodle soup, greens, and a bit of seafood over steamed rice\u2014the traditional South China family meal. Today, these restaurants represent the vast majority of Chinese eateries in the United States.\n\nThe status of Chinese food in the American culinary scene has always been linked, albeit often loosely, to the state of international relations between the two countries. In 1989, the brutal squashing of the Tiananmen Square protest shattered any illusion of China evolving into an American-style democracy. Cultural exchanges ground to a halt; tourists canceled their China trips; and the U.S. government instituted economic sanctions against the Communist government. At the same time, the American culinary world's attention was directed elsewhere, particularly toward the Japanese and New American restaurants that dominated the white-tablecloth end of the market. These places often paired the French techniques taught at cooking schools like the Culinary Institute of America with Asian or American dishes and ingredients. Still, many in the business believed that Chinese food could continue to draw customers, with a little tweaking. Entrepreneurs started Chinese food franchises like Panda Express (founded in 1973), Manchu Wok, City Wok, and the more ambitious P. F. Chang's China Bistro. Featuring streamlined Chinese-American menus, they vied for diners' dollars wherever the storefront Fujianese eateries were not, particularly in places like malls, airports, and train stations. These competed with either fast food franchises like Taco Bell and Pizza Hut or more upscale \"casual dining\" chains like Olive Garden and T.G.I. Friday's. With higher ambitions, cooking school graduates began to \"update\" Chinese cuisine by applying French techniques to classic dishes like Peking duck. The pioneer in this movement was probably the California-trained chef Ken Hom, who wrote the 1987 cookbook _Ken Hom's East Meets West Cuisine_. Chinese \"fusion\" restaurants like Wolfgang Puck's Chinois-on-Main and Patricia Yeo's AZ opened on the East and West coasts, featuring food that was adventurously Asian yet accessible. This food was not always very Chinese. The menus at two prominent Chinese fusion restaurants, Susanna Foo's in Philadelphia and Blue Ginger outside of Boston, listed dishes like goat cheese wontons and sesame Caesar salad with Chinese cruller croutons. Nevertheless, today when gastronomes want to splurge on a \"Chinese\" feast, they often gravitate toward these more culturally familiar choices rather than the nearest Chinatown.\n\nIn August 2008, when an army of American athletes, journalists, and fans descended on Beijing for the Summer Olympics, the world media focused on China once again, reporting on not just the sports but on the nation's people and culture. For the Chinese government, the Olympics was far more than an athletic event: it was a show of political, cultural, and economic might by a country whose exports of manufactured goods now exceeded those of the United States. The stunning new venues for the Olympic events, designed by the world's top architects, were just one symbol of China's arrival as a world power. The integration of China into the world economy meant that to visiting American athletes and tourists\u2014unlike the New England traders who landed in eighteenth-century Guangzhou\u2014the culinary landscape was somewhat familiar. McDonald's was the official restaurant of the Summer Games, and Kentucky Fried Chicken already had almost fifteen hundred franchises across China. Nevertheless, cultural barriers remained, particularly that language. Few Americans spoke Chinese, and tourist menus in local restaurants contained literal translations of fancifully named dishes like \"husband-and-wife lung slices\" and \"chicken without sexual life.\" This increased the visitors' tendency to see Chinese cuisine as a collection of absurd and exotic dishes, an inclination that was magnified by visits to the Wangfujing Night Market, where grilled scorpions, lizard tails, and horse stew were among the offerings. The _South Florida Sun-Sentinel_ ran the headline \"From Pig's Liver to Sheep Penis, Authentic Chinese Food Is Tough to Stomach.\" A small contingent of aficionados did scurry down the _hutong_ alleyways to find the best local dumplings and restaurants serving obscure regional cuisines unheard-of in the States. But for most, it was enough to eat burgers at the McDonald's next to the hotel and sample the bland options on display in the Olympic Village canteen. Operated by the American food service giant Aramark, the canteen offered a rotating menu of 460 dishes from all major cuisines, including Chinese. At the start of the Olympics, three hundred roast ducks were delivered every day. The number was raised to six hundred when they began selling out by early evening. Somewhat unexpectedly, it seemed that the whole world loved Peking duck.\n\n_Figure 7.6. With hundreds of locations across the country, P.F. Chang's offers upscale Americanized Chinese food in an exotic \"Chinese village\" setting. Its menu includes dishes such as Singapore street noodles, \"Sichuan from the Sea\" scallops, and a \"Great Wall of Chocolate\" dessert._\n\nOver two centuries have passed since the _Empress of China_ sailed up the Pearl River and American traders sampled their first bites of Chinese food. How much has changed in that time? Since 1789, numerous waves of Chinese immigration and cultural influence have profoundly affected American life. Today, more than forty thousand Chinese restaurants dot this country and are a routine part of the American environment, as exciting as the corner gas station or the Super 8 Motel down by the highway entrance. Supermarkets sell an array of Chinese ingredients, from soy sauce and ginger to Napa cabbage, bean sprouts, green tea, and rice noodles. Communities with large enough Chinese populations are also home to markets like the West Coast\u2013based 99 Ranch Market chain, selling a huge variety of products aimed at immigrant cooks and eaters. Many American diners can handle a pair of chopsticks and aren't afraid to use cooking techniques like stir-frying and steaming in their home kitchens.\n\nDespite this progress, one also sees an incredible resistance to Chinese food\u2014at least as it's served in China. The editor of _Chinese Restaurant News_ has estimated that 80 percent of those forty thousand or so eateries serve a limited Chinese American menu\u2014a short roster of dishes like Kung Pao chicken, hot and sour soup, egg rolls, beef with broccoli, and General Tso's chicken. Americans have the same taste for spicy, sweet, crispy food that Michael Tong remarked on back in the 1980s, and, just as in the days of chop suey and chow mein, expect Chinese food to be priced low. More adventurous tasters can find alternatives to that menu in the other 20 percent of the restaurants, usually located in immigrant communities. In places like Flushing and the San Gabriel Valley, the food can be exciting, meticulously prepared, even expensive. Think Shanghai soup dumplings made with foie gras.\n\nDiners still need to watch one crucial marker to see how a restaurant will evolve: the ratio of Chinese to non-Chinese diners. Whichever group dominates the seats will inevitably have the most influence on what is served, and how. The restaurant owner has to survive. If you don't see any immigrants or their descendants at the tables, then you know that American tastes will rule the meal\u2014for spicy but not too spicy food, for steamed vegetables and brown rice, for sushi and Pad Thai noodles. (It's all Asian, isn't it?) Like their ancestors fifty and a hundred years ago, most Americans still expect Chinese food to be cheap, filling, familiar, and bland.\n\n## **PHOTO CREDITS**\n\n1.1 Photograph by Hulton Archive\/Getty Images\n\n1.2 General Research Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations\n\n1.3 \u00a9 Private Collection\/Roy Miles Fine Paintings\/The Bridgeman Art Library\n\n1.4 General Research Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations\n\n2.1 Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress\n\n2.2 General Research Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations\n\n2.3 Published in _Life and Light for Women_ , Press of Rand, Avery & Company\/Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress\n\n3.1 Bridgeman-Giraudon\/Art Resource, NY\n\n3.2 Shutterstock\n\n3.3 Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress\n\n4.1 Courtesy of The Bancroft Library\/University of California, Berkeley\n\n4.2 Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, DC\/Art Resource, New York\n\n4.3 Courtesy of The Bancroft Library\/University of California, Berkeley\n\n4.4 California Historical Society\/Doheny Memorial Library, University of Southern California\n\n5.1 George Grantham Bain Collection\/Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress\n\n5.2 Underwood & Underwood\/Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress\n\n5.3 Private Collection\/The Stapleton Collection\/The Bridgeman Art Library\n\n5.4 Chinese-American Museum of Chicago\n\n6.1 Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers\/Library of Congress\n\n6.2 Virtual Museum of the City of San Francisco\n\n6.3 From the Harley Spiller Collection\n\n6.4 Beth Hatefutsoth, Photo Archive, Tel Aviv\n\n6.5 From the Harley Spiller Collection\n\n7.1 From the Harley Spiller Collection\n\n7.2 Photograph by Ollie Atkins\/Time & Life Pictures\/Getty Images\n\n7.3 Photograph by Byron Schumkaer\/Courtesy the Richard Nixon Library\n\n7.4 From the Harley Spiller Collection\n\n7.5 \u00a9 www.sharonkwik.com com\n\n7.6 \u00a9 Steven Brooke Studios\n\n## **NOTES**\n\n### _Chapter_ 1\n\n. Samuel Shaw and Josiah Quincy, _The Journals of Major Samuel Shaw_ (Boston: Wm. Crosby and H. Nichols, 1847), 111\u20132.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 155.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 167\u20138.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 168.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 338.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 180\u20131.\n\n. Philip Dormer Stanhope Chesterfield, _Lord Chesterfield's Advice to His Son_ (Philadelphia: Thomas Dobson, 1786), 52.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 182.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 179.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 179.\n\n. William Hickey, _Memoirs of William Hickey_ , 4 vols. (New York: Knopf, 1921), 1:224.\n\n. Shaw and Quincy, _Journals_ , 199\u2013200.\n\n. _Li Chi: Book of Rites_ , trans. James Legge, 2 vols. (New Hyde Park, N.Y.: University Books, 1967), 1:229.\n\n. Jean-Baptiste Du Halde, _The General History of China_ , 4 vols. (London: J. Watts, 1751), 2:201.\n\n. _The Chinese Traveller_ (London: E. and C. Dilly, 1772), 204.\n\n. _Chinese Traveller_ , 118.\n\n. _Chinese Traveller_ , 37\u20138.\n\n. Du Halde, _General History_ , 201.\n\n. \"Walks about the City of Canton,\" _Chinese Repository_ , May 1835, 43.\n\n. Lawrence Waters Jenkins, _Bryant Parrott Tilden of Salem, at a Chinese Dinner Party_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1944), 18\u201321.\n\n. Eliza J. Gillett Bridgman, _The Pioneer of American Missions in China_ (New York: A. D. F. Randolph, 1864), 43.\n\n. Bridgman, _Pioneer_ , 97.\n\n. Edmund Roberts, _Embassy to the Eastern Courts of Cochin-China, Siam, and Muscat_ (New York: Harper, 1837), 151.\n\n. Frederick Wells Williams, _The Life and Letters of Samuel Wells Williams_ (New York: Putnam, 1889), 64.\n\n. Williams, _Life and Letters_ , 69.\n\n. \"Diet of the Chinese,\" _Chinese Repository_ , February 1835, 465.\n\n### _Chapter_ 2\n\n. Josiah Quincy, _Memoir of the Life of John Quincy Adams_ (Boston: Crosby, Nichols, Lee, 1860), 341.\n\n. Quincy, _Memoir_ , 340.\n\n. Claude M. Fuess, _The Life of Caleb Cushing_ , 2 vols. (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1965) 1:414.\n\n. William C. Hunter, _Bits of Old China_ (London: K. Paul, Trench, 1885), 38\u20139.\n\n. \"Mr. F. Webster's Lecture on China,\" _American Penny Magazine_ , November 15, 1845, 645\u20136.\n\n. \"Mr. Fletcher Webster's Lectures,\" _Niles' National Register_ , November 15, 1845, 170\u20131.\n\n. Earl Swisher, _China's Management of the American Barbarians_ (New Haven, Conn.: Far Eastern, 1953), 160.\n\n. Swisher, _China's Management_ , 174.\n\n. John R. Peters, Jr., _Miscellaneous Remarks upon the Government, History, Religions, Literature, Agriculture, Arts, Trades, Manners, and Customs of the Chinese_ (Boston: John F. Trow, 1846), 162.\n\n. \"China,\" _Wisconsin Herald_ , December 11, 1845, 1.\n\n. \"Miscellaneous,\" _Niles' National Register_ , November 1, 1845, 9\u201310.\n\n. \"Too Good,\" _Sandusky (OH) Clarion_ , May 24, 1845, 2.\n\n. Mayers, William F., N. B. Dennys, and C. King, _The Treaty Ports of China and Japan_ (London: Tr\u00fcbner, 1867), 397.\n\n. Charles M. Dyce, _Personal Reminiscences of Thirty Years' Residence in the Model Settlement Shanghai_ (London: Chapman and Hall, 1906), 95.\n\n. Arthur Ransome, _The Chinese Puzzle_ (London: Allen and Unwin, 1927), 29.\n\n. Samuel Wells Williams, _The Middle Kingdom_ , 2 vols. (New York: Wiley, 1849), I:xv.\n\n. Williams, _Middle Kingdom_ , 1:3.\n\n. Williams, _Middle Kingdom_ , 2:47\u20138.\n\n. Williams, _Middle Kingdom_ , 2:50.\n\n. Frederick Wells Williams, _Life and Letters_ (New York: Putnam, 1889), 172.\n\n. William Dean, _The China Mission_ (New York: Sheldon, 1859), 271.\n\n. Dean, _China Mission_ , 7\u20138.\n\n. Charles Taylor, _Five Years in China_ (New York: Derby and Jackson, 1860), 133\u20134.\n\n### _Chapter_ 3\n\n. Arthur Waley, _Yuan Mei_ (London: Allen and Unwin, 1956), 191.\n\n. Waley, _Yuan Mei_ , 53.\n\n. Waley, _Yuan Mei_ , 52.\n\n. Waley, _Yuan Mei_ , 196.\n\n. Herbert A. Giles, _A History of Chinese Literature_ (New York: F. Ungar, 1967), 410.\n\n. Giles, _History_ , 411.\n\n. Giles, _History_ , 412.\n\n. Anne Birrell, _Chinese Mythology: An Introduction_ (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 49.\n\n. _Li Chi: Book of Rites_ , trans. James Legge, 2 vols. (New Hyde Park, N.Y.: University Books, 1967), 1:369.\n\n. David, R. Knechtges, \"A Literary Feast: Food in Early Chinese Literature,\" _Journal of the American Oriental Society_ 106, no. 1 (January\u2013March 1986): 53.\n\n. Fung Yu-Lan and Derek Bodde, ed., _A Short History of Chinese Philosophy_ (New York: Macmillan, 1948), 289.\n\n. Birrell, _Chinese Mythology_ , 57.\n\n. Dominique Hoizey and Marie-Joseph Hoizey, _A History of Chinese Medicine_ (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1993), 28\u20139.\n\n. _The Yellow Emperor's Classic of Internal Medicine_ , trans. Ilza Veith (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), 206.\n\n. Knechtges, \"Literary Feast,\" 49.\n\n. H. T. Huang, _Fermentations and Food Science_ , vol. 6, pt. 5 of _Science and Civilization in China_ , ed. Joseph Needham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Presss, 2000), 68.\n\n. Silvano Serventi and Fran\u00e7oise Sabban, _Pasta: The Story of a Universal Food_ (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 273\u20134.\n\n. Jonathan Spence, \"Ch'ing,\" in _Food in Chinese Culture_ , ed. K. C. Chang (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1977), 277.\n\n. John Minford and Joseph Lau, _Classical Chinese Literature_ (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), 223.\n\n. Buwei Y. Chao, _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_ (New York: John Day, 1945), 35.\n\n. Michael Freeman, \"Sung,\" in Chang, _Food in Chinese Culture_ , 161.\n\n. John Henry Gray, _China: A History of the Laws, Manners, and Customs of the People_ (London: Macmillan, 1878), 64.\n\n. Gray, _China_ , 72.\n\n### _Chapter_ 4\n\n. Samuel Bowles, _Our New West_ (Hartford, Conn.: Hartford, 1869), 410.\n\n. Bowles, _New West_ , 411.\n\n. \"From California,\" _Chicago Tribune_ , September 28, 1865, 3.\n\n. Albert D. Richardson, _Beyond the Mississippi_ (Hartford, Conn.: American, 1867), 440.\n\n. Bowles, _New West_ , 412\u20133.\n\n. \"Restaurant Life in San Francisco,\" _Overland Monthly_ , November 1868, 471.\n\n. Bayard Taylor, _Eldorado_ (New York: Putnam: 1850), 116\u20137.\n\n. John Frost, _History of the State of California_ (Auburn, N.Y.: Derby and Miller, 1851), 100\u2013101.\n\n. William Kelly, _An Excursion to California_ (London: Chapman and Hall, 1851), 244.\n\n. William Shaw, _Golden Dreams and Waking Realities_ (London: Smith, Elder, 1851), 42.\n\n. _Notes on California and the Placers_ (New York: H. Long, 1850), 100.\n\n. \"The Chinese,\" _Weekly Alta California_ , June 18, 1853, 4.\n\n. Frank Soul\u00e9, _The Annals of San Francisco_ (San Francisco: Appleton, 1855), 378.\n\n. \"Chinese Dinner and Bill of Fare,\" _Charleston (SC) Mercury_ , September 30, 1853, 2 (from the _San Francisco Whig_ , August 16, 1853).\n\n. Albert H. Smyth, _Bayard Taylor_ (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1896), 70.\n\n. Bayard Taylor, _A Visit to India, China, and Japan, in the Year 1853_ (New York: Putnam, 1855), 285.\n\n. Taylor, _Visit_ , 353\u20134.\n\n. Frederick Whymper, _Travel and Adventure in the Territory of Alaska_ (London: J. Murray, 1868), 280.\n\n. J. D. Borthwick, _Three Years in California_ (Edinburgh: W. Blackwood, 1857), 75.\n\n. Albert S. Evans, _\u00c2 la California_ (San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1873), 320.\n\n. \"How Our Chinamen Are Employed,\" _Overland Monthly_ , March 1896, 236.\n\n. Auburn _Stars and Stripes,_ 1866 (in _Bancroft Scraps_ , Vol 6), p. 28.\n\n. \"A Dinner with the Chinese,\" _Hutchings' California Magazine_ , May 1857, 513.\n\n. Noah Brooks, \"Restaurant Life in San Francisco,\" _Overland Monthly_ , November 1868, 472.\n\n. Hubert Howe Bancroft, \"Mongolianism in America,\" in _The Works of Hubert Howe Bancroft, vol_. 38, _Essays and Miscellany_ (San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1890), 331.\n\n. Otis Gibson, _The Chinese in America_ (Cincinnati: Hitchcock and Walden, 1877), 71\u20132.\n\n. George H. Fitch, \"A Night in Chinatown,\" _Cosmopolitan_ , February 1887, 349.\n\n. Josephine Clifford, \"Chinatown,\" _Potter's American Monthly_ , May 1880, 353.\n\n. _New York Journal of Commerce_ , December 14, 1869, clipping, in \"Chinese clippings,\" vols. 6\u20139 of _Bancroft Scraps_ , Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.\n\n. Clifford, \"Chinatown,\" 354.\n\n. Ira M. Condit, _The Chinaman as We See Him_ (Chicago: F. H. Revell, 1900), 43.\n\n. Ralph Keeler, \"John Chinaman Picturesquely Considered,\" _Western Monthly_ , May 1870, 348.\n\n. J. W. Ames, \"A Day in Chinatown,\" _Lippincott's_ , October 1875, 497\u20138.\n\n. \"The Old East in the New West,\" _Overland Monthly_ , October 1868, 365.\n\n. Benjamin F. Taylor, _Between the Gates_ (Chicago: S. C. Griggs, 1878), 109\u201310.\n\n. Will Brooks, \"A Fragment of China,\" _Californian_ , July 1882, 7\u20138.\n\n. Brooks, \"Fragment,\" 8.\n\n. \"The Chinese in California,\" _New York Evangelist_ , October 21, 1869, 2.\n\n. \"My China Boy,\" _Harper's Bazaar_ , December 1, 1877, 763.\n\n. \"A California Housekeeper on Chinese Servants,\" _Harper's Bazaar_ , May 8, 1880, 290.\n\n. Ira M. Condit, _English and Chinese Reader with a Dictionary_ (New York: American Tract Society, 1882), 41.\n\n. William Speer, _An Humble Plea_ (San Francisco: Office of the Oriental, 1856), 24.\n\n. Herman Francis Reinhart, _The Golden Frontier_ (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1962), 104.\n\n. Mark Twain, _Roughing It_ (New York: Harper, 1913), 110.\n\n. Charles Nordhoff, _California: for Health, Pleasure, and Residence_ (New York: Harper, 1873), 190.\n\n. \"California Culinary Experiences,\" _Overland Monthly_ , June 1869, 558.\n\n### _Chapter_ 5\n\n. Edwin H. Trafton, \"A Chinese Dinner in New York,\" _Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly_ , February 1884, 183.\n\n. Trafton, \"Chinese Dinner,\" 183.\n\n. \"Chinese in New-York,\" _New York Times_ , December 26, 1873, 3.\n\n. \"With the Opium Smokers,\" _New York Times_ , March 22, 1880, 2.\n\n. \"The Rush at Castle Garden,\" _New York Times_ , May 15, 1880, 4.\n\n. \"Mott-Street Chinamen Angry,\" _New York Times_ , August 1, 1883, 8.\n\n. \"Mott-Street Chinamen Angry.\"\n\n. Wong Ching Foo, \"Chinese Cooking,\" _Brooklyn Eagle_ , July 6, 1884, 4.\n\n. Wong, \"Chinese Cooking,\" 4.\n\n. Ward McAllister, _Society as I Have Found It_ (New York: Cassell, 1890), 305.\n\n. Allan Forman, \"New York's China-Town,\" _Washington Post_ , July 25, 1886, 5.\n\n. Forman, \"New York's China-Town.\"\n\n. Wong Ching Foo, \"The Chinese in New York,\" _Cosmopolitan_ , June 1888, 297.\n\n. Wong Ching Foo, \"Chinese Cooking,\" _Boston Globe_ , July 19, 1885, 9.\n\n. Wong, \"Chinese in New York,\" 305.\n\n. Allan Forman, \"Celestial Gotham,\" _Arena_ , April 1893, 623.\n\n. Li Shu-Fan, _Hong Kong Surgeon_ (New York: Dutton, 1964), 211.\n\n. \"The Viceroy Their Guest,\" _New York Times_ , August 30, 1896, 2.\n\n. \"Presents His Letter,\" _Washington Post_ , August 30, 1896, 1.\n\n. \"A Chinese Dinner,\" _Brooklyn Eagle_ , September 22, 1896, 8.\n\n. \"Queer Dishes Served at the Waldorf by Li Hung Chang's Chicken Cook,\" _New York Journal_ , September 6, 1896, 29.\n\n. Margherita Arlina Hamm, \"Some Celestial Dishes,\" _Good Housekeeping_ , May 1895, 200.\n\n. \"Chinatown Full of Visitors,\" _New York Tribune_ , July 30, 1900, 3.\n\n. \"Conversations with a Chorus Girl,\" _Washington Post_ , November 2, 1902, 6.\n\n. \"Chinese Restaurants,\" _New York Tribune_ , February 2, 1901, B6.\n\n. \"Chinese Restaurants.\"\n\n. \"Chinese Cuisine a Christmas Dinner Oddity,\" _New York Herald_ , December 14, 1902, E12.\n\n. \"Quoe's Guests,\" _Boston Daily Globe_ , March 1, 1891, 4.\n\n. \"The Quest of Bohemia,\" _Washington Post_ , October 23, 1898, 10.\n\n. \"Where Chinamen Trade,\" _Chicago Tribune_ , May 5, 1889, 26.\n\n. Theodore Dreiser, \"The Chinese in St. Louis,\" _St. Louis Republic_ , January 14, 1894, 15.\n\n. \"Where Kansas City's Foreign Population Takes Its Meals,\" _Kansas City Star_ , March 8, 1908, 1.\n\n. \"The Most Original Hostess in San Francisco,\" _San Francisco Call_ , May 10, 1903, 13.\n\n. \"Who Is the Noodle Lady of Chinatown?\" _Los Angeles Times_ , September 18, 1904, A1.\n\n. \"Credit Men's Year,\" _Los Angeles Times_ , January 19, 1906, 16.\n\n. _San Francisco Call_ , February 6, 1907, 2.\n\n. \"Should Eliminate Chinese,\" _Washington Post_ , June 28, 1909, 2.\n\n. \"Chop Suey Injunction,\" _New York Times_ , June 15, 1904, 7.\n\n. \"Never Heard of Chop Suey in China,\" _Boston Daily Globe_ , October 1, 1905, SM4.\n\n. Carl Crow, \"Shark's Fins and Ancient Eggs,\" _Harper's_ , September 1937, 422\u20139.\n\n. \"Will the World Go on a Chop Suey Diet?\" _Philadelphia Inquirer_ , September 15, 1918, 5.\n\n. Jennifer Lee, _The Fortune Cookie Chronicles_ (New York: Twelve, 2008), 49.\n\n### _Chapter_ 6\n\n. William M. Clemens, \"Sigel Girl Alive as Leon's Bride?\" _Chicago Tribune_ , August 15, 1909, 2.\n\n. Elizabeth Goodnow, _The Market for Souls_ (New York: M. Kennerley, 1910), 151.\n\n. \"Suey 'Joints' Dens of Vice,\" _Chicago Tribune_ , March 28, 1910, 2.\n\n. _Lancet Clinic_ , March 19, 1910, 305.\n\n. Marion Harland, \"Chop Suey and Some Rice Dishes,\" _Los Angeles Times_ , October 12, 1913, VIII6.\n\n. Sara Boss\u00e9, \"Cooking and Serving a Chinese Dinner in America,\" _Harper's Bazaar_ , January 1913, 27.\n\n. Sinclair Lewis, _Main Street_ , in _Main Street & Babitt_ (New York: Library of America, 1992), 87.\n\n. Lewis, _Main Street_ , 88.\n\n. Lewis, _Main Street_ , 107.\n\n. Lewis, _Main Street_ , 231.\n\n. Fremont Rider, _Rider's New York City and Vicinity_ (New York: Holt, 1916), 24.\n\n. George Ross, _Tips on Tables_ (New York: Covici, Friede, 1934), 226\u20137.\n\n. \"Chop Suey's New Role,\" _New York Times_ , December 27, 1925, XX2.\n\n. \"Chop Suey Sundae,\" _Lincoln (NE) Evening News_ , July 18, 1904, 6.\n\n. \"Chop Suey and How to Make It,\" _Alton_ ( _IL_ ) _Evening Telegraph_ , August 26, 1910, 4.\n\n. Lin Yutang, _My Country and My People_ (New York: Reynal and Hitchcock, 1935), 335.\n\n. Herman Wouk, _Marjorie Morningstar_ (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1955), 58.\n\n. Wouk, _Marjorie Morningstar_ , 62.\n\n. Wouk, _Marjorie Morningstar_ , 63.\n\n. Wouk, _Marjorie Morningstar_ , 408.\n\n. Sam Liptzin, _In Spite of Tears_ (New York: Amcho, 1946), 219.\n\n. Liptzin, _In Spite of Tears_ , 220.\n\n. \"Events in Society,\" December 20, 1901, _Hawaiian Gazette_ , 6.\n\n. Albert W. Palmer, _Orientals in American Life_ (New York: Friendship Press, 1934), 3.\n\n### _Chapter_ 7\n\n. Frank C. Porter, \"Area's 110 Chinese Restaurants Keep Going Despite Low Profits,\" _Washington Post_ , April 27, 1958, C9.\n\n. Will Elder, \"Restaurant!\" _Mad_ 1, October 1954, 1\u20136.\n\n. Craig Claiborne, \"Food: Chinese Cuisine, Two New Restaurants That Specialize in Oriental Food Open on East Side,\" _New York Times_ , July 22, 1958, 31.\n\n. Buwei Y. Chao, _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_ (New York: John Day, 1945), 15.\n\n. Chao, _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_ , 31.\n\n. \"News of Food,\" _New York Times_ , May 10, 1945.\n\n. Victor Nee and Brett de Bary Nee, _Longtime Californ_ ' (New York: Pantheon, 1972), 115.\n\n. Cecilia S. Y. Chiang, _The Mandarin Way_ (Boston: Little, Brown, 1974), 265.\n\n. Craig Claiborne and Virginia Lee, _The Chinese Cookbook_ (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1972), xiii.\n\n. \"Directory to Dining,\" _New York Times_ , December 18, 1964, 38.\n\n. Richard H. Solomon, _A Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party_ , New York, 1975, 53.\n\n. Memorandum of conversation, July 10, 1971, 12:10 P.M.\u20136 P.M., National Security Archive, electronic briefing book no. 66, doc. 35, 21.\n\n. John Holdridge, _Crossing the Divide_ (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997), 60.\n\n. Holdridge, _Crossing the Divide_ , 60.\n\n. Henry Kissinger, _The White House Years_ (Boston: Little, Brown, 1979), 783.\n\n. Holdridge, _Crossing the Divide_ , 69.\n\n. Visit of Richard Nixon, President of the United States, to the People's Republic of China, notes for Mrs. Nixon, February 1972, box 43, Richard Nixon Presidential Library; briefing books, 1969\u201374, staff member and office files\u2014Susan A. Porter, White House central files, National Archives, College Park, Maryland.\n\n. Howard Hillman, \"Beware of Yankee Chow Mein,\" _Wall Street Journal_ , June 22, 1972, 16.\n\n. Roy Andries de Groot, \"One Great Dish,\" _Chicago Tribune_ , September 11, 1978, D3.\n\n. B. H. Fussell, \"An Oriental Touch in Cedar Grove,\" _New York Times_ , December 17, 1978, NJ 35.\n\n. Fred Ferretti, \"Chinese Dishes, American Style,\" _New York Times_ , April 13, 1986, C1.\n\n## **BIBLIOGRAPHY**\n\nAnderson, Eugene N. _The Food of China_. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988.\n\nArkush, R. David, and Leo O. Lee, eds. _Land without Ghosts_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989.\n\nArndt, Alice, ed. _Culinary Biographies_. Houston: Yes Press, 2006.\n\nAvakian, Monique. _Atlas of Asian-American History_. New York: Facts on File, 2002.\n\nBancroft, Hubert Howe. _History of California_. Vol. 6. _1848\u20131859_. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1888.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Mongolianism in America.\" In _The Works of Hubert Howe Bancroft_ , vol. 38, _Essays and Miscellany_. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1890, 331.\n\nBarbas, Samantha. \"'I'll Take Chop Suey': Restaurants as Agents of Culinary and Cultural Change.\" _Journal of Popular Culture_ 36, no. 4 (spring 2003): 669\u201386.\n\nBarth, Gunther. _Bitter Strength_. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1964.\n\nBeck, Louis J. _New York's Chinatown_. New York: Bohemia, 1898.\n\nBirrell, Anne. _Chinese Mythology: An Introduction_. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993.\n\nBishop, William H. _Old Mexico and Her Lost Provinces_. New York: Harper, 1883.\n\nBorthwick, J. D. _Three Years in California_. Edinburgh: W. Blackwood, 1857.\n\nBoss\u00e9, Sara. \"Cooking and Serving a Chinese Dinner in America.\" _Harper's Bazaar_ , January 1913, 127.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Giving a Chinese Luncheon Party.\" _Harper's Bazaar_ , March 1913, 135.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Giving a Chinese Tea in America.\" _Harper's Bazaar_ , April 1913, 192.\n\nBowles, Samuel. _Across the Continent_. Springfield, Mass.: Samuel Bowles, 1865.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Our New West_. Hartford, Conn.: Hartford, 1869.\n\nBridgman, Eliza J. Gillett. _The Pioneer of American Missions in China_. New York: A. D. F. Randolph, 1864.\n\nBrooks, Will. \"A Fragment of China.\" _Californian_ , July 1882, 6\u201314.\n\nBrownstone, David M., and Irene M. Franck. _Facts about American Immigration_. New York: H. W. Wilson, 2001.\n\nCapron, E. S. _History of California_. Boston: John Jewett, 1854.\n\nCarpenter, Frank G. _China_. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, Page, 1925.\n\nChan, Shiu Wong. _The Chinese Cook Book_. New York: Frederick A. Stokes, 1917.\n\nChan, Sou. _The House of Chan Cookbook_. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1952.\n\nChan, Sucheng. _This Bittersweet Soil_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014, ed. _Chinese American Transnationalism_. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2006.\n\nChang, Iris. _The Chinese in America_. New York: Viking, 2003.\n\nChang, K. C., ed. _Food in Chinese Culture_. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1977.\n\nChao, Buwei Y. _How to Cook and Eat in Chinese_. New York: John Day, 1945.\n\nChapman, Mary. \"Notes on the Chinese in Boston.\" _Journal of American Folklore_ 5, no. 19 (October\u2013December 1892): 321\u20134.\n\nChen, Yong. _Chinese San Francisco, 1850\u20131943_. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"The Internal Origins of Chinese Emigration to California Reconsidered.\" _Western Historical Quarterly_ 28, no. 4 (winter 1997): 520\u201346.\n\nCheng, F. T. _Musings of a Chinese Gourmet_. London: Hutchison, 1954.\n\nChesterfield, Philip Dormer Stanhope. _Lord Chesterfield's Advice to His Son_. Philadelphia: Thomas Dobson, 1786.\n\nChiang, Cecilia S. Y. _The Mandarin Way_. Boston: Little, Brown, 1974.\n\n_Chinatown Handy Guide_. San Francisco: Chinese, 1959.\n\nChinese Committee, International Institute, Y.W.C.A., Honolulu. _Chinese Home Cooking_. Honolulu: Paradise of the Pacific, 1945.\n\n_The Chinese Traveller_. London: E. and C. Dilly, 1772.\n\nChing, Frank. \"China: It's the Latest American Thing.\" _New York Times_ , February 16, 1972, 1.\n\nChinn, Thomas W., ed. _A History of the Chinese in Calfornia: A Syllabus_. San Francisco: Chinese Historical Society of America, 1969.\n\nChu, Louis H. \"The Chinese Restaurants in New York City.\" Master's thesis, New York University, 1939.\n\nChung, Henry W. S. _Henry Chung's Hunan Style Chinese Cookbook_. New York: Harmony, 1978.\n\nClaiborne, Craig. _The New York Times Guide to Dining Out in New York_. New York: Atheneum, 1969.\n\nClaiborne, Craig, and Virginia Lee. _The Chinese Cookbook_. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1972.\n\nClark, Helen F. \"The Chinese of New York, Contrasted with Their Foreign Neighbors.\" _Centur_ y, November 1896, 104\u201313.\n\nClifford, Nicholas R. \"A Revolution Is Not a Tea Party: The 'Shanghai Mind(s)' Reconsidered.\" _Pacific Historical Review_ 59, no. 4 (November 1990): 501\u201326.\n\nCohen, Lucy M. _Chinese in the Post\u2013Civil War South_. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1984.\n\nCondit, Ira M. _The Chinaman as We See Him_. Chicago: F. H. Revell, 1900.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _English and Chinese Reader with a Dictionary_. New York: American Tract Society, 1882.\n\nConlin, Joseph R. _Bacon, Beans, and Galantines_. Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1986.\n\nConwell, Russell H. _Why and How: Why the Chinese Emigrate, and the Means They Adopt for the Purpose of Reaching America_. Boston: Lee and Shepard, 1871.\n\nCrawford, Gary, and Chen Shen. \"The Origins of Rice Agriculture.\" _Antiquity_ 72, no. 278 (December 1998): 858\u201367.\n\nCrawford, Gary, A. P. Underhill, J. Zhou, et al. \"Late Neolithic Plant Remains from Northern China.\" _Current Anthropology_ 46, no. 2 (April 2005): 309\u201318.\n\nCrow, Carl. \"Shark's Fins and Ancient Eggs.\" _Harper's_ , September 1937, 422\u20139.\n\nCulin, Stewart. \"Customs of the Chinese in America.\" _Journal of American Folklore_ 3, no. 10 (July\u2013September 1890): 191\u2013200.\n\nCurti, Merle, and John Stalker. \"'The Flowery Flag Devils'\u2014The American Image in China 1840\u20131900.\" _Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society_ 96, no. 6 (December 1952): 663\u201390.\n\nDall, Caroline. _My First Holiday_. Boston: Roberts, 1881.\n\nDamon, Frank W. \"The Chinese at the Sandwich Islands.\" _Missionary Herald_ , December 1885, 518\u20139.\n\nDanton, G. H. \"Chinese Restaurants in America.\" _China Journal of Science and Arts_ , May 1925, 286\u20139.\n\nDavis, John Francis. _The Chinese_. New York: Harper, 1836.\n\nDe Casseres, Benjamin. \"All-Night New York in the Dry Season of 1919.\" _New York Times_ , August 17, 1919, 73.\n\nDe Groot, Roy Andries. \"How to Get a Great Chinese Meal in an American Chinese Restaurant.\" _Esquire_ , August 1972, 130.\n\nDean, William. _The China Mission_. New York: Sheldon, 1859.\n\nDelfs, Robert A. _The Good Food of Szechwan_. Tokyo: Kodansha, 1974.\n\nDenker, Joel. _The World on a Plate_. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 2003.\n\nDennys, N. B., ed. _The Treaty Ports of China and Japan_. London: Tr\u00fcbner, 1867.\n\nDensmore, G. B. _The Chinese in California_. San Francisco: Pettit and Russ, 1880.\n\n\"Diet of the Chinese.\" _Chinese Repository_ , February 1835, 465.\n\nDirlik, Arif, ed. _Chinese on the American Frontier_. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2001.\n\nDonovan, Holly Richardson, Peter Donovan, and Harvey Mole. _A Guide to the Chinese Food and Restaurants of Taiwan_. Taipei: By the authors, 1977.\n\nDoolittle, Justus. _Social Life of the Chinese_. London: Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, 1868.\n\nDowning, C. Toogood. _The Fan-Qui in China_. London: Henry Colburn, 1838.\n\nDowns, Jacques M. _The Golden Ghetto_. Bethlehem, Penn.: Lehigh University Press, 1997.\n\nDreiser, Theodore. \"The Chinese in St. Louis.\" _St. Louis Republic_ , January 14, 1894, 15.\n\nDu Halde, Jean-Baptiste. _The General History of China_. 4 vols. London: J. Watts, 1751.\n\nDufferin, Lady Helen. _Songs, Poems, and Verses_. London: John Murray, 1894.\n\nDunlop, Fuchsia. _Shark's Fin and Sichuan Pepper_. New York: Norton, 2008.\n\nDyce, Charles M. _Personal Reminiscences of Thirty Years' Residence in the Model Settlement Shanghai_. London: Chapman and Hall, 1906.\n\nEllis, George E. _Bacon's Dictionary of Boston_. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1886.\n\nElston, Robert G., X. Cheng, D. B. Madsen, et al. \"New Dates for the North China Mesolithic.\" _Antiquity_ 71, no. 274 (December 1997): 985\u201394.\n\nEvans, Albert S. _\u00c1 La California_. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1873.\n\nFairbank, John King. _Trade and Diplomacy on the China Coast_. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1953.\n\n_The \"Fan Kwae\" at Canton before Treaty Days_. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, 1882.\n\nFanning, Edmund. _Voyages and Discoveries in the South Seas_. Salem, Mass.: Marine Research Society, 1924.\n\nFerretti, Fred. \"Chinese Dishes, American Style.\" _New York Times_ , April 13, 1983, C1.\n\nFisher, Vardis, and Opal Laurel Holmes. _Gold Rushes and Mining Camps of the Early American West_. Caldwell, N.J.: Caxton, 1968.\n\nForman, Allan. \"Celestial Gotham.\" _Arena_ , April 1893, 623.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"New York's China-Town.\" _Washington Post_ , July 25, 1886, 5.\n\nFortune, Robert. _A Journey to the Tea Countries of China_. London: John Murray, 1852.\n\nFranck, Harry A. _Roving through South China_. New York: Century, 1925.\n\nFrost, John. _History of the State of California_. Auburn, N.Y.: Derby and Miller, 1851.\n\nFuess, Claude M. _The Life of Caleb Cushing_. 2 vols. Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1965.\n\nFuller, Sheri G. _Chinese in Minnesota_. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 2004.\n\nFung Yu-Lan and Derek Bodde, eds. _A Short History of Chinese Philosophy_. New York: Macmillan, 1948.\n\nGarner, W. E. _Reliable Recipes for Making Chinese Dishes_. Long Branch, N.J.: F. M. Taylor, 1914.\n\nGernet, Jacques. _Daily Life in China on the Eve of the Mongol Invasion 1250\u20131276_. London: Allen and Unwin, 1962.\n\nGibson, Otis. _The Chinese in America_. Cincinnati: Hitchcock and Walden, 1877.\n\nGiles, Herbert A. _A History of Chinese Literature_. New York: F. Ungar, 1967.\n\nGlick, Clarence E. _Sojourners and Settlers_. Honolulu: Hawaii Chinese History Center, 1980.\n\nGoddard, Francis W. _Called to Cathay_. New York: Baptist Literature Bureau, 1948.\n\nGong, William K. _Insider's Guide to Gourmet Chinatown_. San Francisco: VCIM, 1970.\n\nGoodnow, Elizabeth. _The Market for Souls_. New York: M. Kennerley, 1910.\n\nGraham, Stephen. _New York Nights_. New York: George H. Doran, 1927.\n\nGray, John Henry. _China: A History of the Laws, Manners, and Customs of the People_. London: Macmillan, 1878.\n\nGreene, Charles. \"The Restaurants of San Francisco.\" _Overland Monthly_ , December 1892, 561\u201372.\n\nGreene, Gael. \"A Scrutable Guide to New York's Chinese Restaurants.\" _New York_ , April 2, 1979, 43\u201358.\n\nGutzlaff, Charles. _China Opened_. 2 vols. London: Smith, Elder, 1838.\n\nHaig, Alexander M., Jr. _Inner Circles_. New York: Warner Books, 1992.\n\nHaldeman, H. R. _The Haldeman Diaries_. New York: Putnam, 1994.\n\nHaller, Henry. _The White House Family Cookbook_. New York: Random House, 1987.\n\nHamilton, Roy W., ed. _The Art of Rice_. Los Angeles: UCLA Fowler Museum of Cultural History, 2003.\n\nHamm, Margherita A. \"The Anti-foreign Movement in China.\" _Independent_ , July 26, 1900, 1785\u20138.\n\nHammond, Jonathan. \"Ecological and Cultural Anatomy of Taishan Villages.\" _Modern Asian Studies_ 23, no. 3 (1995): 555\u201372.\n\nHansen, Gladys, ed. _The Chinese in California: A Brief Bibliographic History_. Portland, Ore.: Richard Abel, 1970.\n\nHarper, Donald. \"Gastronomy in Ancient China.\" _Parabola 9_ , no. 4 (1984): 38\u201347.\n\nHarrison, Alice A. \"Chinese Food and Restaurants.\" _Overland Monthly_ , September 1917, 527\u201332.\n\nHarte, Bret. _The Heathen Chinee_. Boston: James R. Osgood, 1871.\n\nHess, John L. \"The Best American Food Is Chinese.\" _New York Times_ , August 18, 1974, 206.\n\nHickey, William. _Memoirs of William Hickey_. 4 vols. New York: Knopf, 1921.\n\nHigman, Charles, and Tracey L-D Lu. \"The Origins and Dispersal of Rice Cultivation.\" _Antiquity_ 72, no. 278 (December 1998): 867\u201378.\n\nHittel, John S. _The Resources of California_. San Francisco: A. Roman, 1863.\n\nHoizey, Dominique, and Marie-Joseph Hoizey. _A History of Chinese Medicine_. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1993.\n\nHoldridge, John. _Crossing the Divide_. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997.\n\n\"Hot Hunan.\" _Sunset_ , October 1976, 88\u20139.\n\n\"How about Sampling the Spicy Food of _She-chwan_?\" _Sunset_ , October 1974, 192\u20135.\n\nHowells, William Dean. _A Hazard of New Fortunes_. New York: Harper, 1889.\n\n_The How Long Chinese Cook Book_. New York: How Long, 1924.\n\nHu, Shiu-ying. _Food Plants of China_. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2005.\n\nHuang, H. T. _Fermentations and Food Science_. Vol. 6, pt. 5 of _Science and Civilization in China_ , ed. Joseph Needham. Cambridge: Cambridge University Presss, 2000.\n\nHunter, William C. _Bits of Old China_. London: K. Paul, Trench, 1885.\n\nJenkins, Lawrence Waters. _Bryant Parrott Tilden of Salem, at a Chinese Dinner Party_. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1944.\n\nJohnson, Bryan R. \"Let's Eat Chinese Tonight.\" _American Heritage_ , December 1987, 98\u2013107.\n\nJohnson, James Weldon. _Black Manhattan_. New York: Knopf, 1940.\n\nJones, Idwal. \"Cathay on the Coast.\" _American Mercury_ , August 1926, 453\u201360.\n\nKeeler, Charles. _San Francisco and Thereabout_. San Francisco: California Promotion Committee, 1903.\n\nKeeler, Ralph. \"John Chinaman Picturesquely Considered.\" _Western Monthly_ , May 1870, 348.\n\nKelly, William. _An Excursion to California_. London: Chapman and Hall, 1851.\n\nKilgannon, Corey. \"In Search of Chow Mein.\" _New York Times_ , November 23, 1997, CY1.\n\nKissinger, Henry. _The White House Years_. Boston: Little, Brown, 1979.\n\nKlein, Jakob A. \"'For Eating, It's Guangzhou': Regional Culinary Traditions and Chinese Socialism.\" In Harry West and Parvathi Raman, eds., _Enduring Socialism: Explorations of Revolution and Transformation, Restoration and Continuation_. New York: Berghahn Books, 2008, 44\u201376.\n\nKnechtges, David R. \"Gradually Entering the Realm of Delight: Food and Drink in Early Medieval China.\" _Journal of the American Oriental Society_ 117, no. 2 (April\u2013June, 1997): 229\u201339.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\"A Literary Feast: Food in Early Chinese Literature.\" _Journal of the American Oriental Society_ 106, no. 1 (January\u2013March 1986): 49\u201363.\n\nKoutsky, Kathryn S., and Linda Koutsky. _Minnesota Eats Out_. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 2003.\n\nKwong, Peter. _The New Chinatown_. New York: Hill and Wang, 1988.\n\nKwong, Peter, and Dusanka Miscevic. _Chinese America_. New York: New Press, 2005.\n\nLapidus, Dorothy Farris. _The Scrutable Feast_. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1977.\n\nLaudan, Rachel. _The Food of Paradise_. Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, 1996.\n\nLay, G. Tradescant. _The Chinese as They Are_. London: William Ball, 1841.\n\nLee, Calvin. _Calvin Lee's Chinese Cooking for American Kitchens_. New York: Putnam, 1958.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Chinatown, U.S.A_. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1965.\n\nLee, Jennifer. _The Fortune Cookie Chronicles_. New York: Twelve, 2008.\n\nLee, M. P. _Chinese Cookery_. London: Faber and Faber, 1943.\n\nLee, Ping Quan. _To a President's Taste_. Emmaus, Penn.: Rodale Press, 1939.\n\nLee, Robert G. _Orientals: Asian Americans in Popular Culture_. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1999.\n\nLee, Rose Hum. _The Chinese of the United States of America_. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1960.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"The Decline of Chinatowns in the United States.\" _American Journal of Sociology_ 54, no. 5 (March 1949): 422\u201332.\n\nLeping Jiang and Li Liu. \"New Evidence for the Origins of Sedentism and Rice Domestication in the Lower Yangzi River, China.\" _Antiquity_ 80, no. 308 (June 2006): 355\u201361.\n\nLewis, Sinclair. _Main Street & Babitt_. New York: Library of America, 1992), 87.\n\n_Li Chi: Book of Rites_. Trans. James Legge. 2 vols. New Hyde Park, N.Y.: University Books, 1967.\n\nLi Shu-Fan. _Hong Kong Surgeon_. New York: Dutton, 1964.\n\nLight, Ivan. \"From Vice District to Tourist Attraction: The Moral Career of American Chinatowns, 1880\u20131940.\" _Pacific Historical Review_ 43 (1974): 367\u201394.\n\nLim, Genny, ed. _The Chinese American Experience_. San Francisco: Chinese Historical Society of America, 1984.\n\nLin, Hsian Ju, and Tsuifeng Lin. _Chinese Gastronomy_. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1969.\n\nLiptzin, Sam. _In Spite of Tears_. New York: Amcho, 1946.\n\nLloyd, B. E. _Lights and Shades of San Francisco_. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1876.\n\nLo, Kenneth. _Chinese Food_. London: Hippocrene Books, 1972.\n\nLobscheid, William. _The Chinese: What They Are, and What They Are Doing_. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft, 1873.\n\nLui, Mary Ting Yi. _The Chinatown Trunk Mystery_. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2005.\n\nLuo, Michael. \"As All-American as Egg Foo Yong.\" _New York Times_ , September 22, 2004, F1.\n\nMacMillan, Margaret. _Nixon and Mao_. New York: Random House, 2007.\n\nMalcolm, Elizabeth. \"The _Chinese Repository_ and Western Literature on China, 1800 to 1850.\" _Modern Asian Studies_ 7, no. 2 (1973): 165\u201378.\n\nMcAdoo, William. _Guarding a Great City_. New York: Harper, 1906.\n\nMcAllister, Ward. _Society as I Have Found It_. New York: Cassell, 1890.\n\nMcCawley, James D. _The Eater's Guide to Chinese Characters_. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984.\n\nMcGovern, Patrick E., J. Zhang, J. Tang, et al. \"Fermented Beverages of Pre- and Proto-historic China.\" _Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences_ 101, no. 51 (December 21, 2004): 17593\u20138.\n\nMcLeod, Alexander. _Pigtails and Gold Dust_. Caldwell, N.J.: Caxton, 1947.\n\nMei, June. \"Socioeconomic Origins of Emigration, Guangdong to California, 1850\u20131882.\" _Modern China_ 4, no. 4 (October 1979): 463\u2013501.\n\nMeloney, William B. \"Slumming in New York's Chinatown.\" _Munsey's Magazine_ , September 1909, 818\u201330.\n\nMiller, Hannah. \"Identity Takeout: How American Jews Made Chinese Food Their Ethnic Cuisine.\" _Journal of Popular Culture_ 39, no. 3 (June 2006): 430\u201366.\n\nMiller, Stan, Arline Miller, Rita Rowan, et al. _New York's Chinese Restaurants_. New York: Atheneum, 1977.\n\nMiller, Stuart Creighton. _The Unwelcome Immigrant_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969.\n\nMinford, John, and Joseph Lau. _Classical Chinese Literature_. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000.\n\nMorley, Charles, ed. _Portrait of America: Letters of Henry Sienkiewicz_. New York: Columbia University Press, 1959.\n\nMoss, Frank. _The American Metropolis_. 3 vols. New York: Peter Fenelon Collier, 1897.\n\nNee, Victor, and Brett de Bary Nee. _Longtime Californ_ '. New York: Pantheon, 1972.\n\nNewman, Jacqueline M. _Food Culture in China_. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 2004.\n\n_Notes on California and the Placers_. New York: H. Long, 1850.\n\nNordhoff, Charles. _California: For Health, Pleasure, and Residence_. New York: Harper, 1873.\n\nO'Neill, Molly. \"The Chop Suey Syndrome: Americanizing the Exotic.\" _New York Times_ , July 26, 1989, C1.\n\nPalmer, Albert W. _Orientals in American Life_. New York: Friendship Press, 1934.\n\nPan, Lynn. _The Encyclopedia of the Chinese Overseas_. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014, ed. _Sons of the Yellow Emperor_. Boston: Little, Brown, 1990.\n\nPeabody, A. P. \"The Chinese in San Francisco.\" _American Naturalist_ , January 1871, 660\u20134.\n\nPeters, John R., Jr. _Miscellaneous Remarks upon the Government, History, Religions, Literature, Agriculture, Arts, Trades, Manners, and Customs of the Chinese_. Boston: John F. Trow, 1846.\n\n\"Philadelphia Is Getting the Chinese Restaurant Craze.\" _Philadelphia Inquirer_ , November 12, 1899, 3.\n\nPing-Ti Ho. \"The Introduction of American Food Plants to China.\" _American Anthropologist_ 57, no. 2, pt. 1 (April 1955): 191\u2013201.\n\nPitt, Leonard. \"The Beginnings of Nativism in California.\" _Pacific Historical Review_ 30, no. 1 (February 1961): 23\u201338.\n\nQuincy, Josiah. _Memoir of the Life of John Quincy Adams_. Boston: Crosby, Nichols, Lee, 1860.\n\nRae, W. F. _Westward by Rail_. New York: D. Appleton, 1871.\n\nRansome, Arthur. _The Chinese Puzzle_. London: Allen and Unwin, 1927.\n\nRast, Raymond W. \"The Cultural Politics of Tourism in San Francisco's Chinatown, 1882\u20131917.\" _Pacific Historical Review_ 76, no. 1 (2007): 29\u201360.\n\nRawls, James J., and Walton Bean. _California: An Interpretative History_. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2002.\n\nRawski, Evelyn. _The Last Emperors_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998.\n\nReinhart, Herman Francis. _The Golden Frontier_. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1962.\n\nRenqiu Yu. \"Chop Suey: From Chinese Food to Chinese American Food.\" In _Chinese America: History and Perspectives, 1987_. San Francisco: Chinese Historical Society of America, 1987, 87\u2013100.\n\nReynolds, I. P. \"What Sam of Auburn Avenue Says.\" _Chicago Daily World_ , March 18, 1932, 4.\n\nRhodes, F. S. \"The Chinese in Honolulu.\" _Overland Monthly and Out West Magazine_ , November 1898, 467\u201375.\n\nRichardson, Albert D. _Beyond the Mississippi_. Hartford, Conn.: American, 1867.\n\nRider, Fremont. _Rider's New York City and Vicinity_. New York: Holt, 1916.\n\nRoberts, Edmund. _Embassy to the Eastern Courts of Cochin-China, Siam, and Muscat_. New York: Harper, 1837.\n\nRoss, George. _Tips on Tables_. New York: Covici, Friede, 1934.\n\nRuschenberger, W. S. W. _Narrative of a Voyage Round the World_. 2 vols. Folkestone, England: Dawsons, 1970.\n\nSakamoto, Nobuko. _The People's Republic of China Cookbook_. New York: Random House, 1977.\n\nScheffaner, Herman. \"The Old Chinese Quarter.\" _Living Age_ , August 10, 1907, 359\u201366.\n\n\"Seitz in Chinatown.\" _Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly_ , May 1893, 612\u20138.\n\n_The Sentinel Jewish Cook Book_. 4th ed. Chicago: Sentinel, 1936.\n\nServenti, Silvano, and Fran\u00e7oise Sabban. _Pasta: The Story of a Universal Food_. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002.\n\nShaw, Samuel, and Josiah Quincy. _The Journals of Major Samuel Shaw_. Boston: Wm. Crosby and H. Nichols, 1847.\n\nShaw, William. _Golden Dreams and Waking Realities_. London: Smith, Elder, 1851.\n\nSia, Mary Li. _Chinese Chopsticks: A Manual of Chinese Cookery and Guide to Peiping Restaurants_. Beijing: Peiping Chronicle, 1935.\n\nSimoons, Frederick J. _Food in China: A Cultural and Historical Inquiry_. Boca Raton, Fla.: CRC Press, 1991.\n\nSingleton, Esther, ed. _China, as Described by Great Writers_. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1912.\n\nSmith, Richard J. _Chinese Maps_. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 1996.\n\nSmyth, Albert H. _Bayard Taylor_. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1896.\n\nSolomon, Richard H. _A Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party_. New York: Anchor Press, 1975.\n\nSoul\u00e9, Frank. _The Annals of San Francisco_. San Francisco: D. Appleton, 1855.\n\nSpence, Jonathan D. _The Search for Modern China_. New York: Norton, 1990.\n\nSpier, Robert F. G. \"Food Habits of Nineteenth-century California Chinese.\" _California Historical Society Quarterly_ , March 1958, 79\u201384.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Food Habits of Nineteenth-century California Chinese (Concluded).\" _California Historical Society Quarterly_ , June 1958, 129\u201336.\n\nSpiller, Harley. \"Late Night in the Lion's Den: Chinese Restaurant-nightclubs in 1940s San Francisco.\" _Gastronomica_ , 4, no. 4 (fall 2004): 94\u2013101.\n\nStarr, Kevin. _Americans and the California Dream, 1850\u20131915_. New York: Oxford University Press, 1973.\n\nStrassberg, Richard E., ed. _A Chinese Bestiary_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002.\n\nSung, Betty Lee. _Mountain of Gold_. New York: Macmillan, 1967.\n\nSwisher, Earl. _China's Management of the American Barbarians_. New Haven, Conn.: Far Eastern, 1953.\n\nTakaki, Ronald. _Strangers from a Different Shore_. Boston: Little, Brown, 1989.\n\nTaylor, Bayard. _Eldorado_. New York: Putnam: 1850.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _A Visit to India, China, and Japan, in the Year 1853_. New York: Putnam, 1855.\n\nTaylor, Benjamin F. _Between the Gates_. Chicago: S. C. Griggs, 1878.\n\nTaylor, Charles. _Five Years in China_. New York: Derby and Jackson, 1860.\n\nTchen, John Kuo Wei. _New York before Chinatown_. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999.\n\nTiffany, Osmond, Jr. _The Canton Chinese_. Boston: James Munroe, 1849.\n\nTong, Michael. _The Shun Lee Cookbook_. New York: Morrow, 2007.\n\n_Trader Vic's Book of Food and Drink_. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1946.\n\nTrewartha, Glenn T. \"Field Observations on the Canton Delta of South China.\" _Economic Geography_ 15, no. 1 (January 1939): 1\u201310.\n\n\"The Truth about Chow Mein.\" _New Yorker_ , May 6, 1972, 32\u20133.\n\nTuthill, Franklin. _The History of California_. San Francisco: H. H. Bancroft, 1866.\n\nTwain, Mark. _Roughing It_. New York: Harper, 1913.\n\nVolkwein, Ann. _Chinatown New York_. New York: Collins Design, 2007.\n\nWaley, Arthur. _Yuan Mei_. London: Allen and Unwin, 1956.\n\nWalker, Anne C. _China Calls_. Lanham, Md.: Madison Books, 1992.\n\n\"Walks about the City of Canton.\" _Chinese Repository_ , May 1835, 43.\n\nWhymper, Frederick. _Travel and Adventure in the Territory of Alaska_. London: J. Murray, 1868.\n\nWilkinson, Endymion. _Chinese History: A Manual_. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000.\n\nWilliam Speer. _An Humble Plea_. San Francisco: Office of the Oriental, 1856.\n\nWilliams, Frederick Wells. _The Life and Letters of Samuel Wells Williams_. New York: Putnam, 1889.\n\nWilliams, Samuel Wells. _The Middle Kingdom_. 2 vols. New York: John Wiley, 1849.\n\nWilson, Richard, ed. _The President's Trip to China_. New York: Bantam Books, 1972.\n\nWimsatt, Genevieve. _A Griffin in China_. New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1927.\n\nWines, E. C. _A Peep at China, in Mr. Dunn's Chinese Collection_. Philadelphia: Nathan Dunn, 1839.\n\nWong Ching Foo. \"Chinese Cooking.\" _Boston Globe_ , July 19, 1885, 9.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Chinese Cooking.\" _Brooklyn Eagle_ , July 6, 1884, 4.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"The Chinese in New York.\" _Cosmopolitan_ , June 1888, 297.\n\nWood, W. W. _Sketches of China_. Philadelphia: Carey and Lee, 1830.\n\nWouk, Herman. _Marjorie Morningstar_. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1955, 58.\n\nWright, G. N. _China, in a Series of Views_. London: Fisher, 1848.\n\nWu Tingfang. _America, through the Spectacles of an Oriental Diplomat_. New York: Frederick A. Stokes, 1914.\n\nYan-kit So. _Classic Food of China_. London: Macmillan, 1992.\n\n_The Yellow Emperor's Classic of Internal Medicine_. Trans. Ilza Veith. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972.\n\nYuan Jing and Rowen K. Flad. \"Pig Domestication in Ancient China.\" _Antiquity_ 76, no. 293 (September 2002): 724\u201333.\n\nYutang, Lin. _My Country and My People_. New York: Reynal and Hitchcock, 1935.\n\nZito, Angela. _Of Body and Brush_. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997.\n\n## **INDEX**\n\nAdams, John Quincy,\n\nAfrica, , ,\n\nAfrican Americans, , , , , ,\n\nagriculture:\n\nChinese American, \u201322, \u201323, , , , , , ,\n\nChinese history of, \u201373, \u201379, \u2013102\n\nAh Ling,\n\nAh Wah,\n\nalcohol:\n\nin American Chinese restaurants, , , ,\n\nin Chinese culinary tradition, , , ,\n\nand Prohibition,\n\nin western culinary tradition, , , , , , \u201346\n\n_See also_ liquors; rice wine; wines\n\n_Allium_ genus, \u201380\n\nAltar of Heaven,\n\n_Alton (IL) Evening Telegraph,_ ,\n\nAmerican history. _See_ United States history\n\nAmerican Mutoscope and Biograph Company,\n\nAmerican Revolution, , \u201311, ,\n\nAmericans in China:\n\nearly diplomats, \u201352\n\nmissionaries, \u201335, , , \u201363, ,\n\nNixon and Kissinger, \u201339\n\ntourists attending Olympics, \u201350\n\nwritings by, \u201335, \u201359, \u201363\n\n_See also_ American traders in China\n\nAmerican tastes:\n\nChinese opinion of, \u201354\n\nlack of adventurousness in, , , , , \u201350,\n\nprejudice as influence on, , , , \u201315, \u201327, , , ,\n\n_See also_ Chinese food in America; chop suey\n\nAmerican traders in China:\n\nfirst visits, \u201316, \u201331, ,\n\nfriendships with Europeans, , , \u201313, ,\n\nisolation of, \u20138, , , \u201329, , , \u201355\n\nlanguages used by, \u201310,\n\ntrade goods, \u20132, , \u201328,\n\n_See also_ British traders; Chinese trade\n\nAmerican West:\n\nChinese settlement of, \u201340\n\nfrontier diet in, , , ,\n\ngold rush, , \u201310, \u201314, ,\n\nMark Twain's visit,\n\nracism in, \u201317, , , \u201343, \u201375\n\n_See also_ San Francisco\n\nAmoy,\n\n_Annals of San Francisco,_\n\napricots,\n\naquaculture. _See_ fishing\n\nAramark,\n\narchaeological sites:\n\nancient Chinese, , , , , , , ,\n\nnineteenth century mining camp, \u201337\n\nArmstrong, Louis,\n\nArthur, Chester A.,\n\narts and entertainment:\n\nChinese culture in, , \u201388, , \u201398, \u2013204,\n\nracism in, \u201340, \u201397\n\nAtlanta, Ga.,\n\nAyres, Lew, ,\n\nAZ (restaurant),\n\nazuki beans,\n\nbamboo shoots, , , , , , ,\n\nbamboo steamers,\n\nbananas, ,\n\nbanquet fare:\n\nCantonese, \u201310\n\ngradations in,\n\nbanquets:\n\nin Chinese American restaurants, \u20137, \u201326, \u201331, , \u201310, , \u201341\n\nin Chinese culinary tradition, \u201382, \u201394,\n\netiquette of, , \u201348, \u201393, ,\n\nin western culinary tradition, \u201346,\n\nfor western visitors to China, \u201314, \u201331, \u201334, \u201349, \u201325, \u201339\n\n_baozi_ (stuffed bread),\n\nBeach, Donn,\n\nbean curd (tofu), , ,\n\nbean paste,\n\nbeans:\n\nazuki (red),\n\nblack,\n\ncultivation of,\n\nfermentation of, ,\n\nmung,\n\nbean sprouts, ,\n\nbear's paws,\n\n_b\u00eache-de-mer,_ ,\n\n_See also_ sea cucumbers\n\nBechet, Sidney,\n\nbeef:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, ,\n\nin western shipboard diet, ,\n\nbeer, \u201346\n\nBeijing (Peking):\n\nBoxer Rebellion, \u201366\n\ncuisine of, , ,\n\nimperial government in, , , ,\n\nOpium War,\n\nSummer Olympics (2008), \u201349\n\nBergeron, Victor,\n\nbeverages, in Chinese cuisine,\n\n_See also_ rice wine; tea\n\nBiglar, John, \u201315\n\n_bing_ (kneaded flour foods), \u201391\n\n_See also_ breads; dumplings; noodles\n\nbirds' nests:\n\nas Chinese delicacy, , , , \u201351, , ,\n\ndiners' anecdotes, , , ,\n\nflavor of,\n\nas trade good, , \u201394\n\nbird's nest soup, , ,\n\n_Bits of Old China_ (Hunter), \u201346\n\nblack beans,\n\nBlack Hills Gold Rush,\n\nBlue Ginger,\n\nBohemians, \u201359, , , ,\n\n_The Book of Rites_ (Confucius),\n\nBoss\u00e9, Sara Eaton,\n\nBoston, , , , \u201370,\n\n_Boston Daily Globe,_ \u201370,\n\nBoston tea party,\n\nBowles, Samuel, , , , \u20137\n\n\"A Bowl of Chop Suey and You-ey,\" \u201397\n\nBoxer Rebellion, \u201366\n\n_Brassica_ genus, ,\n\nbreads:\n\nflatbread,\n\nsteamed, , , , ,\n\nin western shipboard diet,\n\nBridgman, Elijah Coleman:\n\nas missionary to China, \u201332,\n\nwritings about China, , \u201335, , ,\n\nBritain:\n\nOpium War, \u201337, , ,\n\nTreaty of Nanking, ,\n\n_See also_ Western culinary traditions\n\nBritish East India Company, \u20139, \u201313,\n\nBritish traders:\n\ncommercial dominance of, \u20139, , , \u201325, , ,\n\nGuangzhou factory of, , \u201313\n\nopium smuggling by, ,\n\nrelationship with Americans, \u201313,\n\nrelationship with Chinese, \u20139, , , \u201336, , \u201355\n\nbronze cookware, \u201375,\n\n_Brooklyn Eagle,_ ,\n\nBross, William, ,\n\nBuddhism, ,\n\nBuddhist monks, culinary advances by, \u201390,\n\ncabbages:\n\nChinese, , , , ,\n\nas ships' staple,\n\nCaen, Herb,\n\n_cai,_ \u201380\n\n_See also fan-cai_ dichotomy\n\nCalcutta,\n\nCalcutta lamb,\n\nCalifornia:\n\nin 1850s, , \u201314\n\nas Gold Mountain, ,\n\ngold rush, , \u201310, \u201314, ,\n\n_See also_ American West; San Francisco\n\nCanton. _See_ Guangzhou\n\nCantonese cuisine:\n\nin American restaurants, \u201324, \u201310, , \u201319\n\norigins of, \u2013102\n\n_See also_ dim sum\n\nCantonese language,\n\n\"chop suey\" from,\n\nand pidgin Chinese,\n\nteaching to barbarians,\n\nwhere spoken, ,\n\ncarp,\n\ncasseroles,\n\ncassia, ,\n\ncats:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , ,\n\nas stereotyped Chinese food, \u201359, \u201353\n\nin street markets, \u201324,\n\ncattle,\n\n_See also_ beef\n\nCentral Pacific Railroad,\n\n_cha_ (tea),\n\n_See also_ tea\n\nchampagne,\n\nChan, Charlie,\n\nChang, Cecilia,\n\nChao, Buwei Yang, \u201319\n\nChaozhou dishes,\n\nChapin, Dwight, \u201334\n\n_char siu bau_ (steamed bread),\n\ncheeses:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, ,\n\nin western cuisine, ,\n\n_See also_ dairy products\n\nchefs, Chinese:\n\nafter Communist takeover,\n\nas culinary artists, \u201366,\n\nimmigration laws affecting, , ,\n\nrulebooks for imperial, \u201393\n\nof Shang Dynasty, \u201375, \u201386\n\nfor Yuan Mei, \u201366\n\nChen Zuguan, \u201314\n\ncherry bounce,\n\nChiang Kai-shek, ,\n\nChicago, , , , , ,\n\n_Chicago Inter-Ocean,_\n\n_Chicago Tribune:_\n\nfood stories, , , , ,\n\nnews stories, , ,\n\nchicken dishes:\n\nbeggar's,\n\n\"General Tso's Chicken,\" \u201343,\n\nKung Pao,\n\nchickens:\n\ndomestication of,\n\non sailing vessels,\n\nchili peppers, ,\n\nThe China (restaurant),\n\nChina:\n\nantiquity of,\n\nclimate,\n\ngeography, \u201370\n\nlexical origins of name, \u201358\n\nas \"Middle Kingdom,\" \u201319, ,\n\nnatural diversity in, \u201371,\n\n_See also_ Chinese cuisine; Chinese history\n\nChina Clipper (restaurant), \u201310\n\n_The China Mission_ (Dean), \u201362\n\nChina Proper, , , \u2013100\n\nChina root,\n\nChina Sea,\n\nChinatowns:\n\nduring anti-Chinese movement,\n\nduring 1930s and 1940s,\n\nrevitalization of, \u201344\n\n_See also_ New York City Chinatown; San Francisco Chinatown\n\n_Chinese-American_ (newspaper),\n\nChinese Americans:\n\nin American West, \u201314, , \u201343\n\nas cooks and chefs, \u201334, , ,\n\nculinary traditions maintained by, \u201319, , \u201335, \u201338, ,\n\non East coast, \u201371\n\nfarming by, \u201323, , , , , , ,\n\nfishing by, \u201320,\n\nin Hawaii, \u20137\n\nas laundrymen, , , , , , , ,\n\nmarginalization of, \u20136\n\nas merchants, , , , \u201319, , \u201338, , , , ,\n\nin Midwest, \u201372\n\nas miners, \u20139, \u201313,\n\nin New York. _See_ New York City\n\nas peddlers, , \u201321, , ,\n\nracism toward. _See_ racism\n\nas railroad laborers, \u201339\n\nas restaurateurs. _See_ Chinese restaurants in America\n\nas sailors, ,\n\nin San Francisco. _See_ San Francisco\n\nas servants, , ,\n\n_See also_ Chinese food in America; Chinese restaurants in America\n\nChinese cabbage, , , ,\n\n_Chinese Cookery in the Home Kitchen_ (Nolton),\n\nChinese cuisine:\n\nadventurousness in, , , , , , , \u201350\n\nart of balance in, , ,\n\nart of cookery in, , , ,\n\nbanquet tradition, , \u201348, \u201393, , , , , ,\n\nbuilding blocks of, , , ,\n\nclimate as influence on, ,\n\ncookbooks describing, \u201367, \u201319\n\ncooking methods, , , \u201387, , ,\n\ncookware, \u201375, , , , ,\n\ndecline of, under Mao, \u201328\n\ndelicacies of, , , , \u201394,\n\ndomesticated plants and animals in, , , ,\n\ndough cookery, \u201391\n\nfamily-style meals, , , ,\n\n_fan-cai_ dichotomy in, \u201380, , , , \u201335\n\nfats and oils, \u201386,\n\nfermented drinks, , ,\n\nfermented foods, \u201387, ,\n\nfish and shellfish, , , \u201382, \u201385,\n\nflavorings in, \u201386,\n\nfood as medicine, \u201378,\n\nfood as ritual, , \u201393\n\nfood cut into small pieces, , , , , \u201359\n\nfruits, , \u201383\n\ngeography as influence on, \u201370\n\ngrains, , \u201379, \u201384, \u201389, ,\n\nmeats, , \u201324, , \u201381, \u201385,\n\nnoodles, , , \u201391, ,\n\nnuts, ,\n\nregional distinctions in, \u2013102,\n\nrestaurant culture in, \u201335, \u201397, , \u2013101\n\nrevolutions in, \u201391\n\nrice, , , , , \u201379,\n\nspices, , , \u201387, ,\n\ntableware, , , , , ,\n\ntea, , , \u201397\n\ntexture in, , ,\n\nvegetables in, , \u201380, \u201384,\n\n_See also_ Chinese food in America\n\nChinese culture:\n\nbanquet etiquette, , \u201348, \u201393, ,\n\nchopstick etiquette, , , ,\n\nearly reference works on, \u2013 , \u201335, \u201359, \u201363\n\ngender separation in, , , ,\n\nsocial hierarchies in,\n\n_See also_ Chinese cuisine; Imperial China\n\nChinese Exclusion Act, , , , , \u201317\n\nChinese food in America:\n\nAmericanization of, \u201392\n\nin arts and entertainment, , \u201388, , \u201398, \u2013204,\n\nas cheap and filling, , , , ,\n\ncookbooks for, , , \u201319, ,\n\non grocery shelves, , \u201394, ,\n\nhome cooking of, \u201387, \u201394\n\ninfluence of Nixon's visit on, \u201343\n\nJewish embrace of, \u2013205\n\npost-World War II revitalization of, \u201324\n\nstagnation in, \u201315, ,\n\n_See also_ Chinese restaurants in America; chop suey; recipes\n\nChinese history:\n\nBeijing Summer Olympics (2008), \u201350\n\nBoxer Rebellion, \u201366\n\nCommunist takeover, , , ,\n\nCultural Revolution, , , \u201330\n\nearly diplomacy with U.S., \u201350, ,\n\nfree market reforms,\n\nHan Dynasty. _See_ Han Dynasty\n\nJapanese invasion (1937), ,\n\nKorean War,\n\nLi Hongzhang's U.S. visit, \u201364,\n\nMing Dynasty, \u201318, ,\n\nNixon and Kissinger visits, \u201339\n\nOpium War, \u201337, , ,\n\nprehistoric, , ,\n\nQin Dynasty, ,\n\nQing Dynasty. _See_ Qing Dynasty\n\nShang Dynasty, \u201375, , ,\n\n6000\u20133000 BCE,\n\nSong Dynasty, , , , \u201395\n\nand Soviet Union,\n\nTang Dynasty, , ,\n\nTiananmen Square massacre,\n\nTreaty of Nanking, ,\n\nTreaty of Wang Xia, , , ,\n\nXia Dynasty, \u201373\n\nYuan Dynasty, ,\n\nZhang Dynasty,\n\nZhou Dynasty, \u201376, , , , ,\n\n_See also_ Emperors; Imperial China\n\n_Chinese Home Cooking_ (Sia),\n\n_The Chinese in America_ (Gibson),\n\n_Chinese-Japanese Cook Book_ (Boss\u00e9),\n\nChinese language:\n\npidgin, \u201310\n\nteaching to barbarians,\n\n_See also_ Cantonese language; Mandarin language\n\n\"Chinese Museum,\"\n\nChinese New Year, ,\n\n_Chinese Repository,_ , , , , \u201360,\n\n_Chinese Restaurant News,_ \u201351\n\nChinese restaurants in America:\n\nadapting to American tastes, \u201312, \u201333, , , , , , , \u201346,\n\naffordability, \u201311, , , , , ,\n\nafter Nixon's visit to China, \u201343\n\nalcohol in, , ,\n\nambiance and decor, , \u201369, , , , , \u201323\n\nauthenticity in, , , \u201319,\n\nbanquet fare in, \u201326, \u201331, , \u201310, ,\n\nas \"chop sueys,\" \u201367, ,\n\nfocus on Cantonese food, , \u201316, , ,\n\nfranchises, \u201348\n\nfusion,\n\nhome delivery,\n\nimmigration laws affecting, , , , \u201344, \u201347\n\nnightlife in, \u201391,\n\nnon-Cantonese fare in, , , \u201323, \u201343,\n\npatronage by African-Americans,\n\npatronage by Bohemians, \u201359, ,\n\npatronage by Chinese Americans, , \u201329, , , \u201355, \u201360, \u201310\n\npatronage by elites, , , , \u201370\n\npatronage by whites, \u201328, \u201334, , , \u201360, , \u20135\n\nPolynesian themes in, \u201316\n\nprofessionalism in, , ,\n\nprofitability of, , ,\n\nspread from New York across country, \u201375\n\nstagnation in, \u201315, ,\n\nubiquity of,\n\n\"white slavery\" associations, \u201385\n\n_See also_ New York City Chinatown; San Francisco Chinatown\n\nChinese trade:\n\nanti-foreign bias in, , , ,\n\nwith Asia, , , ,\n\nwith Britain, \u20139, \u201336\n\nGuangzhou factories for, , \u20139,\n\nimperial trade goods, , , ,\n\npidgin language used in, \u201310\n\nwith Portugal,\n\nwith post-revolutionary America, , , \u201336, \u201341\n\nrevenues from, , \u201320,\n\nwith San Francisco merchants, \u201319, , , \u201338\n\nsilver as currency in, ,\n\ntea, , , , , ,\n\nin Xia Dynasty,\n\n_See also_ American traders in China\n\n_The Chinese Traveller_ (1772), , ,\n\n\"Chink, Chink, Chinaman\" (Williams),\n\nChin Lee's (nightclub), \u201391\n\nChinois-on-Main (restaurant),\n\nChongqing,\n\nchopsticks:\n\nAmerican use of, , , ,\n\nanecdotes by non-native users, , , , , ,\n\nin Chinese culinary tradition, ,\n\netiquette of, , , ,\n\nand Kissinger,\n\nand Nixons, \u201325, , , \u201339\n\nchop suey:\n\nAmerican craze for, \u201367, \u201376, , \u201392\n\nAmericanization of, \u201395, ,\n\nin arts and entertainment, \u201398\n\ndiners' anecdotes, , , ,\n\ningredients, \u201355, \u201361,\n\nlegends surrounding, \u201365, \u201379\n\nnoodles, ,\n\norigins of, \u201355, \u201361\n\nprinted recipes for, , , ,\n\nand western culinary tradition,\n\n_Chop Suey & Company_ (movie),\n\n\"Chop Suey, Chow Mein\" (Prima and Smith),\n\n_Chop Suey Dancers #_ 2 (Marsh),\n\n_Chop Suey_ (Hopper), \u201398\n\n\"Chop Suey\" (Rogers and Hammerstein),\n\n\"chop suey sundaes,\"\n\nChouqua (Chinese merchant), \u201314\n\n\"chowhounds,\"\n\nchow mein, , , , ,\n\nChristianity, , , ,\n\n_See also_ missionaries\n\nChu Gain, ,\n\nChu, Grace,\n\nChui Sing Tong,\n\nChung Fah Low (restaurant), , \u201348\n\nChung, Henry,\n\ncinnamon, Chinese,\n\ncitrus,\n\n_See also_ Sichuan pepper; _specific fruits_\n\nCity Wok,\n\nClaiborne, Craig, \u201323\n\n_The Classic of Tea_ (Lu),\n\nClemens, William M.,\n\nColfax, Schuyler, , ,\n\nCommittee to Save China's Children, \u201310\n\nCommunist takeover of China, , ,\n\nConAgra Foods,\n\nConfucianism, \u201319, ,\n\nConfucius, , ,\n\non civilization,\n\non food, \u201376, \u201384\n\non water, ,\n\ncongee, , , , , ,\n\nConnors, Chuck,\n\nConstitutional Convention,\n\n\"Conversations with a Chorus Girl\" (M'Cardell),\n\ncookbooks, Chinese:\n\nfor American readers, , , \u201319, ,\n\nfor Chinese Hawaiians,\n\nof imperial China, ,\n\n_See also_ recipes\n\ncookbooks, Jewish,\n\ncooking methods:\n\nboiling, , , \u201385,\n\nbraising,\n\ncookbooks discussing,\n\ngrilling,\n\nfor meats, \u201385\n\npoaching, \u201385,\n\nsteaming, , , \u201385, , , ,\n\nstir-frying, , , ,\n\ncookware:\n\nbamboo steamers,\n\nbronze ware, \u201375,\n\nceramic steamers,\n\ncooking pots ( _guo_ and _wok_ ),\n\ncooking stoves ( _zao_ ),\n\nof street vendors,\n\nCool, Mrs. Russel,\n\ncormorants,\n\ncorn,\n\n\"Cornet Chop Suey\" (Armstrong),\n\nCovarrubias, Miguel,\n\ncrab rangoon,\n\ncrabs,\n\nCrawford, Joan,\n\nCrocker, Charles,\n\nCrow, Carl, \u201378\n\ncrustaceans,\n\n_See also_ crabs; shrimp\n\ncubeb,\n\ncucumbers, ,\n\ncuisine. _See_ Chinese cuisine; Chinese food in America; Western culinary traditions\n\nCulinary Institute of America,\n\nculinary traditions. _See_ Chinese cuisine; Western culinary traditions\n\nCultural Revolution, , , \u201330\n\ncurry, , , ,\n\nCushing, Caleb:\n\nas ambassador to China, \u201339, , , , ,\n\nculinary anecdotes about, , \u201354,\n\ndairy products:\n\nChinese aversion to, ,\n\nin kosher practice, ,\n\nManchu taste for, , ,\n\nin western diet, , ,\n\nDaoguang Emperor, \u201337,\n\nDaoism,\n\ndates, Chinese,\n\nDeadwood, S.D.,\n\nDean, William, \u201362\n\nde Groot, Roy Andries,\n\nDelmonico's, ,\n\nDeng Xiaoping,\n\n_The Detectress_ (movie),\n\n\"Diet of the Chinese\" (Williams), \u201335,\n\ndim sum,\n\nin American restaurants, , \u201331, \u201333, ,\n\norigins of, ,\n\nrecipes for,\n\ntallying bill for,\n\ndog meat:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, \u201324, , , ,\n\ndiners' anecdotes of, ,\n\nas stereotyped Chinese food, \u201359\n\ndogs:\n\ndomestication of, , ,\n\nat street markets, \u201324,\n\ndomesticated plants and animals, \u201372\n\nDongbei dishes,\n\nDon the Beachcomber restaurants, \u201316\n\n\"dot hearts,\" ,\n\n_See also_ dim sum\n\ndough cookery, \u201391\n\nDoyers Street,\n\nDreiser, Theodore, \u201372\n\nduck meat:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , , \u201331\n\n_See also_ Peking duck\n\nducks:\n\ndomestication of, ,\n\neggs of, ,\n\nDufferin, Lady,\n\nDu Halde, Jean-Baptiste, , ,\n\nDulles, John Foster,\n\ndumplings, , , , ,\n\nDupont Street (Grant Avenue). _See_ San Francisco Chinatown\n\nDynasties. _See_ Chinese history\n\nEastern regional cuisine of China, ,\n\n_East is West_ (movie),\n\nEddington, Jane,\n\negg drop soup,\n\negg rolls, , ,\n\n1893 World's Columbian Exposition,\n\nEight Treasure Rice,\n\nElder, Will,\n\n_Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire_ (Taylor),\n\nemperors of China:\n\nDaoguang Emperor, \u201337,\n\nexalted role of, \u201317,\n\nfoods enjoyed by, \u201349, \u201382\n\nJade Emperor,\n\nQianlong Emperor,\n\nand trade revenues, , ,\n\nand tribute system, , \u201320\n\n\"Yellow\" Emperor, ,\n\nYongle Emperor,\n\nY\u00fc Emperor, ,\n\n_See also_ Imperial China\n\nEmpire Szechuan (restaurant), \u201345\n\nEmpress (restaurant),\n\n_Empress of China_ (merchant ship):\n\ncargo, \u20132, \u201326\n\nas pioneer of Chinese-American trade, \u20132, \u20137, , \u201316, \u201326,\n\nshipboard cuisine, \u20133, ,\n\nEmpress of China (restaurant),\n\nentertainment:\n\nin Chinese restaurants, \u201391,\n\n_See also_ arts and entertainment\n\netiquette:\n\nof Chinese banquets, , \u201348, \u201393, ,\n\nof chopsticks, , , ,\n\nEuropean, \u201313\n\nof Imperial China, \u201344, \u201348\n\nin post-revolutionary America,\n\nof western-style banquets, \u201346\n\nEuropeans:\n\nin Chinese treaty ports, \u201355\n\netiquette of, \u201313\n\nin Guangzhou, \u201329\n\nsettlement of Macau, ,\n\nwritings by, \u201324\n\n_See also_ British traders; western culinary traditions\n\nEvans, Albert S.,\n\nEvanston, Wyoming,\n\nEverest, Mount,\n\nfactories of Guangzhou,\n\nAmerican,\n\nBritish, \u20139,\n\nforeigners' confinement to, , , , , \u201329\n\n_fan-cai_ dichotomy, \u201380, , , , \u201335\n\nfarming. _See_ agriculture\n\nfast food:\n\nin America, \u201340,\n\nin China, \u201349,\n\n_See also_ franchise restaurants\n\nfats, \u201386,\n\nFenollosa, Ernest,\n\n_fen si_ (cellophane noodles),\n\nfermentation:\n\nof beverages, , ,\n\nof foods, \u201387,\n\nfish:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , , \u201385, , ,\n\ndiners' anecdotes, \u201334\n\nfermentation of,\n\nfishing:\n\nby Chinese Americans, \u201320\n\nChinese cultural history of, , , ,\n\nfish sauce,\n\n_Five Years in China_ (Taylor),\n\nflatbreads,\n\nflavorings:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, \u201387,\n\n_See also_ sauces; spices\n\nflour, milling of, , \u201388\n\n_Flower Drum Song_ (musical),\n\nFlushing, N.Y.,\n\nfood therapy, Chinese,\n\nForbidden City (imperial court), ,\n\nForbidden City (nightclub), ,\n\nForman, Allan, \u201358,\n\nFour Districts (Sze Yap) region, \u20132, , , ,\n\nFour Seas (restaurant),\n\nFrance:\n\nas American ally, ,\n\ncuisine of, , \u201356\n\nfranchise restaurants, \u201349\n\nFranklin, Benjamin,\n\nFreeman, Charles, ,\n\nFrench cuisine, , \u201356\n\nFrench, John B., \u201361\n\nfried rice, ,\n\nfried wontons,\n\nfrogs, in Chinese cuisine, , , ,\n\nfruit:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , \u201383, \u201384,\n\nin food therapy,\n\n_See also specific fruits_\n\nFujian dishes,\n\nFujian Province, , ,\n\nfusion restaurants,\n\nFu Xi,\n\nFuzhou, , ,\n\ngalangal,\n\nGang of Four,\n\nGantt, Ernest R.B.,\n\ngarlic, , \u201380, ,\n\nGeary Act,\n\ngeese,\n\n_General History of China_ (Du Halde), , ,\n\n\"General Tso's Chicken,\" \u201343,\n\nGerman immigrants, ,\n\nGibson, Otis,\n\nginger:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , , ,\n\nin regional cuisines,\n\nginseng, as trade good, \u20132, , \u201326, \u201327\n\ngluten, \u201390\n\nGold Mountain, ,\n\nGold Mountain firms,\n\ngold rush:\n\nBlack Hills,\n\nCalifornia, , \u201310, \u201314, ,\n\n_See also_ mining camps\n\nGompers, Samuel,\n\n_Good Housekeeping,_\n\nGoodnow, Elizabeth,\n\ngourds, ,\n\ngourmet culture:\n\nat Beijing Olympics,\n\nof imperial courts, \u201349\n\nin modern China,\n\nin New York City, , , \u201324\n\nin Shunde,\n\nin Song Dynasty, \u201395\n\ngrains:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , \u201379, \u201384, \u201389, ,\n\nearly cooking methods, , ,\n\nin _fan-cai_ dichotomy, , , ,\n\nin food therapy,\n\nmilling of, , \u201388\n\n_See also specific grains_\n\nGrand Vatel,\n\nGrant Avenue (Dupont Street). _See_ San Francisco Chinatown\n\nGray, John Henry, \u201396,\n\nGreat Depression,\n\nGreat Hall of the People, , , ,\n\nGreat Shanghai (restaurant),\n\nGreat Wall of China, , , ,\n\nGreen, John, , , , ,\n\nGuangdong,\n\nGuangdong Province, , , , \u2013100,\n\nGuangxi Province,\n\nGuangzhou (Canton):\n\nAmerican missionaries in, \u201334, ,\n\nblockade of, ,\n\nfood culture of, , , , , , , ,\n\ngeography of,\n\n1700s landscape, \u20137\n\nas trade center, , \u20139, , , ,\n\nGuangzhou Province,\n\nGuideways through Mountains and Seas ( _Shanhaijing_ ), ,\n\n_guo_ (cooking pot),\n\nGwathmey Siegel Associates,\n\nHaig, Alexander,\n\nHakka ethnic group, ,\n\nHaldeman, H.R., ,\n\nHall of Supreme Harmony,\n\nHammerstein, Oscar,\n\nHamm, Margherita Arlina,\n\nHan Dynasty:\n\nculinary history of, , , , \u201391,\n\nexpansionism in, , ,\n\nHang Far Low (restaurant),\n\nHangzhou, ,\n\nHarland, Marion,\n\nHarlem,\n\n_Harper's Bazaar,_ \u201386\n\nHarte, Bret,\n\nHawaiian Islands, , , , \u20137\n\n\"The Heathen Chinee\" (Harte),\n\nHee Seung Fung (restaurant),\n\nHenan Province,\n\nHenry, Gale,\n\nHickey, William,\n\n\"high dishes,\"\n\n\"Hi Lee Hi Lo\u2014I Love you Chop Suey a la Foxee,\"\n\nHinky Dinks Tavern,\n\nhoisan sauce,\n\nHoldridge, John, ,\n\n\"Hold That Critter Down\" (Nolan), \u201340\n\nHolt, Jane,\n\nHom, Ken,\n\nHonam, , ,\n\nHong fa-lo (restaurant), \u201324\n\nHong Heong Restaurant, \u20137\n\nHong Kong:\n\nceded to Britain,\n\nculinary culture of, ,\n\ngeography of, \u201370,\n\nas port city, , ,\n\nHonolulu,\n\nHopper, Edward,\n\nhorse meat, in Chinese cuisine, , , ,\n\nhot and sour soup,\n\nHou Ji,\n\nHowells, William Dean (Mr. and Mrs.),\n\n_How to Cook and Eat in Chinese,_ \u201319\n\nHSF (Hee Seung Fung restaurant),\n\nHuang Di (Yellow Emperor), ,\n\nHuanghe River (Yellow River), \u201369, , ,\n\nHunam (restaurant), \u201342,\n\nHunan cuisine:\n\nin American restaurants, , \u201343,\n\norigins of, ,\n\n\"Hunan Gulch,\"\n\nHunan Province, ,\n\nHunan Restaurant,\n\nHunter, William C., \u201345\n\nIchthyophagus Club, ,\n\n_Illustrations of the Tribute-Bearing People of the Qing_ (1761), \u201322\n\nimmigrants to United States:\n\nFrench,\n\nGerman, ,\n\nIrish, , , , , ,\n\nItalian, ,\n\nJewish, , \u2013205\n\nlure of gold for, , \u201310, \u201314,\n\nin 1980s, \u201344\n\nScandinavian,\n\nand \"white slavery\" issue,\n\n_See also_ Chinese Americans\n\nImmigration and Nationality Act, ,\n\nImperial China:\n\nanti-foreign attitudes in, , , \u201322, , , , \u201353, \u201366\n\netiquette of, \u201344, \u201348\n\nimportance of cookery in,\n\ninterest in outside world, \u201320\n\ninventions of,\n\nas \"Middle Kingdom,\" \u201319,\n\nsystem of government, \u201317\n\ntrading partnerships, \u201322\n\ntribute system in, , \u201320\n\n_See also_ Chinese cuisine; Emperors\n\nImperial Palace (restaurant),\n\n_In a Chinese Restaurant_ (movie),\n\nIndia, , , , ,\n\ninsects, as food, ,\n\nIrish immigrants, , , , , ,\n\nJade Emperor,\n\nJapan, , ,\n\nJava, ,\n\nJay, John,\n\nJefferson, Thomas, ,\n\njellyfish,\n\nJesuits, ,\n\nJewish immigrants, \u2013205\n\nJiahu village site,\n\n_jiaozi_ (dumplings), ,\n\nJohnson, Margaret,\n\nJohnson, Samuel,\n\njujubes,\n\nJurchen tribesmen, \u201318,\n\nKaemmerer, Charles, \u201352\n\nKaifeng, \u201395\n\nKan, Johnny,\n\nKansas City,\n\n_Kansas City Star,_\n\nKan's Restaurant,\n\n_kashrut_ laws, \u201399, \u20135\n\nKatz's Delicatessen,\n\nKearney, Denis, \u201342,\n\nKeh, David, ,\n\nKelly, William,\n\n_Ken Hom's East Meets West Cuisine_ (Hom),\n\nKentucky Fried Chicken,\n\nKey Chong, ,\n\nKing Hong Lau (restaurant),\n\nKing Honk Low (restaurant),\n\nKissinger, Henry, \u201327, \u201331, , ,\n\nKon-Tiki Club,\n\nKorea, ,\n\nkosher laws, \u201399, \u20135\n\n_kreplach,_\n\nkumquats, ,\n\nKun Iam Temple (Wang Xia Temple), ,\n\nKwoh, Emily,\n\nLa Choy, \u201394,\n\nLajia,\n\nlamb, \u201381, , ,\n\n_See also_ mutton; sheep\n\nlanguages of China:\n\nteaching to barbarians,\n\nused for trade, \u201310\n\n_See also_ Cantonese language; Mandarin language\n\nLaos,\n\nLaozi, \u201376\n\nlard. _See_ fats\n\n\"La Vie de Boh\u00e8me\" (Murger),\n\nLedyard, John, ,\n\nLee Kan,\n\nleeks, , ,\n\nLee, Virginia,\n\nlegumes,\n\n_See also_ beans; soybeans\n\nLem Sen,\n\nLewis, Sinclair, ,\n\nLibby, McNeil & Libby,\n\nLi Hongzhang, \u201365, ,\n\nLi Hung Chang, ,\n\n_Liji,_ \u201319\n\nLing, Hawk,\n\nLing, Leon, \u201383\n\nLin Yutang,\n\nLiptzin, Sam,\n\nliquors:\n\nChinese rice, , ,\n\nconsumed by western traders, ,\n\n_See also_ alcohol; rice wine; wines\n\nLi Shu-Fan,\n\nlizards, in Chinese cuisine, ,\n\nLloyd, Harold,\n\nlobscouse,\n\nLong Acre (Times) Square, ,\n\nlongans, ,\n\nLoo, C.M.,\n\nloquats,\n\nLord, Bette Bao,\n\n\"Lord Chesterfield's Advice to his Son, on Men and Manners,\"\n\nLord, Winston, \u201327, ,\n\nLos Angeles, , \u201374\n\nlotus, ,\n\nLum Fong's (restaurant),\n\nLum Pong Chop Suey Place (nightclub),\n\nLu Yu,\n\nlychees, \u201383,\n\nMacao,\n\nMacau, China:\n\nCushing and Qiying in, , , ,\n\nEuropeans in, ,\n\ngeography, , \u201370,\n\nmissionaries in,\n\nMadeira wine, , ,\n\nMagnuson Act of 1943, \u201317\n\n_Maine_ (battleship),\n\n_Main Street_ (Lewis), \u201388\n\nmaize,\n\nmallow, \u201372\n\nManchu, Fu,\n\nManchuria,\n\nManchus:\n\ncuisine of, , \u201349, ,\n\nas rulers of Qing Dynasty, \u201318, , , ,\n\ntribal homeland, ,\n\nManchu Wok,\n\nMandarin (restaurant),\n\nMandarin House (restaurant), ,\n\nMandarin language, , , ,\n\nmandarin oranges, ,\n\nMandate of Heaven, \u201317\n\nManifest Destiny, \u201341, ,\n\n_Mannequin_ (movie),\n\nmanners. _See_ etiquette\n\n_mantou_ (steamed bread), ,\n\n\"A Man Will Do Anything to Make a Living\" (Liptzin),\n\n_mao-tai_ (liquor), ,\n\nMao Zedong, , , , , ,\n\nmarinades,\n\n_Marjorie Morningstar_ (Wouk), \u2013203\n\n_The Market for Souls_ (Goodnow),\n\nmarkets. _See_ vendors\n\nMarsh, Reginald,\n\nMcAllister, Ward, \u201356\n\nM'Cardell, Roy L.,\n\nMcDonald's, \u201340, \u201349,\n\nmeat:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , \u201324, , \u201381, \u201385, , ,\n\nearly cooking methods, , \u201385, ,\n\nfermentation of,\n\nand \"high\" dishes,\n\nin kosher practice,\n\nin western European cuisine, , , ,\n\n_See also specific meats_\n\nmelons, ,\n\nMencius,\n\n_mian_ (noodles), \u201391\n\n_See also_ noodles\n\nmice, in Chinese cuisine, \u201359\n\n\"Middle Kingdom,\" \u201319, ,\n\n_The Middle Kingdom_ (Williams), \u201359\n\nmillet:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , , ,\n\ndomestication of,\n\nearly cooking methods, , ,\n\nnoodles from,\n\nMing Dynasty, \u201318, ,\n\nmining camps:\n\nChinese culinary traditions maintained in, , , \u201335, \u201337\n\nChinese laborers in, \u20139, \u201313,\n\nracism in, \u201314\n\nwestern diet in,\n\nMinneapolis,\n\nmissionaries in China:\n\nbanquets attended by, \u201334,\n\nand diplomatic negotiations, , ,\n\nfirst American, \u201335, , , \u201363, ,\n\nwives of, ,\n\nwritings of, \u201335, \u201359, \u201363\n\nmissionaries in United States, ,\n\nmollusks,\n\nMongolia, ,\n\nMongolian barbecue,\n\nMongol invasion,\n\nMong Sing Wah's (restaurant), \u201359\n\nMonterey Park,\n\nMonzon, Zosimo,\n\nmoo goo gai pan,\n\nmoo shu pork, ,\n\nMorse, Edward S.,\n\nMott Street. _See_ New York City Chinatown\n\nMoy Afong,\n\nMoy Auk's restaurant,\n\nmung beans,\n\nMurger, Henri,\n\nmushrooms, , , ,\n\nmuskmelon,\n\nmustard,\n\nmustard sauce,\n\nmutton, , , \u201381,\n\n_See also_ lamb; sheep\n\nNanjing, ,\n\nNanking, Treaty of, ,\n\nNew, Ilhan,\n\nNew Jersey,\n\nNew Joy Young (restaurant), \u201312, ,\n\nNewman, Ed,\n\nNew Year, Chinese,\n\n_New York_ (magazine),\n\nNew York City:\n\nBohemians in, \u201357,\n\nBroadway, , , , , ,\n\nelites of, \u201356\n\nimmigrants to, \u201351, ,\n\nLi Hongzhang's visit to, \u201365,\n\n_See also_ New York City Chinatown; New York City restaurants\n\nNew York City Chinatown:\n\nanecdotes of, \u201350, \u201353\n\nas distributor Chinese products,\n\nand Elsie Sigel case, \u201384\n\nfirst Chinese newspaper in, ,\n\nfounding of, \u201351\n\nimmigrants to, \u201351, \u201344\n\nKaemmerer incident in, \u201353\n\nMott Street, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nas tourist attraction, ,\n\nNew York City restaurants:\n\nanecdotes of, \u201348, \u201359, ,\n\nbanquet restaurants in, \u201310\n\nimages of, , , ,\n\nmenus of, , \u201310,\n\noutside of Chinatown, \u201367\n\n_New York Journal,_ ,\n\n_New York Times:_\n\nentertainment reviews,\n\nfood critics, \u201323\n\nfood stories, , , \u201323,\n\nnews stories, , , , \u201377, , \u201339\n\n_New York Times Guide to Dining Out in New York_ (1969),\n\n_New York Tribune,_ , ,\n\nnightclubs, in Chinese restaurants, \u201391,\n\n99 Ranch Market chain,\n\nNingpo,\n\nNixon, Patricia, , , , ,\n\nNixon, Richard M.:\n\ndiplomatic goals of, \u201326\n\netiquette concerns of, \u201336\n\nfavorite foods of, \u201334\n\nwelcoming banquet for, \u201325, , \u201339\n\nNolton, Jessie Louise,\n\nno-ma-das,\n\nnoodles:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , \u201391, , ,\n\nchop suey,\n\nchow mein, ,\n\nevolution of, , \u201391\n\noldest found,\n\nNordhoff, Charles,\n\nNorth China:\n\nclimate,\n\nearliest crops, \u201372,\n\ngeography,\n\nmilitary campaigns,\n\nNorth China Plain, , ,\n\nNorthern regional cuisine of China, ,\n\nnuts, in Chinese cuisine, ,\n\nOakie, Jack,\n\n\"Ode to _Bing_ \" (Shu), \u201389\n\n_Ogden Standard,_\n\noils:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, ,\n\nfrom seeds,\n\nOlympics, Beijing Summer, \u201350\n\nonions, , , ,\n\nOomologma (Mount Everest),\n\nopium:\n\nin America, , , , , ,\n\nin China, , ,\n\nOpium War, \u201337, , ,\n\noranges, , ,\n\nOriental Restaurant,\n\nOrient Luau (restaurant),\n\n_Overland Monthly,_\n\noxen,\n\noyster sauce,\n\nPacific islands,\n\nPanda Express (franchise),\n\nParker, Mrs. Peter,\n\nParker, Peter:\n\nas China expert, , , ,\n\nas missionary to China, , ,\n\nPaunkeiqua, \u201330\n\npeaches, ,\n\nPearl River (Zhu River), , , \u201370,\n\nPearl River Delta:\n\nagriculture in, \u2013102,\n\ncuisine of, \u2013102, , \u201355, , ,\n\ncultural history of,\n\nfishing tradition in,\n\ngeography of, \u201370, \u2013102\n\nimmigrants from, , \u201313, , \u201320, \u201355, \u201360,\n\n1700s landscape, ,\n\nPearl's Chinese Restaurant,\n\npears,\n\npeddlers. _See_ vendors\n\nPekin (restaurant),\n\nPeking. _See_ Beijing\n\nPeking duck, , , , , , ,\n\nPeking Man,\n\nPeking Restaurant, , ,\n\nPeng Chang-kuei, \u201343\n\nPeng's,\n\nPeople's Republic of China, , , , , \u201335\n\n_See also_ China\n\npepper,\n\nSichuan, ,\n\nPersia,\n\npersimmons, , ,\n\nPfaff's saloon,\n\nP.F. Chang's China Bistro, ,\n\nPhiladelphia, , , , ,\n\n_Philadelphia Enquirer,_\n\npickles, , ,\n\npidgin Chinese, \u201310\n\nPierce, Idaho,\n\npigs:\n\ndomestication of, ,\n\non sailing vessels,\n\n_See also_ pork\n\nplums,\n\nplum sauce, ,\n\nPolo diplomatic trips, , , ,\n\nPolo, Marco, ,\n\nPolyglot House (restaurant),\n\npomegranates,\n\npomelos,\n\npork:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , , , , , ,\n\nin kosher practice, , \u20135\n\nin western culinary tradition,\n\npork dishes:\n\nbarbecued,\n\nmoo shu pork, ,\n\nroofs of hogs' mouths,\n\n_See also_ chop suey\n\nPort Arthur (restaurant), , ,\n\nPortugal, , ,\n\npotatoes:\n\nsweet,\n\nin western cuisine, , ,\n\npoultry. _See_ chickens; ducks; geese\n\nPo Yi,\n\nprawns, ,\n\nprejudice. _See_ racism\n\nPrima, Louis,\n\nProhibition, ,\n\nPuck, Wolfgang,\n\npupu platters,\n\nQianlong Emperor,\n\nQin Dynasty, ,\n\nQing Dynasty:\n\nculinary history of, , , , , ,\n\ndecline of,\n\nhairstyle of,\n\nManchu rulers of, \u201318, , ,\n\nxenophobia of,\n\nQiying:\n\nbanquet with Americans, , \u201349\n\nculinary skill of,\n\nas imperial emissary, , \u201344,\n\nportrait of,\n\nracism toward Chinese:\n\nin American West, \u201317, , , \u201343, \u201375\n\nin arts and entertainment, \u201340, \u201397\n\nand Chinese Exclusion Act, , , , , \u201317\n\nin newspapers, ,\n\nand \"white slavery\" stereotypes, \u201384,\n\nradishes, ,\n\nrailroad construction, \u201338,\n\nRanhofer, Charles,\n\nRather, Dan,\n\nRatner's dairy restaurant, ,\n\nrats:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, ,\n\nas stereotyped Chinese food, \u201359, , , , \u201353, ,\n\nReasoner, Harry,\n\nrecipes for Chinese food:\n\ndistributed by La Choy, \u201394\n\nin Jewish cookbook,\n\nnewspaper and magazine, , ,\n\n_See also_ cookbooks\n\n\"Recipes from the Sui Gardens\" (Yuan), \u201367\n\nred beans (azuki),\n\n_Red Flag,_\n\nregional cuisines of China:\n\ncookbooks describing,\n\neastern, ,\n\nnorthern, ,\n\nsouthern, \u2013102\n\nwestern,\n\nReinhart, Herman Francis,\n\nrestaurants, Chinese. _See_ Chinese restaurants in America\n\nrestaurants in China:\n\nAmerican franchises, \u201349,\n\nhistory of, \u201335, \u201396, \u201397, , \u2013101,\n\nRicci, Matteo, \u201321\n\nrice, ,\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , \u201379, , ,\n\ncultivation of, , , , , \u201379, ,\n\nearly cooking methods, , ,\n\nin _fan-cai_ dichotomy, , , , , \u201335\n\nnoodles from,\n\nsprouts,\n\n_See also_ rice wine\n\nrice wine:\n\nand drunken prawns,\n\nin fermentation process,\n\ninvention of,\n\n_mao-tai,_ ,\n\n_samchou,_ ,\n\nRichardson, Albert, ,\n\nRoberts, Edmund,\n\nRobinson, Edward G.,\n\nRock Springs massacre, \u201343\n\nRogers, Richard,\n\nrumaki,\n\nSacramento, ,\n\n_samchou_ (rice wine), ,\n\nSam Yap (Three Districts) region, ,\n\nSam Yap Company,\n\nSandwich (Hawaiian) Islands, , , , \u20137\n\nSan Francisco, , ,\n\nimmigrants to, \u201310, \u201313, , \u201344\n\n1906 earthquake, , \u201375\n\n_See also_ San Francisco Chinatown; San Francisco restaurants\n\n_San Francisco Call,_\n\nSan Francisco Chinatown:\n\nas distributor of Chinese products,\n\nDupont Street (Grant Avenue), , , , , ,\n\ntourists to, \u201331, ,\n\ntrade relationships with China, \u201319, ,\n\n_See also_ San Francisco restaurants\n\nSan Francisco restaurants:\n\nadvertisements for, ,\n\nanecdotes of, \u20137, , \u201312, \u201325, , , \u201330, ,\n\nbanquet fare in, \u20139\n\nnightclubs in,\n\nrevitalization of, \u201321\n\n_San Francisco Whig,_ \u201324\n\nSan Gabriel Valley, ,\n\nsauces:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, \u201387, ,\n\n_See also specific sauces_\n\nsavoriness, in Chinese cuisine, \u201387\n\nscallions, , , , ,\n\nscorpions,\n\nscurvy,\n\nsea biscuit, ,\n\nsea cucumbers:\n\nas Chinese delicacy, , , \u201351, ,\n\nflavor of, , , \u201351\n\nand Nixon visit to China,\n\nas trade good, \u201328, \u201394\n\nseafood:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , , , ,\n\ncoastal California, \u201320\n\nfermentation of,\n\nin kosher practice,\n\n_See also_ crabs; fish; shrimp\n\nseasoning, in Chinese cuisine, \u201387\n\n_See also_ sauces; spices\n\nseaweed,\n\nseed oils,\n\n_Sentinel Jewish Cook Book,_\n\nsesame oil,\n\nshallots,\n\nShandong, ,\n\nShangdi,\n\nShang Dynasty, \u201375, , ,\n\nShanghai (city), , , , , , \u201332\n\nShanghai Chop Suey Caf\u00e9,\n\nShanghai cuisine:\n\nin American restaurants, , ,\n\norigins of,\n\nShanghai Low (nightclub),\n\n\"Shanghai mind,\" \u201355\n\n_Shanhaijing_ (Guideways through Mountains and Seas), ,\n\nsharks' fins:\n\nas Chinese delicacy, \u201351, , , \u201394,\n\ndiners' anecdotes, ,\n\nrecipe,\n\nShaw, Samuel,\n\non Chinese culture and cuisine, , \u20138, \u201314\n\netiquette concerns of, \u201313\n\nas pioneer of Chinese-American trade, \u20134, , , , ,\n\non shipboard cuisine,\n\nShaw, William,\n\nsheep, , \u201381\n\n_See also_ lamb; mutton\n\nshellfish, ,\n\n_See also_ seafood\n\nShen Nong, \u201373\n\n_Shoot the Works_ (musical), \u201397\n\nshrimp, , , , ,\n\nShunde,\n\nShun Lee (restaurant), \u201323, ,\n\nShun Lee Dynasty (restaurant),\n\nShu Xi, \u201389\n\nSia, Mary Li,\n\nSichuan cuisine:\n\nin American restaurants, , , , ,\n\norigins of, ,\n\nSichuan peppers, ,\n\nSichuan Province, , , , ,\n\nSigel, Elsie, murder case, \u201384\n\nSilk Road, , , ,\n\nsilver:\n\nmining,\n\nas trade currency, , ,\n\n_See also_ mining camps\n\nSix Companies, ,\n\nSmith, Keely,\n\nSmith, Wally,\n\nsnakes, in Chinese cuisine, , ,\n\nSnow, Edgar,\n\nSociety of the Right and Harmonious Fists, \u201366\n\n\"Some Celestial Dishes\" (Hamm),\n\nSong Dynasty, , , , \u201395\n\nSouth China:\n\nclimate of,\n\ncultivation in, , , , \u201379, \u201383\n\ngeography of, \u201370\n\ntypical modern fare,\n\nSouth China Sea,\n\nSouthern regional cuisine of China, \u2013102\n\n_South Florida Sun-Sentinel,_\n\nsoybeans, , , \u201387\n\nsoy sauce:\n\nas American convenience food, , ,\n\nin Chinese cuisine, \u201387, , , , ,\n\nand Chinese miners,\n\nSpain,\n\nSpeer, William,\n\nspices:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , ,\n\nin European cuisine,\n\n_See also specific spices_\n\nsquashes,\n\nstags' pizzles,\n\nstar anise,\n\nsteamed breads, , , ,\n\nsteaming. _See_ cooking methods\n\nstir-fry:\n\nChinese dishes called, , \u201350\n\nchop suey as, ,\n\ncooking method of, , ,\n\nSt. Louis, \u201372\n\nStockton, Calif.,\n\nStork Club,\n\nstring beans,\n\nsturgeon, ,\n\nSui Ren,\n\n_Suiyan Shidan_ (Yuan), \u201367\n\nSumatra,\n\nSun Leung,\n\nSun Yat-Sen,\n\nSusanna Foo's (restaurant),\n\nSzechuan cuisine. _See_ Sichuan cuisine\n\nSzechuan East (restaurant),\n\nSzechuan Restaurant,\n\nSzechuan Taste (restaurant), \u201324\n\n\"Szechuan Valley,\"\n\nSze Yap (Four Districts) region, \u20132, , , ,\n\nSze Yap Company,\n\nTaipei,\n\nTai, Uncle,\n\nTaiwan, , , ,\n\nChef Peng in, \u201344\n\nTang Dynasty, , ,\n\nT'ang, King, \u201375\n\nTan River,\n\ntaro, ,\n\nTaverne Alsacienne (restaurant),\n\nTaylor, Bayard, , \u201317,\n\nTaylor, Charles, \u201363,\n\ntea:\n\nAmerican taste for, , \u201333\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , , \u201397\n\nas Chinese export, , , , , ,\n\nfrom jujubes,\n\norigins of, ,\n\npreparation of, ,\n\n_See also_ teahouses\n\nteahouses, , \u201397,\n\nTenderloin district, ,\n\n_Territorial Enterprise,_\n\ntexture, in Chinese cuisine,\n\nthousand-year-old eggs, ,\n\nThree Districts region, ,\n\nThree Gorges Dam,\n\nTiananmen Square, ,\n\nTibet, ,\n\nTibet Plateau, ,\n\nTiki bars,\n\nTiki Temple (restaurant),\n\nTilden, Bryant Parrott, \u201331\n\nTimes (Long Acre) Square, ,\n\nTodd, Mrs. Florence,\n\ntofu (bean curd), , ,\n\nToishan,\n\nTong, Michael, , , \u201346,\n\ntrade. _See_ American traders in China; British traders; Chinese trade\n\nTrader Vic's, ,\n\nTrafton, Edwin H., \u201348\n\nTreaty of Nanking, ,\n\nTreaty of Wang Xia, , , ,\n\ntrepang,\n\n_See also_ sea cucumbers\n\n_Triton_ (French merchant ship), \u20135\n\nTso, General, \u201342\n\nTune Fong's (restaurant),\n\nTurkey,\n\nturmeric,\n\nturnips,\n\nturtles, in Chinese cuisine, \u201382\n\nTwain, Mark,\n\nTyler, John, , , ,\n\nUncle Peng's Hunan Yuan,\n\nUncle Tai,\n\nUncle Tai's Hunan Yuan,\n\n\"Underground Gourmet\" (food column),\n\n\"underground gourmets,\"\n\n_Uneasy Money_ (Wodehouse),\n\nUnited States history:\n\nAmerican Revolution, , \u201311, ,\n\nanti-Chinese movement in, \u201343,\n\nBeijing Summer Olympics (2008), \u201350\n\nChinese Exclusion Act, , , , ,\n\nConstitutional Convention,\n\n1893 World's Columbian Exposition,\n\nGeary Act,\n\nGold Rush, , \u201310, \u201314, ,\n\nGreat Depression,\n\nImmigration and Nationality Act, ,\n\nKorean War,\n\nLi Hongzhang's visit, \u201364,\n\nMagnuson Act of 1943, \u201317\n\n_Maine_ battleship explosion,\n\nManifest Destiny, \u201341, ,\n\nmoon landing,\n\nas new country, , , , , \u201311, , \u201325,\n\nNixon's visit to China, \u201326\n\npre-revolutionary, \u201323\n\nProhibition, ,\n\ntranscontinental railroads,\n\nTreaty of Wang Xia, , , ,\n\nWar Brides Act,\n\n_See also_ Americans in China\n\nU.S.S. _Brandywine,_\n\n_Vanity Fair,_\n\nvegetables:\n\nin Chinese cuisine, , \u201380, \u201384, , , , ,\n\nearly cooking methods, ,\n\nin _fan-cai_ dichotomy, \u201380, ,\n\nfermentation of,\n\nin food therapy,\n\nin western shipboard cuisine, , ,\n\n_See also specific vegetables_\n\nvegetarian cuisine, \u201390\n\nvendors, street:\n\nin America, \u201322, ,\n\nin China, , , , ,\n\nVietnam, ,\n\n_Views A-Foot_ (Taylor),\n\nvinegar, , ,\n\nVirginia City, \u201336\n\n_A Visit to India, China and Japan_ (Taylor),\n\nVolstead Act,\n\nVoltaire,\n\nWaldorf Hotel, , ,\n\nWalker, Ron, ,\n\n_Wall Street Journal,_\n\nWalters, Barbara,\n\nWangfujing Night Market,\n\nWang, Tsung Ting, , ,\n\nWang Xiaoyu, \u201366\n\nWang Xia Temple (Kun Iam Temple), ,\n\nWang Xia, Treaty of, , , ,\n\nWang Yun Ching,\n\nWar Brides Act,\n\nWashington, D.C., , ,\n\nWashington, George,\n\n_Washington Post,_ , \u201313\n\nwater buffaloes, ,\n\nwater chestnuts, , ,\n\nWebster, Daniel, , , ,\n\nWebster, Fletcher, , ,\n\nthe West. _See_ American West\n\nWestern culinary traditions:\n\nAmerican frontier, , , ,\n\nChinese opinion of, , \u201354\n\nEuropean, , , \u201346, , , \u201333\n\nFrench, , \u201356\n\nlack of adventurousness in, ,\n\npan-North Atlantic, \u20133\n\n\"primal stew\" of,\n\nWestern regional cuisine of China,\n\nWhampoa, China, ,\n\nwheat:\n\ncultivation of, , , ,\n\nand dough cookery, \u201391\n\ngluten from, \u201390\n\nmilling of, , \u201388\n\nin northern cuisine,\n\nWhitman, Walt,\n\n\"Who'll Chop Your Suey When I'm Gone\" (Bechet),\n\nWhymper, Frederick,\n\nWilliams, Bert,\n\nWilliams, Samuel Wells, \u201333, , \u201360\n\nWilliams, Sarah,\n\nwines:\n\nChinese,\n\nwestern, , ,\n\n_See also_ rice wine\n\nWodehouse, P.G.,\n\nWo Fat (restaurant), ,\n\n_wok_ (cooking pot),\n\nWo Kee, ,\n\nWong Ching Foo, \u201355, , \u201361\n\nwontons, , , , ,\n\nWorkingmen's Party,\n\nWorld's Columbian Exposition (1893),\n\nWorld War II,\n\nWouk, Herman, \u2013203\n\nWright, Russel,\n\nXia Dynasty, \u201373\n\nXinhui,\n\nXinjiang dishes,\n\nXi River (West River),\n\nYang Guifei, \u201383\n\nYangzi basin, ,\n\nYangzi River, , , , ,\n\nYangzi Valley, ,\n\nYates, M.T.,\n\nYe Jianying,\n\n\"Yellow Emperor\" (Huang Di), ,\n\nYellow River (Huanghe River), \u201369, , ,\n\nYeo, Patricia,\n\nyin and yang, ,\n\nYi Yin, \u201375, \u201386\n\nYongle Emperor,\n\nYuan Dynasty, ,\n\nYuan Mei,, \u201367, , ,\n\nY\u00fc Emperor, ,\n\nYunnan Yuan (restaurant),\n\nYu-ung-Fang-Lau (restaurant),\n\n_zao_ (cooking stove),\n\nZhang Dynasty,\n\nZhang Qian,\n\nZhen He,\n\nZhili,\n\nZhongshan district, ,\n\nZhou Dynasty, \u201376, , , , ,\n\nZhou Enlai, , , , \u201331, \u201339\n\nZhu River (Pearl River), , , \u201370,\n\n_See also_ Pearl River Delta\n\n\"zones\" of influence, Chinese, , , \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":" \n**Editorial Gustavo Gili, SL**\n\nVia Laietana 47, 2\u00ba, 08003 Barcelona, Espa\u00f1a. Tel. (+34) 93 322 81 61\n\nValle de Bravo 21, 53050 Naucalpan, M\u00e9xico. Tel. (+52) 55 55 60 60 11\n\nPara Beverly y para Gareth Evans\n\nT\u00edtulo original: _Portraits: John Berger on Artists_ , publicado originalmente por Verso, Londres, 2015.\n\nLa editorial ha dividido este libro en dos vol\u00famenes, siendo este el primero de ellos.\n\nDise\u00f1o de la cubierta: Toni Cabr\u00e9\/Editorial Gustavo Gili, SL\n\nIlustraci\u00f3n de la cubierta: Retrato de joven, El Fayum, siglos I-III.\n\nStaatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek, M\u00fanich\n\nIlustraciones p\u00e1gs. 46 y 219: \u00a9 John Berger y herederos de John Berger;\n\np\u00e1g. 97: \u00a9 Sebasti\u00e3o Salgado\/Amazonas Images\/Contacto\n\nCualquier forma de reproducci\u00f3n, distribuci\u00f3n, comunicaci\u00f3n p\u00fablica o transformaci\u00f3n de esta obra solo puede ser realizada con la autorizaci\u00f3n de sus titulares, salvo excepci\u00f3n prevista por la ley. Dir\u00edjase a CEDRO (Centro Espa\u00f1ol de Derechos Reprogr\u00e1ficos, www.cedro.org) si necesita fotocopiar o escanear alg\u00fan fragmento de esta obra.\n\nLa Editorial no se pronuncia ni expresa ni impl\u00edcitamente respecto a la exactitud de la informaci\u00f3n contenida en este libro, raz\u00f3n por la cual no puede asumir ning\u00fan tipo de responsabilidad en caso de error u omisi\u00f3n.\n\n\u00a9 John Berger, 2015, y herederos de John Berger\n\n\u00a9 de la introducci\u00f3n: Tom Overton, 2015\n\n\u00a9 de la traducci\u00f3n: Pilar V\u00e1zquez\n\ny para esta edici\u00f3n:\n\n\u00a9 Editorial Gustavo Gili, SL, Barcelona, 2017\n\nISBN: 978-84-252-3060-8 (epub)\n\nwww.ggili.com\n\nProducci\u00f3n del ebook: booqlab.com\n\n## \u00cdndice\n\nPr\u00f3logo **John Berger**\n\nIntroducci\u00f3n **Tom Overton**\n\nLos pintores de la cueva de Chauvet (hacia 30000 a. C.)\n\nLos retratistas de El Fayum (siglos I-III)\n\nPiero della Francesca (hacia 1415-1492)\n\nAntonello da Mesina (hacia 1430-1479)\n\nAndrea Mantegna (1430\/1431-1506)\n\nGiovanni Bellini (hacia 1433-1516)\n\nEl Bosco (hacia 1450-1516)\n\nMatthias Gr\u00fcnewald (hacia 1470-1528)\n\nAlberto Durero (1471-1528)\n\nMiguel \u00c1ngel (1475-1564)\n\nTiziano (1485\/1490-1576)\n\nHans Holbein el Joven (1497\/1498-1543)\n\nPieter Brueghel el Viejo (hacia 1525-1569)\n\nCaravaggio (1571-1610)\n\nFrans Hals (1582\/1583-1666)\n\nDiego Vel\u00e1zquez (1599-1660)\n\nRembrandt (1606-1669)\n\nWillem Drost (1633-1659)\n\nJean-Antoine Watteau (1684-1721)\n\nFrancisco de Goya (1746-1828)\n\nJ. M. W. Turner (1775-1851)\n\nJean-Louis-Andr\u00e9-Th\u00e9odore G\u00e9ricault (1791-1824)\n\nHonor\u00e9 Daumier (1808-1879)\n\nJean-Fran\u00e7ois Millet (1814-1875)\n\nGustave Courbet (1819-1877)\n\nEdgar Degas (1834-1917)\n\nFerdinand \"Le Facteur\" Cheval (1836-1924)\n\nPaul C\u00e9zanne (1839-1906)\n\nOrigen de los textos\n\n## Pr\u00f3logo\n\nSiempre he detestado que digan que soy cr\u00edtico de arte. Es cierto que durante diez a\u00f1os, m\u00e1s o menos, escrib\u00ed en prensa regularmente sobre temas relacionados con artistas, exposiciones privadas o p\u00fablicas y museos, as\u00ed que el t\u00e9rmino est\u00e1 justificado.\n\nPero en el ambiente en el que me form\u00e9 a partir de la adolescencia, llamar a alguien cr\u00edtico de arte era un insulto. Un cr\u00edtico de arte era alguien que juzgaba y pontificaba sobre cosas sobre las que sab\u00eda un poco o directamente nada. Los cr\u00edticos de arte no eran tan malos como los marchantes, pero eran unos pesados.\n\nAquel era un ambiente de pintores, escultores y artistas gr\u00e1ficos de todas las edades que luchaban por sobrevivir y por crear sus obras con un m\u00ednimo de publicidad, y sin aplauso alguno o justo reconocimiento. Eran astutos, se pon\u00edan unos listones muy altos, eran humildes; los maestros antiguos eran sus compa\u00f1eros y se mostraban fraternalmente cr\u00edticos unos con otros, pero les importaban un comino el mercado del arte y sus promotores. Muchos eran refugiados pol\u00edticos y, por naturaleza, eran proscritos. As\u00ed eran los hombres y las mujeres que me ense\u00f1aron y me inspiraron.\n\nSu inspiraci\u00f3n me llev\u00f3 a escribir intermitentemente sobre arte en el curso de mi larga vida de escritor. Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 sucede cuando escribo \u2014o intento escribir\u2014 sobre arte?\n\nDespu\u00e9s de haber contemplado una obra de arte, me voy del museo o de la galer\u00eda de arte en la que estaba expuesta y entro, vacilante, en el estudio en el que fue creada. All\u00ed aguardo con la esperanza de aprender algo de la historia de su creaci\u00f3n. De las esperanzas, de las decisiones, de los errores, de los descubrimientos impl\u00edcitos en esa historia. Hablo para m\u00ed, recuerdo el mundo exterior al estudio y me dirijo al artista a quien, tal vez, conozco, o quien puede llevar varios siglos muerto. A veces, algo de lo que hizo me responde. Nunca hay una conclusi\u00f3n. A veces surge un nuevo espacio que nos desconcierta a los dos. Y, tambi\u00e9n, a veces, se da una visi\u00f3n que nos deja boquiabiertos..., boquiabiertos como ante una revelaci\u00f3n.\n\nSon los lectores de mis textos quienes tienen que valorar el resultado de este planteamiento, de esta pr\u00e1ctica. Yo no sabr\u00eda decirlo. Siempre dudo. De una cosa, sin embargo, estoy seguro, y es mi agradecimiento a todos los artistas por su hospitalidad.\n\nLas ilustraciones de este libro son todas en blanco y negro. Se ha hecho as\u00ed porque en el mundo consumista de hoy d\u00eda las brillantes reproducciones en color tienden a convertir lo que muestran en art\u00edculos de un cat\u00e1logo de lujo para millonarios, mientras que las reproducciones en blanco y negro son sencillos recordatorios.\n\n**John Berger**\n\n24 de marzo de 2015\n**Nota a la edici\u00f3n castellana**\n\nSi bien la edici\u00f3n inglesa original de este libro se public\u00f3 en un \u00fanico volumen, en castellano aparece en dos separados, siendo este el primero de los dos. Este volumen abarca desde las pinturas prehist\u00f3ricas de la cueva de Chauvet hasta el advenimiento de la modernidad con Paul Cez\u00e1nne, mientras que el segundo incluye ensayos de artistas que van desde Claude Monet hasta Randa Mdah, una artista palestina nacida en 1983. Por ello, en la introducci\u00f3n se especifican aquellas referencias a ensayos que se recogen en el segundo volumen.\n\nEn aquellos cap\u00edtulos compuestos por diversos fragmentos de ensayos sobre el mismo artista, se marca con *** el cambio en el texto.\n\nSe conservan las notas a pie de p\u00e1gina de la edici\u00f3n original, a las que se a\u00f1aden las notas del editor castellano [N. del Ed.].\n\n## Introducci\u00f3n \n **La compa\u00f1\u00eda del pasado** \nTom Overton\n\n\"Muchas veces pienso que incluso cuando escribo sobre arte lo que hago es escribir relatos: los narradores, quienes cuentan historias, pierden su identidad y est\u00e1n abiertos a las vidas de otras personas\", dec\u00eda John Berger en 1984.\n\nA algunos amigos de Berger, Geoff Dyer y Susan Sontag entre ellos, no les convenci\u00f3 esta explicaci\u00f3n. \u00bfNo era una historia que contaba Berger sobre s\u00ed mismo? \u00bfNo es lo de contar historias una forma oral, y no se dedican los escritores como Berger al mundo del libro? No obstante, Berger nunca se desdijo, en parte porque esa forma, ese \"escribir relatos\", abarca toda su obra, empezando por los cuentos y las obras dram\u00e1ticas, siguiendo por los poemas, las novelas, las piezas radiof\u00f3nicas, las pel\u00edculas, las instalaciones y los ensayos, y terminando por toda suerte de representaciones inclasificables realizadas en colaboraci\u00f3n con otros. Como ha se\u00f1alado Marina Warner, la forma en la que Berger se dirig\u00eda al espectador que lo ve\u00eda en la televisi\u00f3n en la serie de la BBC _Ways of Seing_ [ _Modos de ver_ ] _,_ en 1972, se parec\u00eda a las alocuciones directas, habladas, de unas formas mucho m\u00e1s antiguas de comunicaci\u00f3n.\n\nBerger sugiere que empez\u00f3 a considerarse narrador durante su servicio militar, en 1944, cuando les escrib\u00eda las cartas a los suyos a los soldados que no sab\u00edan escribir. Muchas veces le ped\u00edan que a\u00f1adiera algunas florituras a lo que le dictaban, y, a cambio, ellos le brindaban su protecci\u00f3n. No se trataba, pues, del magn\u00edfico aislamiento del novelista o del cr\u00edtico estereot\u00edpico; m\u00e1s bien, Berger se ve\u00eda como uno m\u00e1s en aquel entorno social, incluso se podr\u00eda decir que estaba a su servicio.\n\nEn 1962 Berger abandon\u00f3 Gran Breta\u00f1a y pas\u00f3 los a\u00f1os inmediatamente posteriores viviendo en diferentes partes de Europa. Solo cuando se estableci\u00f3 en el pueblo alpino de Quincy, a mediados de la d\u00e9cada de 1970, pudo su esposa, Beverly, empezar a montar un archivo literario estable de los documentos que hab\u00edan sobrevivido.1 Cuando el archivo lleg\u00f3 a la British Library en 2009, ven\u00eda ligeramente editado conforme a esa l\u00f3gica narrativa, de relato oral: lo que m\u00e1s le interesaba a Berger, seg\u00fan dijo, no eran las notas y los borradores que hab\u00edan salido de su mano, sino las cartas o los mensajes que le hab\u00edan enviado a \u00e9l.\n\nBerger naci\u00f3 en Londres y su decisi\u00f3n de donar el archivo a la British Library en lugar de venderlo al mejor postor ya fue un hecho significativo en s\u00ed mismo. Ya hab\u00eda establecido un precedente con un gesto similar en 1972, cuando descubri\u00f3 que la fundaci\u00f3n que otorga el Premio Booker McConnell, premio que le hab\u00eda sido concedido por su novela _G._ ,2 hab\u00eda tenido conexiones con el tr\u00e1fico de esclavos. Su respuesta consisti\u00f3 en repartir el premio a partes iguales entre los Panteras Negras y su siguiente proyecto, una colaboraci\u00f3n con el fot\u00f3grafo Jean Mohr en la que investigaron y estudiaron el mal trato de que eran objeto los trabajadores inmigrantes en Europa, estudio que se plasmar\u00eda en el libro _Un s\u00e9ptimo hombre_.3 En 2009, al igual que en 1972, Berger consideraba que no se trataba de una cuesti\u00f3n filantr\u00f3pica o caritativa, sino de lo que \u00e9l defini\u00f3 como \"mi desarrollo continuo como escritor: de lo que se trata es de mi relaci\u00f3n con la cultura que me form\u00f3\".\n\nEl archivo conservado hoy en la British Library contiene m\u00e1s textos que im\u00e1genes, y los dibujos, cuando los hay, son puramente marginales. Pero cuando, entre 2010 y 2013, me dediqu\u00e9 a leerlo y catalogarlo, al tiempo que escrib\u00eda una tesis doctoral, me fui dando cuenta de las muchas veces que Berger estaba tambi\u00e9n escribiendo sobre arte cuando contaba una historia.\n\nLos primeros fragmentos del archivo proceden de la \u00e9poca en la que Berger empez\u00f3 su carrera de pintor, de sus estudios en la Chelsea School of Art y en la Central School of Art, de sus exposiciones en Londres, de cuando un cuadro suyo entr\u00f3 en la Colecci\u00f3n del Arts Council. En 2010, Berger expresaba lo siguiente:\n\nFue una decisi\u00f3n consciente la de dejar de pintar \u2014pero no de dibujar\u2014 y dedicarme a escribir. Un pintor es como un violinista: tienes que tocar todos los d\u00edas, no es algo que puedas hacer espor\u00e1dicamente. Para m\u00ed, entonces, hab\u00eda demasiadas urgencias pol\u00edticas para pasarme la vida pintando. Lo m\u00e1s urgente era la amenaza de la guerra nuclear: el peligro, por supuesto, ven\u00eda de Washington, no de Mosc\u00fa.\n\nEscribi\u00f3 charlas sobre temas de arte para la BBC, m\u00e1s tarde columnas para las revistas _Tribune_ y _New Statesman_ , y hacia 1952, sus compa\u00f1eros de promoci\u00f3n lo consideraban escritor m\u00e1s que otra cosa. Su primer libro fue un ensayo sobre el pintor italiano Renato Guttuso,4 publicado en 1957. El archivo tambi\u00e9n lo muestra componiendo _Permanent Red: Essays in Seeing_ ,5 su primera recopilaci\u00f3n de art\u00edculos, y escribiendo una novela, _Un pintor de hoy_ ,6 en la que ofrece en forma de ficci\u00f3n algunos de los mismos temas y argumentos tratados en los art\u00edculos.\n\nEntonces, al igual que hoy, Berger se consideraba, entre otras cosas, marxista, aunque nunca lleg\u00f3 a ser miembro del Partido Comunista. Lo que le exig\u00eda fundamentalmente al arte, una exigencia que proven\u00eda de sus lecturas de Frederick Antal, de Max Raphael, y de sus conversaciones con los artistas emigrados entre los que viv\u00eda, era: \u00bfayuda o anima esta obra a los seres humanos a conocer y reclamar sus derechos sociales? Para \u00e9l, el realismo socialista que representaba a los obreros sovi\u00e9ticos estajanovistas era obviamente propaganda, pero tambi\u00e9n lo era el expresionismo abstracto estadounidense: liberado de cualquier otra funci\u00f3n, no representaba m\u00e1s que al capital.7 Durante toda esa d\u00e9cada defendi\u00f3 un tipo de pintura y escultura mayormente figurativo, pero basado en los descubrimientos de la abstracci\u00f3n moderna.\n\nEn 1959, Berger escribi\u00f3 un art\u00edculo titulado \"Staying Socialist\" [\"Seguir siendo socialista\"], en el que reconoc\u00eda que se hab\u00eda \"equivocado en gran medida con respecto a los j\u00f3venes pintores de este pa\u00eds. No han evolucionado conforme a las l\u00edneas que yo hab\u00eda previsto\". En otras parcelas, sin embargo, ten\u00eda m\u00e1s esperanza, y a\u00f1ad\u00eda: \"Lo que profetizaba en el campo de la escultura y la pintura ha resultado ser cierto en el de la literatura y el teatro\".\n\nEn este momento, empez\u00f3 a abandonar la actividad de cr\u00edtico de arte, dedicado a tiempo completo a las rese\u00f1as de exposiciones, pero las artes visuales no dejaron de tener una presencia vital en su escritura. Los dos personajes principales de _Un pintor de hoy_ se conocen contemplando el _Retrato de Isabel de Porcel_ de Francisco de Goya en la National Gallery, y en _La libertad de Corker_ ,8 el turbador descubrimiento de una reproducci\u00f3n de _La Maja desnuda_ en la tapa de una caja de bombones es un indicador del car\u00e1cter t\u00edpicamente ingl\u00e9s del protagonista; de su represi\u00f3n y de su insatisfacci\u00f3n.\n\nInevitablemente, tal vez, para alguien con su tipo de formaci\u00f3n, Berger siempre ha buscado en las artes visuales una especie de gu\u00eda pr\u00e1ctica, m\u00e1s que inspiraci\u00f3n. Fiel a una declaraci\u00f3n realizada en 1956, en la que dec\u00eda que \"si es cierto que soy un propagandista pol\u00edtico, me enorgullezco de serlo. Pero mi coraz\u00f3n y mis ojos siguen siendo los de un pintor\", se dispone a aprender de la experiencia de mirar no solo como artista, sino tambi\u00e9n como narrador. En un art\u00edculo publicado en _New Society_ en 1978 aprobaba la manera en la que dos acad\u00e9micos, Linda Nochlin y Timothy J. Clark, explicaban en sus obras respectivas \"la teor\u00eda y el programa del Realismo de Gustave Courbet\", desde el punto de vista social e hist\u00f3rico.9 Pero, seg\u00fan Berger, la cuesti\u00f3n segu\u00eda abierta: \"\u00bfC\u00f3mo lo practicaba con los ojos y las manos? \u00bfCu\u00e1l es el significado de esa forma suya, \u00fanica, de representar las apariencias? Cuando dec\u00eda que el arte 'es la expresi\u00f3n m\u00e1s completa de lo existente', \u00bfqu\u00e9 entend\u00eda por 'expresi\u00f3n'?\". Y continuaba examinando c\u00f3mo en _Entierro en Ornans_ (1849-1850)\n\nCourbet hab\u00eda pintado un grupo de hombres y mujeres tal como podr\u00edan aparecer cuando asisten a un funeral en el pueblo, y se hab\u00eda negado a organizar (armonizar) las apariencias d\u00e1ndoles un significado m\u00e1s elevado, independientemente de que este fuera falso o aut\u00e9ntico. Courbet rechaz\u00f3 la funci\u00f3n del arte como moderador de las apariencias, como algo que ennoblece lo visible. En su lugar, pint\u00f3, en un lienzo de veinti\u00fan metros cuadrados, un grupo de figuras en tama\u00f1o natural en torno a una sepultura; unas figuras que no anunciaban _nada,_ salvo \"as\u00ed es como somos\".\n\nPor esa \u00e9poca, Berger estaba trabajando en la trilog\u00eda _De sus fatigas_ (1979-1991), una colecci\u00f3n de relatos, muy relacionados entre s\u00ed e inspirados en Quincy y las monta\u00f1as del entorno, sobre la vida rural como una forma de dignidad humana en v\u00edas de desaparici\u00f3n. En los borradores del primer libro, _Puerca tierra_ (1979),10 guardados en el archivo, _Entierro en Ornans_ aparece en una lista de \"ilustraciones posibles\". El funeral representado en el cuadro tiene lugar en el Jura, una regi\u00f3n situada a unas tres horas al norte de Quincy. Courbet lo pint\u00f3 entre 1849 y 1850, lo que significa que el abuelo que pierde la vista en el relato titulado \"Tambi\u00e9n a\u00falla el viento\", uno de los relatos que forman parte de _Puerca tierra_ , habr\u00eda tenido m\u00e1s o menos la edad del monaguillo que aparece en primera fila. Parece que podr\u00eda haber servido a Berger para imaginarse el lugar de su vecino en la historia.\n\nEste sentido de las relaciones vivas es fundamental en la idea que tiene Berger de su vocaci\u00f3n de narrador. Procede de Max Raphael, quien, seg\u00fan cre\u00eda Berger, hab\u00eda mostrado \"como no lo hab\u00eda hecho ning\u00fan otro escritor, el significado revolucionario de las obras heredadas del pasado [...] y de las obras que se crear\u00e1n en el futuro\". La idea, expresada en _Modos de ver_ ,11 de que el capitalismo funciona por el procedimiento de separarnos de la historia le condujo a transformar su realismo socialista de la d\u00e9cada de 1950 en una suerte de realismo m\u00e1gico, en el que coexisten vivos y muertos. De modo que cuando en 2009 don\u00f3 el archivo, ofreci\u00f3 una entrevista en la que suger\u00eda que los archivos eran\n\notra manera de estar presentes de las personas que vivieron en el pasado, est\u00e9n todav\u00eda vivas o hayan desaparecido. Esto me parece una de las cosas esenciales de la condici\u00f3n humana. Es lo que diferencia al ser humano de cualquier otro animal: vivir con aquellos que han vivido y la compa\u00f1\u00eda de quienes ya no est\u00e1n vivos. Y no se trata necesariamente de personas que uno haya conocido personalmente, me refiero a personas a las que solo conocemos por lo que hicieron o por lo que han dejado tras ellas; esta cuesti\u00f3n de la compa\u00f1\u00eda del pasado es lo que me interesa, y los archivos son una especie de yacimiento o de emplazamiento, en el mismo sentido en el que nos referimos a los yacimientos arqueol\u00f3gicos.\n\nLa experiencia de mirar a las artes visuales no ha dejado de jugar un papel importante en la evoluci\u00f3n de la narrativa bergeriana. La correspondencia en _Tiziano: ninfa y pastor_ 12 empieza con el fantasma de Tiziano apareci\u00e9ndosele a la hija de Berger en una exposici\u00f3n en Venecia. El personaje de \"John\" que discurre a lo largo de las p\u00e1ginas de _Aqu\u00ed nos vemos_ 13 nos recuerda al protagonista de _Un pintor de hoy_. En los borradores guardados en los archivos hay reproducciones de los retratos de El Fayum, as\u00ed como las guardas para la primera edici\u00f3n de _De A para X_.14 _El cuaderno de Bento_ 15 imagina el descubrimiento de los dibujos del fil\u00f3sofo favorito de Karl Marx, Baruch Spinoza. Pero si hay tanto en la escritura de Berger que tiene que ver con el arte, \u00bfen qu\u00e9 puede ser \u00fatil reunir una colecci\u00f3n como esta?\n\nEn su introducci\u00f3n a _Selected Essays of John Berger_ ,16 Geoff Dyer invitaba a los lectores a utilizar el ejemplo de Berger para \"volver a trazar los mapas\" de las grandes nociones de la literatura contempor\u00e1nea, en particular la idea de que escribir novelas es m\u00e1s importante o tiene m\u00e1s prestigio que escribir ensayos. Como lo expresaba Pablo Picasso en 1923: \"Siempre que he tenido algo que decir, lo he dicho de la manera en la que sent\u00eda que deb\u00eda decirse. Cada motivo requiere inevitablemente un m\u00e9todo de expresi\u00f3n diferente\".17\n\nEste libro intenta mostrar una amplia gama de las respuestas al arte ofrecidas por Berger a diferentes temas art\u00edsticos, incluyendo, pero no limit\u00e1ndose, al ensayo. Las m\u00e1s convencionales son las rese\u00f1as de exposiciones; la menos convencional es probablemente la eleg\u00eda que le dedica a Juan Mu\u00f1oz (vol. 2), escrita en forma de una serie de cartas dirigidas al poeta turco Nazim Hikmet (vol. 2), desaparecido hace ya bastantes a\u00f1os. Entre medias hay poemas, fragmentos de novelas y dramas, al igual que piezas escritas en forma de di\u00e1logo, las cuales muestran la faceta colaborativa de Berger desde el principio de su carrera. Cada cap\u00edtulo, cada pieza, es un retrato en el sentido de que responde con suma atenci\u00f3n y empat\u00eda a la complejidad de la vida, la obra y la \u00e9poca en la que ha vivido un artista determinado, o, como en el caso de los dos primeros cap\u00edtulos, un grupo de artistas unidos por el anonimato.18 Una pareja \u2014Lee Krasner y Jackson Pollock, por ejemplo (vol. 2)\u2014 constituye, conforme a la l\u00f3gica que Berger sigue en ese art\u00edculo, un doble retrato inseparable.\n\nEl ensayo de 1967 titulado \"No More Portraits\" (\"No m\u00e1s retratos\") era una especie de autopsia de una tradici\u00f3n que hab\u00eda quedado plenamente ejemplificada en la National Portrait Gallery. En el art\u00edculo se identificaban los tres factores que contribu\u00edan a este final. El primero y m\u00e1s obvio era la aparici\u00f3n de la fotograf\u00eda. El segundo la incapacidad creciente de creer en los roles sociales de los retratados, unos roles que se cre\u00edan confirmados por este tipo de arte, el retrato. Pensemos, por ejemplo, en los retratos que hizo Hals de los ciudadanos acomodados de su entorno; incluso en estos, Berger se imagina el desagrado que le causar\u00eda al pintor esta tarea, su resentimiento primordial hacia los regentes del asilo.\n\nEl tercer factor es que gracias a los cambios tecnol\u00f3gicos, pol\u00edticos y art\u00edsticos asociados a la modernidad, ya \"no podemos aceptar que se pueda establecer adecuadamente la identidad de una persona fijando y preservando su aspecto desde un solo punto de vista, en un solo lugar\". Aqu\u00ed vemos la semilla de la famosa l\u00ednea de _G._ : \"Nunca m\u00e1s se volver\u00e1 a contar una sola historia como si fuera la \u00fanica\".\n\nEste libro no intenta rehabilitar esa tradici\u00f3n, sino m\u00e1s bien poner de relieve la frecuencia con la que en sus escritos Berger alcanza la intensidad del enfoque y la empat\u00eda imaginativa de las excepciones: los retratos de El Fayum o Rembrandt; la comparaci\u00f3n es irresistible dada la variedad, la frecuencia y la inspiraci\u00f3n con las que Berger ha escrito sobre \u00e9l. En el intercambio epistolar con Leon Kossof (vol. 2), Berger expone su visi\u00f3n de lo que sucede en lo que para \u00e9l es un buen retrato:\n\nLa noci\u00f3n rom\u00e1ntica del artista creador eclips\u00f3 \u2014como lo sigue eclipsando hoy la noci\u00f3n del artista estrella\u2014 el papel de la receptividad, de la apertura, en el artista. Y esta es la condici\u00f3n para cualquier tipo de colaboraci\u00f3n.\n\nEste es el \u00fanico sentido en el que parece justo considerar esta recopilaci\u00f3n \u2014y probablemente es imposible no hacerlo\u2014 como algo que se a\u00f1ade a un autorretrato (Dyer dec\u00eda que su _Selected Essays of John Berger_ era \"una especie de autobiograf\u00eda indirecta\"). Berger se encuentra a cierta distancia de la asociaci\u00f3n que estableci\u00f3 Michel de Montaigne entre el ensayo y el autorretrato: \"pinto para m\u00ed mismo\". Pero un pasaje de un ensayo de Berger de 1978, \"El narrador\", nos confirma que la analog\u00eda entre el retrato y la narraci\u00f3n no es demasiado imprecisa:\n\nLo que hace diferente la vida de un pueblo es que esta es tambi\u00e9n un _autorretrato vivo_ : un retrato comunal, en cuanto que todos son retratados y retratistas. Al igual que en las tallas de los capiteles rom\u00e1nicos, existe una identidad de esp\u00edritu entre lo que se muestra y el modo de mostrarlo: como si los esculpidos y los escultores fueran las mismas personas. Pero el autorretrato de cada pueblo no est\u00e1 construido con piedras, sino con palabras, habladas y recordadas: con opiniones, historias, relatos de testigos presenciales, leyendas, comentarios y rumores. Y es un retrato continuo; nunca se deja de trabajar en \u00e9l.19\n\nComo los art\u00edculos de este libro no fueron escritos para ser le\u00eddos tal como aparecen aqu\u00ed presentados, el efecto logrado tiene algo que ver con la famosa primera escena de la serie _Ways of Seeing_ , en la que Berger aparece cortando el lienzo de lo que parece ser la cabeza de la Venus del _Venus y Marte_ , de Sandro Botticelli, y anuncia una especie de _d\u00e9tournement_ situacionista: \"La reproducci\u00f3n a\u00edsla un detalle de un cuadro del resto. El detalle se transforma entonces. Una figura aleg\u00f3rica se convierte en el retrato de una chica\".\n\nUna vez que establec\u00ed los principios que guiar\u00edan la selecci\u00f3n, me quedaba la cuesti\u00f3n de la organizaci\u00f3n. David Sylvester es un ejemplo m\u00e1s o menos contempor\u00e1neo; cuando edit\u00f3 su _About Modern Art_ ,20 opt\u00f3 por una estructura tem\u00e1tica, compar\u00e1ndola con una exposici\u00f3n retrospectiva. En el pr\u00f3logo, Sylvester recuerda que \u00e9l y Berger se hab\u00edan formado como cr\u00edticos en la prensa londinense de la d\u00e9cada de 1950 y atacaba a Berger por no haber reconocido y promocionado a los mismos artistas, fundamentalmente a Francis Bacon y a Alberto Giacometti, con la misma energ\u00eda que \u00e9l.21\n\nYa en 1959, Berger admit\u00eda: \"Llevo el tiempo suficiente haciendo cr\u00edtica de arte para que se pueda demostrar que me he equivocado\". Una de las caracter\u00edsticas m\u00e1s claras de la larga vida de Berger como escritor es su costumbre \u2014tal vez, la _necesidad_ \u2014 de reconsiderar, y el texto clave para entenderlo es el ensayo \"Entre los dos Colmar\", en el cual describe la experiencia de visitar el retablo de Gr\u00fcnewald antes y despu\u00e9s del desencanto revolucionario de 1968:\n\nLas dos veces que fui a Colmar era invierno, y en ambas ocasiones la ciudad estaba atenazada por el fr\u00edo, ese fr\u00edo que viene de la llanura y trae con \u00e9l un recuerdo del hambre. En la misma ciudad, bajo unas condiciones f\u00edsicas similares, vi de forma diferente. Es un lugar com\u00fan que la significaci\u00f3n de una obra de arte cambia con el tiempo. Por lo general, sin embargo, este conocimiento se utiliza para distinguir entre \"ellos\" (en el pasado) y \"nosotros\" (en el presente). Tendemos a representar a _ellos_ y sus reacciones ante el arte como parte de la historia, al tiempo que _nosotros_ nos atribuimos una visi\u00f3n de conjunto que lo domina todo desde lo que consideramos su cumbre. La obra de arte que ha sobrevivido hasta nuestros d\u00edas parece as\u00ed confirmar nuestra posici\u00f3n superior. El objetivo de su supervivencia \u00e9ramos nosotros.\n\nEsto no es m\u00e1s que una ilusi\u00f3n. La historia no concede privilegios. La primera vez que vi el retablo de Gr\u00fcnewald estaba deseando situar _lo_ hist\u00f3ricamente. En t\u00e9rminos de la religi\u00f3n medieval, la peste, la medicina, el lazareto. Hoy soy yo quien se ve obligado a situarse hist\u00f3ricamente.22\n\nEsta es una visi\u00f3n de la historia que trata de forjarse en torno a la percepci\u00f3n de una pintura. Muchos de los otros ensayos publicados junto a \"Entre los dos Colmar\" trazan el retorno repetido a la obra de un artista u otro, unos retornos en los que siempre encuentra algo distinto. Los art\u00edculos sobre la obra de Henry Moore (vol. 2) y su enmara\u00f1amiento en la pol\u00edtica cultural de la Guerra Fr\u00eda son un ejemplo; otro ejemplo lo constituyen las respuestas escritas que ha ido dando a lo largo de toda su vida a las im\u00e1genes del envejecimiento humano que ofrece Rembrandt. Los art\u00edculos que examinan la forma en que Claude Monet (vol. 2) se someti\u00f3 a la disciplina de pintar una y otra vez la misma catedral, \"captando en cada lienzo una transformaci\u00f3n nueva y diferente conforme cambiaba la luz\", ofrecen una manera de considerar lo que el propio Berger hace en su escritura.\n\nLos anteriores colaboradores de Berger a la hora de disponer las im\u00e1genes \u2014entre ellos Jean Mohr, Richard Hollis y John Christie\u2014 han puesto el list\u00f3n muy alto al impregnar sus libros con la noci\u00f3n de que las reproducciones fotogr\u00e1ficas pueden ser un lenguaje revolucionario por derecho propio. Ha habido varios intentos de actualizar la serie televisiva _Ways of Seing_ para adaptarla a la era de la reproducci\u00f3n digital, lo que parece sugerir que aunque su soporte haya envejecido, las tesis esenciales todav\u00eda se mantienen; la serie de televisi\u00f3n no se puede sacar en DVD precisamente debido a las cuestiones sobre arte y propiedad que se tratan en ella. Pero estas mismas cuestiones significan tambi\u00e9n que el lector puede ver la serie gratis online, y seguir el inmenso vocabulario art\u00edstico de Berger haciendo b\u00fasquedas en internet.\n\nLas ilustraciones empleadas en este libro tratan de impedir lo que Berger describe como una tautolog\u00eda de palabra e imagen y asimismo ese ambiente propio de los libros de gran formato y papel cuch\u00e9. Siempre como referencias en blanco y negro, o \"recordatorios\", como explica el propio Berger en su prefacio, estas im\u00e1genes tienen un planteamiento distinto en cada texto. A veces, ponen de relieve una caracter\u00edstica relevante de una obra; a veces, subrayan el talento de Berger para las comparaciones inesperadas. M\u00e1s generalmente, intentan ilustrar las relaciones esencialmente dial\u00e9cticas entre el texto y la imagen en la obra de Berger: el patr\u00f3n seg\u00fan el cual una imagen da forma a un texto, el cual, posteriormente, moldear\u00e1 nuestra manera de entender esa imagen.\n\nLa estructura amplia de este libro se deriva de la cronolog\u00eda de la inmensa gama hist\u00f3rica de artistas sobre los que ha escrito Berger. En este sentido representa su historia del arte. Pero al dejar espacio para que emerjan en cada cap\u00edtulo esos repetidos retornos en el orden en el que fueron escritos, se transforma en una serie de retratos, escritos con la apertura propia del narrador para con la vida de los otros. Esta estructura no carece de peligros; el propio Berger razonaba en 1978 que \"tratar la historia del arte como si fuera una carrera en la que unos genios toman el relevo de otros es una ilusi\u00f3n individualista, cuyos or\u00edgenes renacentistas se corresponden con la fase primitiva de acumulaci\u00f3n de capital privado\".\n\nAdmit\u00eda que esta actitud, incompatible con los valores y el esp\u00edritu del narrador, no hab\u00eda sido tenida en cuenta en _Modos de ver_. Pero tambi\u00e9n reflexionaba en otro lugar que \"el descuido en las fechas puede ser desastroso; comparar fechas es un est\u00edmulo infalible para el pensamiento\", y esta estructura da al instante una idea de la vastedad hist\u00f3rica de la obra, y la hace f\u00e1cil de consultar. Hojeando el libro se obtienen r\u00e1pidas instant\u00e1neas de lo escrito sobre un artista u otro en particular. Leerlo de principio a fin pone de relieve el deseo instintivo de dar una visi\u00f3n hist\u00f3rica por parte de Berger, cuando, por ejemplo, se recuerda a s\u00ed mismo que un artista es contempor\u00e1neo de otro, quien, en este caso, aparece en el siguiente cap\u00edtulo.\n\nSe lea como se lea, desde las pinturas de las cuevas de Chauvet hasta la obra de Randa Mdah (vol. 2) sobre la Palestina contempor\u00e1nea, este libro construye una historia del arte que no trata de establecer distinciones, sino de establecer conexiones, no solo entre los artistas, sino tambi\u00e9n entre los artistas y nosotros. Finalmente, esto nos lleva hasta la \u00fanica definici\u00f3n de genio que cabe, tal vez, en la obra de Berger, una cita de Simone Weil de 1942 que \u00e9l mismo utiliza en su art\u00edculo sobre los retratos de G\u00e9ricault:\n\nEl amor por nuestro pr\u00f3jimo, cuando es resultado de una atenci\u00f3n creativa, es an\u00e1logo al talento.\n\n1 Berger llamaba a los documentos oficiales el Nuthatch Archive, por el apodo con el que llamaba a Beverly. El _nuthatch_ [el trepador azul] es un p\u00e1jaro com\u00fan en Europa que se pasa la mayor parte del tiempo colgado de las ramas de los \u00e1rboles, en ocasiones cabeza abajo.\n\n2 Berger, John, _G.: A Novel_ , Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Londres, 1972 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _G._ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 1994) [N. del Ed.].\n\n3 Berger, John, _A Seventh Man_ , Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1975 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Un s\u00e9ptimo hombre_ , Capit\u00e1n Swing, Madrid, 2014) [N. del Ed.].\n\n4 Berger, John, _Renato Guttuso_ , Verlag der Kunst, Dresde, 1957 [N. del Ed.].\n\n5 Berger, John, _Permanent Red: Essays in Seeing_ , Methuen, Londres, 1960 [N. del Ed.].\n\n6 Berger, John, _A Painter of Our Time_ , Secker & Warburg, Londres, 1958 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Un pintor de hoy_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2002) [N. del Ed.].\n\n7 Aunque esto les sonara paranoico a muchos de sus contempor\u00e1neos, ensayistas posteriores han investigado las actividades culturales financiadas por la CIA en esa \u00e9poca, particularmente a trav\u00e9s del Congress for Cultural Freedom.\n\n8 Berger, John, _Corker's Freedom_ , Methuen, Londres, 1964 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _La libertad de Corker,_ Interzona, Buenos Aires, 2016) [N. del Ed.].\n\n9 V\u00e9ase: Nochlin, Linda, _Realism_ , Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1971 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El Realismo_ , Alianza Editorial, Madrid, 1991); y Clark, Timothy J., _Image of the People: Gustave Coubert and the 1848 Revolution_ , Thames & Hudson, Londres, 1973 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Imagen del pueblo: Gustave Courbet y la Revoluci\u00f3n de 1848_ , Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 1981); y _The Absolute Bourgeois: Artists and Politics in France 1848-1851_ , Thames & Hudson, Londres, 1973.\n\n10 Berger, John, _Pig Earth_ , Writers and Readers Pub. Cooperative, Londres, 1979 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Puerca tierra_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2016) [N. del Ed.].\n\n11 Berger, John, _Ways of Seeing_ , BBC\/Penguin Books, Londres, 1972 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Modos de ver_ , Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 2016) [N. del Ed.].\n\n12 Andreadakis Berger, Katya y Berger, John, _Titian: Nymph and Shepherd_ [1996], Bloomsbury, Londres, 2003 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Tiziano: ninfa y pastor_ , Ediciones \u00c1rdora, Madrid, 1999) [N. del Ed.].\n\n13 Berger, John, _Here Is Where We Meet_ , Pantheon, Nueva York, 2005 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Aqu\u00ed nos vemos_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2005) [N. del Ed.].\n\n14 Berger, John, _From A to X: A Story in Letters_ , Verso, Londres, 2008 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _De A para X: una historia en cartas_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2009) [N. del Ed.].\n\n15 Berger, John, _Bento's Sketchbook_ , Pantheon Books, Nueva York, 2011 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El cuaderno de Bento_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2012) [N. del Ed.].\n\n16 Dyer, Geoff (ed.), _Selected Essays of John Berger,_ Vintage, Nueva York, 2001 [N. del Ed.].\n\n17 El propio Berger emple\u00f3 esta cita en _The Success and Failure of Picasso_ , Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1965 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Fama y soledad de Picasso_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2013).\n\n18 Fuera de estos par\u00e1metros, Berger ha producido toda una serie de textos m\u00e1s te\u00f3ricos que se acercan al \u00e1mbito, m\u00e1s amplio, de los per\u00edodos hist\u00f3ricos: por ejemplo, \"The Moment of Cubism\" o \"The Clarity of the Renaissance\", y textos que demuestran su papel, a\u00fan poco reconocido, en la presentaci\u00f3n y la defensa de escritores como Bertolt Brecht, Walter Benjamin y Roland Barthes al p\u00fablico de habla inglesa. Estos ser\u00e1n recogidos en otro libro: _Landscapes_. _John Berger on Art_ , (Verso, Londres\/Nueva York, 2016), editado por Tom Overton.\n\n19 Berger, John, \"The Storyteller\", en _The Sense of Sight, Pantheon_ , Londres, 1985 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"El narrador\", en _El sentido de la vista_ , Alianza Editorial, Madrid, 1990, p\u00e1g. 44) [N. del Ed.].\n\n20 Sylvester, David, _About Modern Art: Critical Essays, 1948-1996_ , Henry Holt & Co., Nueva York, 1997 [N. del Ed.].\n\n21 Hyman, James, _The Battle for Realism: Figurative Art in Britain During the Cold War, 1945-1960_ , Yale University Press, New Haven, 2001. Hyman sigue siendo la autoridad en la relaci\u00f3n entre Sylvester y Berger durante la primera etapa de sus carreras respectivas. En sus escritos posteriores, Berger se mostr\u00f3 un defensor respetuoso de las ideas de Sylvester.\n\n22 Berger, John, \"Between Two Colmars\" [1976], en _About Looking_ , Readers and Writers Publishing Cooperative, Londres, 1980 (versi\u00f3n castellana en las p\u00e1gs. 78-85 de este volumen) [N. del Ed.].\n\n## Sobre los artistas\n\n## **Los pintores de la cueva de Chauvet**\n\n## hacia 30000 a. C.\n\nT\u00fa, Marisa, que has pintado tantas criaturas y has volcado muchas piedras y has pasado horas agazapada mirando, quiz\u00e1s t\u00fa comprendas lo que digo.\n\nHoy estuve en el mercado que ponen en la calle en uno de los barrios de la periferia del sur de Par\u00eds. All\u00ed se puede comprar de todo, desde un par de botas a erizos de mar. Hay una mujer que vende el mejor piment\u00f3n que haya probado nunca. Hay un pescadero que me llama a voces siempre que tienen alg\u00fan pescado raro y, seg\u00fan \u00e9l, hermoso, porque cree que se lo comprar\u00e9 para dibujarlo. Hay un hombre flaco con barba que vende miel y vino. \u00daltimamente le ha dado por escribir poes\u00eda, y reparte fotocopias de sus poemas entre sus clientes habituales, aunque parece \u00e9l m\u00e1s sorprendido de darlas que ellos de recibirlas.\n\nUno de los poemas que me dio esta ma\u00f1ana dec\u00eda as\u00ed:\n\nPero \u00bfqui\u00e9n me ha puesto este tri\u00e1ngulo en la cabeza?\n\nEste tri\u00e1ngulo nacido del claro de luna\n\nme atraves\u00f3 sin tocarme\n\nhaciendo ruidos de lib\u00e9lula\n\nen plena noche en la roca.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de leerlo me entraron ganas de hablar contigo sobre los primeros animales pintados. Lo que quiero decir es obvio, es algo que debe de sentir todo el que haya visto pinturas rupestres, pero que nunca (o casi nunca) se ha dicho claramente. Es posible que la dificultad sea de vocabulario; es posible que tengamos que encontrar una nueva referencia.\n\nCada vez se alejan m\u00e1s en el tiempo los or\u00edgenes del arte. Puede que las rocas esculpidas descubiertas recientemente en Kununurra, Australia, tengan 75.000 a\u00f1os. Dicen que las pinturas de caballos, rinocerontes, \u00edbices, mamuts, leones, osos, bisontes, panteras, renos, uros y b\u00fahos encontrados en 1994 en la cueva de Chauvet, en el departamento franc\u00e9s de Ardeche, son 15.000 a\u00f1os m\u00e1s antiguas que las de Lascaux. El tiempo que nos separa de estos artistas es por lo menos doce veces mayor del que nos separa de los fil\u00f3sofos presocr\u00e1ticos.\n\nLo que sorprende es la sensibilidad perceptiva que revelan, pese a su antig\u00fcedad. El porte del cuello de un animal, la forma de su boca, el vigor de sus ancas eran observados y recreados con una fuerza y un control comparables a los que se pueden encontrar en las obras de un Fra Filippo Lippi, un Vel\u00e1zquez o un Brancusi. Aparentemente, el arte no tuvo unos principios torpes. Los ojos y las manos de los primeros pintores, de los primeros grabadores, eran tan diestros como los de los que vinieron despu\u00e9s. Se dir\u00eda que es una gracia que acompa\u00f1\u00f3 a la pintura desde sus or\u00edgenes. Y este es el misterio, \u00bfno?\n\nLa diferencia entre entonces y ahora no es de grado de refinamiento, sino de espacio: el espacio en el que sus im\u00e1genes exist\u00edan y eran imaginadas. Esta es la cuesti\u00f3n para la que tenemos que encontrar una nueva forma de hablar, pues la diferencia es inmensa.\n\nAfortunadamente existen unas fotograf\u00edas soberbias de las pinturas de Chauvet. La cueva ha sido cerrada al p\u00fablico, una decisi\u00f3n correcta, pues as\u00ed pueden preservarse las pinturas. Los animales pintados en las rocas han vuelto a la oscuridad de la que ven\u00edan y en la que vivieron durante tanto tiempo.\n\nPinturas de la cueva de Chauvet, hacia 30000 a. C.\n\nNo tenemos una palabra para esta oscuridad. No es ni la de la noche ni la de la ignorancia. De vez en cuando todos la cruzamos, vi\u00e9ndolo todo: de tanto que lo vemos todo, no vemos nada. T\u00fa lo sabes, Marisa, mejor que yo. Es el interior del que procede todo.\n\n***\n\nUna tarde de este julio, sub\u00ed a los pastos m\u00e1s altos, mucho m\u00e1s arriba de la granja, a buscar las vacas de Louis. Es algo que suelo hacer durante la siega del heno. Para cuando hemos terminado de descargar la \u00faltima carretada del tractor, ya es casi la hora en que Louis tiene que ir a llevar la leche de la tarde a la central, y, adem\u00e1s, ya estamos cansados, as\u00ed que mientras \u00e9l prepara la orde\u00f1adora, yo voy a por las vacas. Subo por un sendero que sigue el curso de un torrente que nunca se seca. El camino estaba ya en sombra y el aire era todav\u00eda caliente, pero no pesado. No hab\u00eda t\u00e1banos como la tarde anterior. El camino pasa, como un t\u00fanel, bajo las ramas de los \u00e1rboles y en algunos trechos estaba embarrado. En el barro quedaban mis huellas entre las incontables pisadas de las vacas.\n\nA la derecha, el terreno cae casi a pico hasta el torrente. Las hayas y los serbales hacen que la escarpada pendiente no sea del todo peligrosa; los \u00e1rboles detendr\u00edan la ca\u00edda de cualquier animal. A la izquierda, crecen matorrales y alg\u00fan que otro sa\u00faco. Caminaba despacio y vi un mech\u00f3n de crin de vaca rojiza prendido en las ramitas de uno de los matorrales.\n\nEmpec\u00e9 a llamarlas antes de verlas, as\u00ed ya estar\u00edan todas agrupadas en una esquina del prado cuando yo apareciera. Cada cual tiene su propia manera de hablar con las vacas. Louis les habla como si fueran los hijos que nunca tuvo: con dulzura y con furia, susurr\u00e1ndoles o imprec\u00e1ndoles. Yo no s\u00e9 c\u00f3mo les hablo; pero a estas alturas, ellas s\u00ed que lo saben. Reconocen mi voz sin verme.\n\nCuando llegu\u00e9, estaban esper\u00e1ndome. Quit\u00e9 la alambrada electrificada y les grit\u00e9: _Venez, mes belles, venez_. Las vacas son d\u00f3ciles, pero no les gusta que las apremien. Las vacas viven lentamente; un d\u00eda suyo equivale a cinco de los nuestros. Siempre es la impaciencia la que nos hace golpearlas. Nuestra impaciencia. Castigadas, alzan la vista con esa resignaci\u00f3n que es una forma de impertinencia (\u00a1qu\u00e9 s\u00ed, que ya lo saben!), porque sugiere que m\u00e1s que cinco d\u00edas son cinco eones.\n\nFueron saliendo con calma del prado y empezaron a bajar la cuesta. Todas las tardes Delphine se pone la primera y todas las tardes Hirondelle se pone la \u00faltima. La mayor\u00eda de las otras se unen siguiendo siempre el mismo orden. Esta regularidad acompa\u00f1a en cierto modo a su paciencia.\n\nEmpuj\u00e9 a la coja por las ancas para que se moviera y, como cada tarde, sent\u00ed bajo la camiseta su inmensa calidez alcanz\u00e1ndome los hombros. _Allez Tulipe, allez,_ le dije, sin apartar la mano de su cadera, que sobresal\u00eda como la esquina de una mesa.\n\nApenas se o\u00edan sus pisadas en el barro. Las vacas tiene una forma de andar muy delicada: posan las pezu\u00f1as como esas maniqu\u00edes que al llegar al extremo de la pasarela levantan ligeramente los finos tacones antes de girar. Alguna vez incluso se me ha pasado por la cabeza la idea de amaestrar una vaca y hacerla caminar por una soga, de un lado al otro del torrente, por ejemplo.\n\nEl rumor del torrente formaba parte de nuestro cotidiano descenso vespertino, y cuando se acallaba, las vacas o\u00edan el desdentado escupir del agua en el abrevadero pegado al establo, donde podr\u00edan saciar su sed. Una vaca se bebe treinta litros en dos minutos.\n\nAs\u00ed \u00edbamos bajando aquella tarde, lentamente como las otras. Pas\u00e1bamos ante los mismos \u00e1rboles. Cada \u00e1rbol empujaba al sendero, gui\u00e1ndolo, a su manera. Charlotte se par\u00f3 junto a un trozo de hierba fresca. Le di un empujoncito y continu\u00f3 su camino. Suced\u00eda todas las tardes. Ve\u00eda los prados segados al otro lado del valle.\n\nHirondelle hund\u00eda la cabeza al andar, como hacen los patos. Le pas\u00e9 el brazo por el cuello y de pronto vi la tarde como si estuviera a mil a\u00f1os de distancia.\n\nDe pronto, todo era indivisible, todo era una sola cosa: las vacas de Louis bajando parsimoniosas por el sendero, el rumor del torrente a nuestro lado, el calor remitiendo, los \u00e1rboles empuj\u00e1ndonos suavemente, gui\u00e1ndonos; las moscas revoloteando en torno a los ojos de las vacas, el valle y los pinos de las crestas m\u00e1s alejadas, el olor de la orina de Delphine, el gavil\u00e1n sobrevolando el prado que llaman La Plaine Fin, el agua cayendo en el abrevadero, yo, el barro en el t\u00fanel de \u00e1rboles, la edad inconmensurable de la monta\u00f1a. Posteriormente cada parte se fragmentar\u00eda a su propio ritmo, pero en ese momento formaban un todo compacto, tan compacto como un acr\u00f3bata en el trapecio.\n\n\"Escuchando al _logos,_ no a m\u00ed, parece prudente admitir que todas las cosas son una\", dijo Her\u00e1clito 29.000 a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de que se hicieran las pinturas de la cueva de Chauvet. Solo si recordamos esta unidad y la oscuridad de la que habl\u00e1bamos antes, podremos orientarnos en el espacio de esas primeras pinturas.\n\nNada est\u00e1 enmarcado en ellas; y lo que es a\u00fan m\u00e1s importante, nada confluye con nada. Como los animales corren y son vistos de perfil (que es esencialmente la visi\u00f3n que puede tener un cazador mal armado buscando una presa), a veces da la impresi\u00f3n de que van a confluir. Pero si se mira con m\u00e1s atenci\u00f3n, se cruzan sin llegar a encontrarse.\n\nSu espacio no tiene absolutamente nada en com\u00fan con el de un escenario. Los expertos que pretenden ver en estas pinturas el \"origen de la perspectiva\" caen en una trampa profunda, anacr\u00f3nica. Los sistemas pict\u00f3ricos de perspectiva son arquitect\u00f3nicos y urbanos: dependen de la ventana y de la puerta. La \"perspectiva\" n\u00f3mada es una perspectiva de la coexistencia, nunca de la distancia.\n\nEn lo m\u00e1s profundo de la cueva, que significa en lo m\u00e1s profundo de la tierra, estaba todo: el viento, el agua, el fuego, lugares lejanos, los muertos, el rayo, el dolor, los caminos, los animales, la luz, los no nacidos... Estaban all\u00ed en la roca para ser invocados. Las famosas huellas de tama\u00f1o natural, esas manos (cuando las miramos decimos que son las nuestras) est\u00e1n all\u00ed troqueladas en ocre, para tocar y marcar todo lo presente y la frontera \u00faltima del espacio que habita esta presencia.\n\nLas pinturas fueron apareciendo, una tras otra, a veces en el mismo sitio, con a\u00f1os o, tal vez, siglos de diferencia, y cada vez, los dedos de la mano pintora pertenec\u00edan a un artista diferente. Todo el drama que en el arte posterior se transforma en una escena pintada _sobre_ una superficie con bordes se comprime aqu\u00ed en la aparici\u00f3n que ha _atravesado_ la roca para ser vista. La roca caliza se abre al efecto, prestando aqu\u00ed un abultamiento, all\u00ed una oquedad, una profunda grieta, un labio sobresaliente, un lomo hundido.\n\nLa aparici\u00f3n llegaba casi imperceptiblemente al artista, arrastrando un sonido inmenso, distante, irreconocible, y el artista daba con ella y localizaba d\u00f3nde empujaba o presionaba la superficie, la superficie delantera, en la que permanecer\u00eda visible incluso despu\u00e9s de haberse retirado y vuelto al uno.\n\nSuced\u00edan cosas dif\u00edciles de comprender para los siglos posteriores. Una cabeza aparec\u00eda sin cuerpo. Dos cabezas llegaban una detr\u00e1s de la otra. Una sola pata trasera escog\u00eda un cuerpo que ya ten\u00eda cuatro patas. Seis cuernos se asentaban en un solo cr\u00e1neo.\n\n_No importa el tama\u00f1o que tengamos cuando empujamos la superficie, podemos ser inmensos o peque\u00f1os, lo \u00fanico que importa es lo lejos que hayamos llegado atravesando la roca._\n\nEl drama de estas primeras criaturas pintadas no se halla ni a un lado ni en el frente, sino que est\u00e1 siempre detr\u00e1s de la roca. De donde salieron. Como lo hicimos nosotros...\n\n## **Los retratistas de El Fayum**\n\n## siglos I-III\n\nSon los retratos m\u00e1s antiguos que se conocen; se pintaron al mismo tiempo que se escrib\u00edan los Evangelios. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 nos sorprende hoy entonces tanto su inmediatez? \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 sentimos su individualidad tan pr\u00f3xima a la nuestra? \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 parecen m\u00e1s contempor\u00e1neos que el resto del arte europeo tradicional desarrollado en los dos mil a\u00f1os siguientes? Los retratos de El Fayum nos conmueven como si hubieran sido pintados el mes pasado. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9? Este es el enigma.\n\nLa respuesta m\u00e1s simple ser\u00eda decir que son una forma art\u00edstica h\u00edbrida, bastarda, y que en su heterogeneidad hay algo similar a la situaci\u00f3n actual del arte. Sin embargo, para que esta respuesta sea plenamente comprensible hemos de proceder lentamente.\n\nEst\u00e1n pintados sobre madera \u2014de tilo, gran parte de ellos\u2014 y algunos sobre lino. La escala de las caras es un poco m\u00e1s peque\u00f1a del natural. Algunos est\u00e1n pintados con t\u00e9mpera; y el medio utilizado en la mayor\u00eda es _enca\u00fastico_ ; es decir, los colores han sido mezclados con cera de abeja y aplicados en caliente si la cera es pura, y en fr\u00edo si ha sido emulsionada.\n\nTodav\u00eda hoy se perciben las pinceladas o las marcas de la esp\u00e1tula utilizada para aplicar el pigmento. La superficie preliminar sobre la que se pintaron los retratos era oscura. Los retratistas de El Fayum procedieron de la oscuridad a la luz.\n\nLo que no puede mostrar ninguna reproducci\u00f3n es lo apetecible que sigue pareciendo el antiguo pigmento. Adem\u00e1s del dorado, los pintores utilizaron cuatro colores: negro, rojo, y dos tonos de ocre. La carne que pintaron con estos pigmentos le hace pensar a uno en el pan de cada d\u00eda. Los pintores eran egipcios. Los griegos se hab\u00edan asentado en Egipto despu\u00e9s de la conquista de Alejandro Magno, cuatro siglos antes.\n\nSe llaman los retratos de El Fayum porque fueron encontrados a finales del siglo XIX en la provincia egipcia del mismo nombre, una zona de tierras f\u00e9rtiles alrededor de un lago denominada el Jard\u00edn de Egipto, a unos ochenta kil\u00f3metros al oeste del Nilo, al sur de Menfis y El Cairo. Por entonces, un marchante afirm\u00f3 que hab\u00edan sido descubiertos los retratos de los ptolomeos y de Cleopatra. Luego se dijo que las pinturas eran falsificaciones, y se olvidaron. En realidad, son retratos verdaderos de una clase media urbana, profesional: profesores, soldados, atletas, sacerdotes de Serapis, mercaderes, floristas. A veces se nos dicen sus nombres: Aline, Flavius, Isarous, Claudine...\n\nFueron descubiertos en una necr\u00f3polis, pues se pintaban para pegarse sobre la momia de la persona retratada cuando fuera enterrada. Probablemente eran retratos del natural (la misteriosa vitalidad de algunos de ellos no deja lugar a dudas); otros pueden haber sido pintados p\u00f3stumamente, despu\u00e9s de una muerte s\u00fabita.\n\nSu funci\u00f3n era doble: eran retratos identificativos de los muertos \u2014como las fotos de los pasaportes\u2014 en su viaje con Anubis, el dios con cabeza de chacal, hasta el Reino de Osiris; en segundo lugar, y m\u00e1s brevemente, serv\u00edan de recuerdo de los difuntos para la desconsolada familia. El embalsamamiento del cuerpo llevaba setenta d\u00edas, y a veces, la momia se quedaba en la casa durante alg\u00fan tiempo, apoyada contra una pared, como un miembro m\u00e1s del c\u00edrculo familiar, antes de ser llevada a la necr\u00f3polis.\n\nDesde un punto de vista estil\u00edstico, los retratos de El Fayum, como ya he dicho, son h\u00edbridos. Egipto por entonces era una provincia romana gobernada por prefectos romanos. De modo que los ropajes, los peinados y las joyas de los retratados responden a la moda romana del momento. Por su lado, los retratistas griegos emplearon una t\u00e9cnica naturalista derivada de la tradici\u00f3n iniciada por Apeles, el gran maestro griego del siglo IV a. C. Y, finalmente, los retratos eran objetos sagrados en un ritual funerario que era exclusivamente egipcio. Hoy representan para nosotros un per\u00edodo de transici\u00f3n hist\u00f3rica.\n\nRetrato de un joven.\n\nY algo de la precariedad de aquel momento se deja ver en la manera en la que est\u00e1n pintadas las caras, como algo separado de la expresi\u00f3n de las mismas. En la pintura egipcia tradicional, nunca se ve a nadie de frente, porque la visi\u00f3n frontal abre la posibilidad de su opuesto: la visi\u00f3n de espaldas de alguien que se vuelve para irse. Todas las figuras egipcias eran pintadas en un perfil eterno, en consonancia con la preocupaci\u00f3n egipcia de la continuidad perfecta de la vida despu\u00e9s de la muerte.\n\nSin embargo, los retratos de El Fayum, pintados conforme a una antigua tradici\u00f3n griega, muestran la cara completa, o casi completa, de hombres, mujeres y ni\u00f1os. Este formato var\u00eda muy poco y todos son tan frontales como las fotos de fotomat\u00f3n. Al mirarlos de frente, todav\u00eda nos choca en cierto modo esa frontalidad. Es como si hubieran avanzado tentativamente hacia nosotros.\n\nLa diferencia de calidad de los varios cientos de retratos conocidos es considerable. Entre los autores deb\u00eda de haber grandes maestros del retrato y desconocidos copistas de provincias. Hab\u00eda aquellos que se limitaban a realizar un trabajo rutinario y hab\u00eda otros (un n\u00famero sorprendentemente elevado, de hecho) que ofrec\u00edan hospitalidad al alma de su cliente. Pero, en cualquier caso, las opciones pict\u00f3ricas eran muy limitadas para todos ellos; la forma prescrita, muy precisa. Por eso, parad\u00f3jicamente, ante los mejores de ellos, uno percibe enseguida su enorme energ\u00eda pict\u00f3rica. Las apuestas eran muy altas, el margen muy reducido. Y en arte, estas condiciones generan energ\u00eda.\n\nVoy a considerar solo dos actos. En primer lugar, el acto de pintar uno de esos retratos, y, en segundo lugar, el acto de mirarlo hoy.\n\nNi quienes encargaban los retratos ni quienes los pintaban se imaginaron nunca que estos ser\u00edan vistos por la posteridad. Eran im\u00e1genes destinadas a ser enterradas, im\u00e1genes sin un futuro visible.\n\nEsto significaba que exist\u00eda una relaci\u00f3n especial entre el pintor y el retratado. El retratado todav\u00eda no se hab\u00eda transformado en _modelo_ , y el pintor todav\u00eda no se hab\u00eda convertido en un agente de la gloria futura. En lugar de esto, ambos colaboraban en una preparaci\u00f3n para la muerte, una preparaci\u00f3n que garantizara la supervivencia. Pintar era nombrar, y ser nombrado era una garant\u00eda de esa continuidad.1\n\nEn otras palabras, el pintor de El Fayum no era convocado para hacer un retrato, tal como se ha llegado a entender este t\u00e9rmino, sino para registrar a su cliente, el hombre o la mujer que lo miraban. Era el pintor, m\u00e1s que el \"modelo\", quien se somet\u00eda a ser mirado. Todos los retratos que hiciera el pintor empezaban con este acto de sumisi\u00f3n por su parte. Por eso hemos de considerar que estas obras no son retratos, sino pinturas sobre la experiencia de ser mirado por Aline, Flavian, Isarous, Claudine...\n\nEl planteamiento y el tratamiento son totalmente distintos de todos los que encontraremos m\u00e1s tarde en la historia del retrato. Los retratos posteriores eran pintados para la posteridad, ofrec\u00edan a las generaciones futuras una prueba de la existencia de quienes vivieron en un momento determinado. Cuando todav\u00eda estaban siendo pintados ya eran imaginados en un tiempo pasado, y el pintor, al pintarlos, se refer\u00eda a su modelo en tercera persona, ya fuera singular o plural. \u00c9l, ella, ellos tal como yo los contempl\u00e9. Por eso hay tantos que parecen antiguos aunque no lo sean.\n\nEn el caso de los retratos de El Fayum, la situaci\u00f3n era muy distinta. El pintor se somet\u00eda a la mirada del retratado, para el cual \u00e9l era el pintor de la Muerte, o, tal vez, para expresarlo con mayor precisi\u00f3n, el pintor de la Eternidad. Y la mirada del retratado, a la que se somet\u00eda el pintor, se dirig\u00eda a \u00e9l en la segunda persona del singular. De modo que su respuesta \u2014que era el acto de pintar\u2014 utilizaba el mismo pronombre personal: _Toi, Tu, Esy, Ty... que est\u00e1s aqu\u00ed._ Esto explica, en parte, su inmediatez.\n\nAl mirar estos \"retratos\", que no estaban destinados a nosotros, nos encontramos de pronto atrapados en el hechizo de una intimidad contractual muy especial. Puede que hoy no nos resulte f\u00e1cil entender ese contrato, pero la mirada nos habla, sobre todo hoy.\n\nSi los retratos de El Fayum hubieran sido descubiertos antes, digamos en el siglo XVIII, creo que se habr\u00edan considerado una simple curiosidad. Probablemente, para una cultura confiada, en expansi\u00f3n, estas peque\u00f1as pinturas sobre lino o madera no ser\u00edan sino unas muestras torpes, vacilantes, precipitadas, repetitivas, carentes de inspiraci\u00f3n.\n\nLa situaci\u00f3n en este fin de siglo XX es bien distinta. El futuro ha sido mermado, al menos por el momento, y el pasado parece ser redundante. Mientras tanto, los medios de comunicaci\u00f3n inundan a la gente con un n\u00famero de im\u00e1genes sin precedentes, muchas de las cuales son caras humanas. Estas caras est\u00e1n continuamente perorando a todo el mundo, provocando la envidia, nuevos apetitos, nuevas ambiciones o, de vez en cuando, una compasi\u00f3n combinada con una sensaci\u00f3n de impotencia. Adem\u00e1s, las im\u00e1genes de todas estas caras se procesan y seleccionan a fin de que su perorata sea lo m\u00e1s ruidosa posible, de tal forma que los llamamientos, las s\u00faplicas, se eliminan unas a otras. \u00a1Y la gente llega a depender de este ruido impersonal como prueba de que est\u00e1 viva!\n\nImagin\u00e9monos, pues, lo que sucede cuando alguien se topa con el silencio de las caras de El Fayum y se para en seco. Unas im\u00e1genes de hombres y mujeres que no hacen llamamiento alguno, que no piden nada, y que, sin embargo, declaran que est\u00e1n vivas, como lo est\u00e1 quien las est\u00e9 mirando. Pese a toda su fragilidad, encarnan un respeto por uno mismo hoy olvidado. Confirman, pese a todo, que la vida fue y es un don.\n\nPero hay otra raz\u00f3n por la que los retratos de El Fayum nos hablan hoy. Este siglo XX, como se ha se\u00f1alado en infinidad de ocasiones, es _el_ siglo de la emigraci\u00f3n, obligada o voluntaria; es decir, un siglo de infinitas separaciones y un siglo obsesionado por los recuerdos de esas separaciones.\n\nLa angustia que sobreviene cuando se echa de menos lo que ya no est\u00e1 es semejante a encontrarse de pronto con una vasija ca\u00edda y hecha a\u00f1icos en el suelo. Uno recoge en soledad los trozos, encuentra la manera de encajarlos y los pega cuidadosamente, uno a uno. Finalmente, la vasija vuelve a su forma original, pero ya no ser\u00e1 nunca como era antes. Por un lado, es defectuosa y, por el otro, se ha hecho m\u00e1s preciada. Algo parecido sucede con la imagen de un lugar o de una persona querida tal como las preservamos en nuestro recuerdo despu\u00e9s de la separaci\u00f3n.\n\nLos retratos de El Fayum tocan de una forma parecida una herida semejante. Las caras pintadas tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1n resquebrajadas y tambi\u00e9n son m\u00e1s preciadas de lo que lo era la cara viva que pos\u00f3 en el estudio del pintor, donde ol\u00eda a cera derretida. Son defectuosas por su car\u00e1cter evidentemente artesanal. Y m\u00e1s preciadas porque la mirada pintada est\u00e1 totalmente concentrada en la vida que sabe que perder\u00e1 alg\u00fan d\u00eda.\n\nY as\u00ed, los retratos de El Fayum nos miran, como nos miran los desaparecidos en nuestro propio siglo.\n\n______________\n\n1 V\u00e9ase: Bailly, Jean-Christoph, _L'Apostrophe muette: essai sur les portrais du Fayoum_ , Hazan, Par\u00eds, 1999 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _La llamada muda: ensayo sobre los retratos de El Fayum_ , Akal, Madrid, 2001).\n\n## **Piero della Francesca**\n\n## hacia 1415-1492\n\nPiero della Francesca, \n _La resurrecci\u00f3n_ , 1467-1468.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de leer el _Galileo_ de Bertolt Brecht estuve pensando sobre la incierta posici\u00f3n que ocupa el cient\u00edfico en la sociedad. Y se me ocurri\u00f3 entonces que la del artista era muy distinta. El cient\u00edfico puede elegir entre revelar u ocultar los datos que sostienen su nueva hip\u00f3tesis y le acercan a la verdad. En el caso de que tenga que luchar, tiene pruebas para cubrirse las espaldas. Pero para el artista, la verdad es variable. Se las tiene que arreglar con la versi\u00f3n concreta, la manera de mirar concreta que haya elegido. El artista no tiene con qu\u00e9 cubrirse las espaldas... solo cuenta con sus propias decisiones.\n\nEs este elemento arbitrario y personal del arte lo que hace que nos resulte tan dif\u00edcil estar seguros de que seguimos con precisi\u00f3n los c\u00e1lculos del artista o de que comprendemos completamente la secuencia de su razonamiento. Frente a la mayor\u00eda de las obras de arte, al igual que nos sucede con los \u00e1rboles, solo podemos ver y evaluar una secci\u00f3n del todo: las ra\u00edces son invisibles. Hoy se explota y se abusa de ese elemento misterioso. La mayor\u00eda de las obras contempor\u00e1neas son casi completamente subterr\u00e1neas. Por eso resulta refrescante y estimulante contemplar la obra del hombre que probablemente ocult\u00f3 menos de lo que cualquier otro artista haya ocultado nunca: Piero della Francesca.\n\nBernard Berenson habla, elogi\u00e1ndolo, del arte \"no elocuente\" de Piero:\n\nA la larga, las creaciones m\u00e1s satisfactorias son aquellas que, como las de Piero y C\u00e9zanne, no son elocuentes, que son mudas, no tienen nada urgente que comunicar ni intenci\u00f3n de suscitar en nosotros una mirada o un gesto.\n\nEsta falta de elocuencia es cierta en lo que se refiere a los protagonistas de Piero. Pero en una relaci\u00f3n inversamente proporcional a lo poco que dicen sus cuadros en t\u00e9rminos dram\u00e1ticos, podr\u00edan llenarse varios vol\u00famenes con lo que dicen sobre el funcionamiento de su mente. No quiero decir con esto que revelen la psicolog\u00eda de su autor, sino el proceso de su pensamiento consciente. Constituyen una lecci\u00f3n tras otras de la l\u00f3gica que encierra la creaci\u00f3n de orden. Y posiblemente la proporci\u00f3n inversa existe porque, al igual que la finalidad de la m\u00e1quina es la econom\u00eda de esfuerzos, la finalidad del pensamiento sistem\u00e1tico es la econom\u00eda de pensamiento. En cualquier caso, no deja de ser cierto que uno puede estar bastante seguro de que todas las correspondencias o coincidencias que descubra en un Piero della Francesca son deliberadas. Todo ha sido calculado. Las interpretaciones han cambiado y volver\u00e1n a cambiar, pero los elementos de la pintura quedaron fijados para siempre y con una previsi\u00f3n total.\n\nSi estudiamos todas las grandes obras de Piero, las pruebas internas nos llevar\u00e1n a esta conclusi\u00f3n. Pero tambi\u00e9n hay unas pruebas externas. Sabemos que Piero trabajaba excepcionalmente lento. Sabemos que adem\u00e1s de pintor era matem\u00e1tico y que al final de su vida, cuando se qued\u00f3 sin vista para pintar, public\u00f3 dos tratados de matem\u00e1ticas. Tambi\u00e9n podemos comparar sus obras con las de sus ayudantes: las obras de estos \u00faltimos tambi\u00e9n son poco elocuentes, pero esto, en lugar de hacerlas portentosas, las hace inertes, sin vida. La vida en el arte de Piero surge de su excepcional capacidad de c\u00e1lculo.\n\nPuede que de primeras esto suene fr\u00edo y cerebral. Pero vayamos m\u00e1s lejos y contemplemos _La resurrecci\u00f3n_ que pint\u00f3 en Sansepolcro, su villa natal. Cuando se abre la puerta del Ayuntamiento, un edificio peque\u00f1o y desali\u00f1ado y, entre dos columnas ficticias, aparece este fresco, de alg\u00fan modo uno instintivamente se queda callado. Ese silencio no tiene nada que ver con hacer ostentaci\u00f3n de veneraci\u00f3n por el arte o por Jesucristo. Se debe a que, al contemplar lo que hay entre esas dos columnas pintadas, uno toma conciencia de que el tiempo y el espacio aparecen trabados en un equilibrio perfecto. Te quedas inm\u00f3vil, guardas silencio, por la misma raz\u00f3n que no osas moverte cuando est\u00e1s viendo a un fun\u00e1mbulo avanzar por la cuerda floja. As\u00ed de afinado es el equilibrio. Pero \u00bfc\u00f3mo? \u00bfPor qu\u00e9? \u00bfNos afectar\u00eda del mismo modo el diagrama de la estructura de un cristal? No. Aqu\u00ed hay algo m\u00e1s que una armon\u00eda abstracta. Las im\u00e1genes son representaciones convincentes de seres humanos, \u00e1rboles, cerros, cascos o piedras. Y sabemos que todas esas cosas crecen, se desarrollan y tienen una vida propia, de la misma manera que sabemos que el acr\u00f3bata se puede caer. As\u00ed pues, cuando sus formas cobran aqu\u00ed existencia en perfecta correspondencia, no podemos sino sentir que todo lo que les ha ocurrido previamente les ha ocurrido en preparaci\u00f3n para este momento que se nos ofrece. Una pintura as\u00ed convierte el presente en el c\u00e9nit de todo el pasado. Del mismo modo que el tema m\u00e1s b\u00e1sico de la poes\u00eda es el del paso del tiempo, el tema b\u00e1sico de la pintura es el de la permanencia de un momento.\n\nPiero della Francesca, \n _La resurrecci\u00f3n_ , 1467-1468. Detalle.\n\nPor esto no eran tan fr\u00edos los c\u00e1lculos de Piero, por esto no nos quedamos sencillamente fascinados, sino profundamente conmovidos al darnos cuenta de que el casco del soldado de la izquierda resulta ser un eco de los cerrillos que est\u00e1n detr\u00e1s de \u00e9l, de que esa forma de escudo irregular aparece unas diez veces (cu\u00e9ntenlas) o de que el b\u00e1culo de Cristo marca a nivel del suelo el punto del \u00e1ngulo que forman las dos l\u00edneas de \u00e1rboles. Pero esta no es la \u00fanica raz\u00f3n. Los c\u00e1lculos silenciosos y pacientes de Piero van mucho m\u00e1s lejos que la pura armon\u00eda del dise\u00f1o.\n\nObservemos, por ejemplo, la composici\u00f3n general de la obra. Su centro, aunque no sea, claro est\u00e1, el centro verdadero, es la mano de Cristo que agarra la t\u00fanica al alzarse. La fuerza de la mano que frunce la tela parece especialmente acentuada. No es un gesto casual. Se dir\u00eda que es esencial al movimiento general del Cristo al alzarse fuera del sepulcro. La mano, que reposa en la rodilla, tambi\u00e9n descansa sobre la primera l\u00ednea de cerrillos que se alzan detr\u00e1s de \u00e9l, y los pliegues de la t\u00fanica caen como torrentes, ladera abajo. Observemos ahora a los soldados, cuyo sue\u00f1o resulta tan convincente, tan prosaico. Solo el de la derecha, en primer plano, parece estar en una postura inc\u00f3moda, casi imposible. Sus piernas, el brazo entre ellas, su espalda un poco curvada son comprensibles. Sin embargo, \u00bfc\u00f3mo puede sostenerse as\u00ed solo sobre un brazo? Esta aparente torpeza nos da una pista. Parece que est\u00e1 tumbado en una hamaca invisible. \u00bfD\u00f3nde estar\u00eda colgada esa hamaca? Si ahora volvemos de pronto a la mano, veremos que los cuatro soldados est\u00e1n metidos en una red de pesca invisible, una red arrastrada por esa mano. El gesto enf\u00e1tico de la mano agarrando la t\u00fanica adquiere un sentido perfecto. Los cuatro soldados profundamente dormidos constituyen la presa que el Cristo resucitado se ha tra\u00eddo del m\u00e1s all\u00e1, de la Muerte. Como dec\u00eda, Piero va mucho m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de las meras armon\u00edas de dise\u00f1o.\n\nEn toda su obra, detr\u00e1s de los c\u00e1lculos, se perfila una meta. Esta meta se puede resumir de la misma manera que describ\u00eda Henri Poincar\u00e9 la meta de las matem\u00e1ticas:\n\nLas matem\u00e1ticas constituyen el arte de darle el mismo nombre a cosas diferentes [...]. Cuando el lenguaje ha sido bien elegido, asombra descubrir que todas las demostraciones hechas para un objeto conocido pueden aplicarse inmediatamente a muchos objetos nuevos.\n\nEl lenguaje de Piero es visual, no matem\u00e1tico. Est\u00e1 bien elegido porque se basa en la selecci\u00f3n de unos dibujos soberbios. No obstante, cuando, por medio de la composici\u00f3n, conecta un pie con la base de un \u00e1rbol, un rostro en escorzo con el escorzo de un cerro, o el sue\u00f1o con la muerte, lo hace a fin de poner de relieve sus denominadores comunes, o, todav\u00eda con mayor precisi\u00f3n, para acentuar hasta qu\u00e9 punto est\u00e1n sujetos a las mismas leyes f\u00edsicas. Su inter\u00e9s especial por el espacio y la perspectiva se deriva de esta meta. La necesidad de existir en el espacio es el primer denominador com\u00fan. Y por eso la perspectiva ten\u00eda un _contenido_ tan profundo en Piero. Para casi todos sus contempor\u00e1neos no dej\u00f3 nunca de ser una t\u00e9cnica pict\u00f3rica.\n\nSu \"falta de elocuencia\", como ya se ha sugerido, est\u00e1 tambi\u00e9n conectada con esa misma meta. Pinta todas las cosas del mismo modo a fin de que se puedan ver m\u00e1s f\u00e1cilmente las leyes comunes que las gobiernan. Las correspondencias en la obra de Piero son infinitas. No ten\u00eda que invent\u00e1rselas, le bastaba con buscarlas. La tela con la carne, los cabellos con el follaje, un dedo con una pierna, una tienda con un \u00fatero, los hombres con las mujeres, la vestimenta con la arquitectura, los pliegues de la t\u00fanica con el agua, pero, en realidad, la lista deja mucho fuera. Piero no trata con met\u00e1foras \u2014aunque el poeta en este aspecto no est\u00e1 tan lejos del cient\u00edfico\u2014, sino con causas comunes. Explica el mundo. Todo el pasado ha llevado hasta este momento. Y las leyes de esta convergencia constituyen el verdadero contenido de su arte.\n\nO eso parece. Pero, en realidad, \u00bfc\u00f3mo sucede? Un cuadro no es un tratado. La l\u00f3gica de sus medidas es diferente. La ciencia en la segunda parte del siglo XV carec\u00eda de muchos conceptos y de mucha informaci\u00f3n que hoy nos resulta necesaria. \u00bfC\u00f3mo puede ser entonces que Piero siga siendo convincente mientras que los astr\u00f3nomos contempor\u00e1neos suyos han dejado de parec\u00e9rnoslo?\n\nVolvamos a mirar los rostros de Piero, esos rostros que nos observan. Sus ojos no establecen ninguna correspondencia. Son \u00fanicos, est\u00e1n aparte. Se dir\u00eda que todo lo que los rodea \u2014el paisaje, sus propias caras, la nariz que los separa, el cabello por encima de ellos\u2014 perteneciera a lo explicable, en verdad, al mundo ya explicado; se dir\u00eda que estos ojos estuvieran contemplando desde fuera, a trav\u00e9s de dos ranuras, este mundo. Y ah\u00ed encontramos la \u00faltima pista, en los ojos especulativos, profundos, de las figuras de Piero que miran al espectador. Lo que en realidad pinta Piero es un estado mental. Pinta c\u00f3mo ser\u00eda el mundo si lo pudi\u00e9ramos explicar completamente, si pudi\u00e9ramos estar en paz con \u00e9l. Es el pintor supremo del _conocimiento_. Del conocimiento que se adquiere mediante los m\u00e9todos cient\u00edficos o mediante la felicidad (esto \u00faltimo, aunque no parezca muy probable, tiene sentido). Durante los siglos en los que la ciencia se consider\u00f3 la ant\u00edtesis del arte, y el arte la ant\u00edtesis del bienestar, Piero fue un pintor olvidado. Hoy volvemos a necesitarlo.\n\n## **Antonello da Messina**\n\n## hacia 1430-1479\n\nEl d\u00eda de Viernes Santo de 2008 me encontraba en Londres, y por la ma\u00f1ana temprano decid\u00ed acercarme a la National Gallery a contemplar la _Crucifixi\u00f3n_ de Antonello da Messina. De todas las pinturas que conozco de esa escena, esta es la m\u00e1s solitaria. La menos aleg\u00f3rica.\n\nLa obra de Antonello \u2014y son menos de cuarenta los cuadros que son indiscutiblemente suyos\u2014 ofrece un sentido puramente siciliano de la presencia, un sentido que carece de mesura, que rechaza toda moderaci\u00f3n o autoprotecci\u00f3n. En las siguientes palabras, pronunciadas por un pescador de la costa cercana a Palermo y recogidas hace algunas d\u00e9cadas por Danielo Dolci, se oye esto mismo:\n\nHay veces que, cuando veo las estrellas, por la noche, sobre todo cuando hemos salido a pescar anguilas, me pongo a darle a la cabeza: \"\u00bfDe verdad es real el mundo?\". Yo no me creo eso. Cuando estoy tranquilo, creo en Jes\u00fas. Como hables mal de Jes\u00fas, te mato. Pero hay veces que no creo, ni siquiera en Dios. \"Si Dios existe de verdad, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 no me da un respiro y un buen trabajo?\"\n\nEn una Piedad de Antonello, que hoy est\u00e1 en el Museo del Prado, la cabeza de Cristo est\u00e1 sostenida por un \u00e1ngel que parece desvalido y que reposa su propia cabeza en la de Cristo. El \u00e1ngel m\u00e1s lastimero de toda la historia de la pintura.\n\nSicilia, una isla que admite la pasi\u00f3n y rechaza las ilusiones.\n\nTom\u00e9 un autob\u00fas a Trafalgar Square. No s\u00e9 cu\u00e1ntos cientos de veces he subido la escalinata que conduce desde la plaza al interior del museo y a la vista desde arriba, antes de entrar, de sus fuentes. La plaza, a diferencia de muchos otros puntos de reuni\u00f3n famosos de otras ciudades, como la Place de la Bastille en Par\u00eds, es, pese a su nombre, completamente indiferente a la historia. Ni recuerdos ni esperanzas dejan aqu\u00ed sus huellas.\n\nEn 1942, sub\u00ed estas mismas escaleras para asistir a los recitales de piano que daba en el museo Myra Hess. La mayor\u00eda de los cuadros hab\u00edan sido evacuados a causa de los bombardeos a\u00e9reos. Tocaba obras de Bach. Los conciertos eran a mediod\u00eda. Los escuch\u00e1bamos tan silenciosos como los pocos cuadros que quedaban colgados en las paredes. Las notas y los acordes del piano nos parec\u00edan un ramo de flores sujeto por un alambre de muerte. Nos qued\u00e1bamos con el v\u00edvido ramo e ignor\u00e1bamos el alambre.\n\nDibujo de John Berger extra\u00eddo de _El cuaderno de Bento_ (2011).\n\nAntonello da Messina, _Crucifixi\u00f3n_ , 1475.\n\nFue ese mismo a\u00f1o, 1942, cuando los londinenses escucharon por primera vez en la radio \u2014era verano, creo\u2014 la _S\u00e9ptima sinfon\u00eda_ de Dimitri Shostak\u00f3vich, dedicada a la ciudad sitiada de Leningrado. Hab\u00eda empezado a componerla all\u00ed, en 1941, durante el asedio. Para algunos de nosotros, la sinfon\u00eda era una profec\u00eda. Al escucharla nos dec\u00edamos que la resistencia de Leningrado, a la que entonces hab\u00eda seguido la de Stalingrado, terminar\u00eda conduciendo a la derrota de la Wehrmacht a manos del Ej\u00e9rcito Rojo. Y eso fue lo que sucedi\u00f3.\n\nEs extra\u00f1o, pero en tiempo de guerra la m\u00fasica es una de las pocas cosas que parecen indestructibles.\n\nEnseguida encuentro la _Crucifixi\u00f3n_ de Antonello, colgada a la altura de los ojos, a la izquierda seg\u00fan se entra en la sala. Lo que sorprende de las cabezas y los cuerpos que pint\u00f3 Antonello no es simplemente su solidez, sino la forma en la que los presiona el espacio pintado que los rodea y la forma en la que ellos resisten esa presi\u00f3n. Es esta resistencia lo que los hace tan incontestablemente presentes, una presencia f\u00edsica. Despu\u00e9s de pasar un buen rato mir\u00e1ndolo, decido dibujar solo la figura de Cristo.\n\nUn poco a la derecha del cuadro, casi pegada a la entrada de la sala, hay una silla. Hay una en todas las salas; es para el celador que da informaci\u00f3n a los visitantes que se la piden y vigila que no se acerquen demasiado a los cuadros.\n\nCuando era estudiante y andaba siempre falto de dinero me preguntaba c\u00f3mo se contrataba a los vigilantes de los museos. \u00bfPodr\u00eda yo presentarme a la plaza? No. Casi todos eran personas de edad. Hab\u00eda algunas mujeres, pero la mayor\u00eda eran hombres. \u00bfEra un trabajo que se ofrec\u00eda a ciertos funcionarios municipales antes de que se jubilaran? \u00bfO iban voluntarios? En cualquier caso, llegaban a conocerse al dedillo algunos de los cuadros. Alguna vez o\u00ed conversaciones de este tipo:\n\n\u2014\u00bfNos podr\u00eda decir d\u00f3nde est\u00e1n las obras de Vel\u00e1zquez?\n\n\u2014S\u00ed, s\u00ed. La Escuela espa\u00f1ola. Sala 22. Siga de frente, gire a la derecha al llegar al final. La segunda sala a la izquierda, all\u00ed los tiene.\n\n\u2014Estamos buscado su retrato del venado.\n\n\u2014\u00bfEl venado? Querr\u00e1n decir el ciervo.\n\n\u2014S\u00ed, solo de la cabeza.\n\n\u2014Pues tenemos dos retratos de Felipe IV, y en uno de ellos los bigotes del monarca se curvan como una cornamenta. Pero de venado, nada. Lo siento.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Qu\u00e9 raro!\n\n\u2014A lo mejor su venado est\u00e1 en Madrid. Pero el que no deben perderse es el de _Cristo en casa de Marta y Mar\u00eda_. Marta est\u00e1 machacando unos ajos en el mortero, para aderezar unos pescados.\n\n\u2014Estuvimos en el Prado, pero all\u00ed tampoco estaba el venado. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 pena!\n\n\u2014Y tampoco se vayan sin ver nuestra _Venus del espejo_. Es digna de ver esa corva.\n\nLos vigilantes suelen tener dos o tres salas a su cargo, de modo que est\u00e1n, por lo general, yendo y viniendo de una a otra. La silla contigua a la _Crucifixi\u00f3n_ est\u00e1 de momento vac\u00eda. Saco mi bloc de dibujo, una pluma y un pa\u00f1uelo, y dejo mi peque\u00f1a bolsa en la silla.\n\nEmpiezo a dibujar. Corrijo un error tras otro. Algunos triviales; otros m\u00e1s importantes. La cuesti\u00f3n fundamental es la escala de la cruz en la p\u00e1gina. Si no es la adecuada, el espacio circundante no ejercer\u00e1 presi\u00f3n alguna y, por consiguiente, no habr\u00e1 resistencia. Dibujo con tinta y humedezco con saliva el dedo, para difuminar. Mal comienzo. Paso la p\u00e1gina y empiezo de nuevo.\n\nNo cometer\u00e9 los mismos errores. Har\u00e9 otros, claro. Dibujo, corrijo, dibujo.\n\nAntonello pint\u00f3 en total cuatro crucifixiones. Pero la escena a la que siempre volv\u00eda es la del Ecce Hommo, en la cual Cristo, puesto en libertad por Poncio Pilatos, queda expuesto a las burlas y oye al sanedr\u00edn pidiendo que lo crucifiquen.\n\nPint\u00f3 seis versiones. Todas ellas primeros planos de la cabeza de Cristo, todas ellas parejas en su sufrimiento. Tanto la cara como la pintura de la misma son decididas, resueltas. De nuevo, la misma l\u00facida tradici\u00f3n siciliana de calibrar las cosas, sin sentimentalismos ni lisonjas.\n\n\u2014\u00bfEs suya esta bolsa?\n\nMiro de soslayo. Un guarda jurado armado se\u00f1ala hacia la silla con cara de pocos amigos.\n\n\u2014S\u00ed, es m\u00eda.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Pero la silla no es suya!\n\n\u2014Ya, ya lo s\u00e9. Dej\u00e9 ah\u00ed la bolsa porque no hab\u00eda nadie sentado en ella. Ahora mismo la quito.\n\nCojo la bolsa, doy un paso a la izquierda, hacia el cuadro, la dejo en el suelo, entre los pies, y vuelvo a mirar mi dibujo.\n\n\u2014No puede dejar la bolsa en el suelo.\n\n\u2014Rev\u00edsela si quiere, mire, solo llevo mi cartera y alg\u00fan material de dibujo, nada m\u00e1s.\n\nMantengo la bolsa abierta delante de \u00e9l. Se vuelve de espaldas.\n\nDejo la bolsa en suelo de nuevo y retomo el dibujo. Con toda su reciedumbre, el cuerpo crucificado no deja de ser muy delgado. M\u00e1s delgado de lo que se puede uno imaginar antes de dibujarlo.\n\n\u2014Se lo estoy diciendo. No puede dejar la bolsa en el suelo.\n\n\u2014He venido a dibujar esta crucifixi\u00f3n porque hoy es Viernes Santo.\n\n\u2014Est\u00e1 prohibido.\n\nSigo dibujando como si nada.\n\n\u2014Si insiste en hacer lo mismo \u2014me advierte el guarda jurado\u2014, tendr\u00e9 que llamar al supervisor.\n\nAlzo el dibujo para que lo vea.\n\nEs un hombre de unos cuarenta a\u00f1os. Corpulento y de ojos peque\u00f1itos. O, tal vez, ojos que \u00e9l achica al avanzar la cabeza.\n\n\u2014Con diez minutos me basta para terminar \u2014le digo.\n\n\u2014Pero yo voy a buscar al supervisor ya \u2014responde \u00e9l.\n\n\u2014Mire, si hay que llamar a alguien, llamemos a alguien del museo y, con un poco de suerte, le explicar\u00e1 que no pasa nada.\n\n\u2014El personal del museo no pinta nada aqu\u00ed. Nuestro trabajo es independiente del de ellos. Nosotros nos encargamos de la seguridad \u2014me dice, gru\u00f1endo.\n\n\u00a1Tus cojones, seguridad!, pienso, pero no se lo digo.\n\nEmpieza a ir y venir despacio, como un centinela. Yo sigo dibujando. Ahora estoy en los pies.\n\n\u2014Voy a contar hasta seis y llamo al supervisor \u2014me dice.\n\nSe lleva el tel\u00e9fono m\u00f3vil a la boca.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Uno!\n\nYo me humedezco el dedo con saliva para buscar los grises.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Dos!\n\nPaso el dedo h\u00famedo por el papel, de modo que la tinta se corra y marque el oscuro hueco de la mano.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Tres!\n\nAhora la otra mano.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Cuatro! \u2014dice acerc\u00e1ndose a m\u00ed en dos zancadas. \u00a1Cinco!, cu\u00e9lguese la bolsa en el hombro.\n\nLe explico que dado el tama\u00f1o del cuaderno de dibujo, si me la cuelgo, no puedo dibujar.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Que se la cuelgue le digo!\n\nLa coge y la sostiene a la altura de mi cara.\n\nCierro la pluma, cojo la bolsa y digo \u00a1joder! en voz alta.\n\n\u2014\u00a1Joder!\n\nAbre los ojos de par en par y menea la cabeza, sonriendo.\n\n\u2014As\u00ed que palabrotas en un lugar p\u00fablico \u2014me anuncia\u2014. Ya viene el supervisor.\n\nSe relaja entonces y se pone a dar vueltas lentamente alrededor de la sala.\n\nDejo la bolsa en el suelo, saco la pluma y echo un vistazo al dibujo. Tiene que haber un horizonte que limite el cielo. Con dos o tres trazos indico el suelo.\n\nEn una _Anunciaci\u00f3n_ , Antonello pint\u00f3 a la Virgen de pie, delante de un estante con una Biblia abierta encima. No hay \u00e1ngel alguno. Es un retrato de medio cuerpo de Mar\u00eda; tiene las manos cruzadas delante del pecho, con los dedos extendidos, semejantes a las p\u00e1ginas del libro prof\u00e9tico. La profec\u00eda pasa entre sus dedos.\n\nCuando llega, el supervisor se para con los brazos en jarras m\u00e1s o menos detr\u00e1s de m\u00ed, y me anuncia:\n\n\u2014Va a salir escoltado del museo. Ha insultado a uno de mis hombres mientras estaba de servicio y ha causado un desorden p\u00fablico en este establecimiento. Camine delante de nosotros hacia la salida. Supongo que conoce el camino.\n\nMe conducen escaleras abajo hasta la plaza, donde se vuelven y suben los escalones de dos en dos, con gran energ\u00eda. Misi\u00f3n cumplida.\n\n## **Andrea Mantegna**\n\n## 1430\/1431-1506\n\nCon Katya Andreadakis Berger\n\nJohn Berger: \u00bfPor d\u00f3nde empezar...?\n\nKatya Andreadakis Berger: Hablemos del olvido.\n\nJ: \u00bfEs el olvido la nada?\n\nK: No. La nada no tiene forma, y el olvido es circular.\n\nJ: \u00bfY de qu\u00e9 color es? \u00bfAzul?\n\nK: El olvido no necesita pintura; el olvido esculpe, deja huellas, como peque\u00f1os guijarros blancos. La nada es anterior y posterior a los guijarros, a los recuerdos.\n\nJ: Solo olvidando se pueden captar las cosas en su conjunto. Por eso, el olvido, a diferencia de la mala memoria, tiene una precisi\u00f3n propia.\n\nK: El olvido es supervivencia.\n\nJ: \u00bfEs el olvido una facultad que le presta el sue\u00f1o a la vigilia?\n\nK: No, el olvido no es un pr\u00e9stamo del sue\u00f1o. El sue\u00f1o es creativo, y el olvido carcome, penetra, conserva, reduce a polvo.\n\nJ: Puede que el olvido no borre la posibilidad de elecci\u00f3n, sino la causalidad. Y por lo general nos equivocamos m\u00e1s a la hora de ver las causas que a la de elegir.\n\nK: Somos los precipitados de aquello que nuestros padres no pudieron olvidar. Somos lo que queda. El mundo \u2014y nuestras palabras, como las que estamos diciendo aqu\u00ed ahora\u2014 es lo que queda de todo lo que se ha dispersado. Olvidar es viajar a la esencia que permanece. La piedra.\n\nJ: El olvido es un vale para el futuro. Cada cual es cada cual sin reconocerlo. Por eso estamos condenados, hasta que no somos lo bastante humildes para llegar a comprender que eso es el olvido. Cada cual es cada cual.\n\nAndrea Mantegna, techo de la _C\u00e1mara de los esposos_ , 1465-1474.\n\nK: El recuerdo y el olvido no son opuestos; son complementarios.\n\nJ: \u00bfSe parecen las nubes del \u00f3culo al olvido?\n\nK: S\u00ed.\n\nJ: Una estancia pintada _cuyas pinturas_ se dirigen a alguien _que se acaba de despertar_ o que est\u00e1 a punto de dormirse.\n\nLa estancia se encuentra en el palacio Ducal de Mantua. El palacio es un centro de poder. Imponente, brutal incluso. La estancia, por el contrario, es \u00edntima. Se pens\u00f3 como una estancia privada en donde el pr\u00edncipe pudiera recibir a sus visitantes y en la que hab\u00eda tambi\u00e9n una cama matrimonial. El duque Ludovico Gonzaga encarg\u00f3 a Andrea Mantegna sus pinturas, quien tard\u00f3 diez a\u00f1os en completarla (entre 1465 y 1474).\n\nK: Cuando estuvo terminada, se dijo que era \"la estancia m\u00e1s bella del mundo\".\n\nJ: La cama estaba situada en la esquina suroeste de la estancia. En la pared de enfrente hay pintada una escena de exterior con muchas figuras. Se titula _El encuentro_ , porque muestra al duque recibiendo a su hijo, el cardenal Francesco, y tomando la carta que este le entrega.\n\nK: En la pared frente a los pies de la cama hay una escena cortesana de interior en la que el duque le muestra a su esposa la carta que ha recibido y le\u00eddo.\n\nJ: En el techo, sobre la cama, hay una c\u00fapula pintada que se abre a un cielo pintado. Se llama el \u00d3culo, \"el ojo\".\n\nK: Toda la habitaci\u00f3n est\u00e1 pintada. Estamos dentro de una pintura. Las otras dos paredes est\u00e1n pintadas con motivos florales. Tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1n pintadas las cortinas que enmarcan y separan esas escenas, y los pilares y las molduras de las paredes. Todo est\u00e1 pintado.\n\nJ: Todo es representaci\u00f3n. Sabemos que las cortinas est\u00e1n pintadas. Sabemos que las figuras est\u00e1n pintadas, al igual que el cielo y las colinas. Todo es superficie.\n\nK: Podr\u00edamos correr las cortinas pintadas y ocultar el paisaje pintado.\n\nJ: Y a la ma\u00f1ana siguiente, podr\u00edamos abrir las cortinas pintadas y ver el paisaje pintado.\n\nK: Mantegna firm\u00f3 la habitaci\u00f3n como obra suya y dej\u00f3 su autorretrato entre los pergaminos pintados que decoran una de sus esquinas.\n\nJ: En esta habitaci\u00f3n, la pintura lo muestra todo al mismo tiempo que lo oculta.\n\nK: Y as\u00ed nada es tan patente como el cuerpo que tienes a tu lado en la cama.\n\nJ: Como escribir\u00eda W. H. Auden cinco siglos despu\u00e9s:\n\nAcuesta tu cabeza dormida, amor m\u00edo,\n\nhumano en mi hombro incr\u00e9dulo;\n\nel tiempo y las fiebres consumen\n\nla belleza particular de\n\nlos ni\u00f1os pensativos, y la tumba\n\nlos demuestra ef\u00edmeros:\n\npero que entre mis brazos hasta romper el d\u00eda\n\nrepose la criatura viva,\n\nmortal, culpable, mas para m\u00ed\n\nenteramente bella.\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1l es la estrategia de esta estancia pintada? \u00bfC\u00f3mo quiere sorprendernos?\n\n[Katya gira el panel del \u00f3culo al lado que est\u00e1 en blanco.]\n\nK: Mantegna fue (es) famoso por sus innovaciones en la perspectiva y el escorzo. Puede que el ejemplo que m\u00e1s llama la atenci\u00f3n sea su _Cristo muerto._ [Proyecci\u00f3n en el panel blanco de _Cristo muerto._ ]\n\nJ: \u00bfRecuerdas c\u00f3mo lo vimos juntos?\n\nAndrea Mantegna, _Cristo muerto_ , 1470-1474.\n\nK: Nos tendimos en el suelo de la Pinacoteca di Brera, primero uno y luego el otro, delante del Cristo, para descubrir el posible punto de vista del pintor y, por consiguiente, el punto de vista ideal del espectador. Uno de los dos hac\u00eda de cuerpo yacente, y el otro de pintor. Quer\u00edamos averiguar si en la figura de Mantegna la cabeza no era demasiado grande y los pies demasiado peque\u00f1os.\n\nJ: Hecha la comprobaci\u00f3n, vimos que las proporciones no estaban equivocadas, y que el pintor hab\u00eda mirado todo de arriba abajo, siendo su punto de vista el mismo que el del humilde tercer deudo, un poco por encima de las dos Mar\u00edas, a la izquierda. Se podr\u00eda trazar un tri\u00e1ngulo entre la cabeza de Cristo, sus pies lancinados y, en el v\u00e9rtice del tri\u00e1ngulo, los ojos del espectador, a la misma altura que los del tercer deudo. [Mientras John habla, Katya va se\u00f1alando los puntos indicados.] [Fin de la proyecci\u00f3n de _Cristo muerto_. John vuelve a dejar el panel por el lado del \u00f3culo.]\n\nK: \u00bfExiste una equivalencia de alg\u00fan tipo entre la preocupaci\u00f3n de Mantegna, su obsesi\u00f3n, con la perspectiva espacial, sobre todo en relaci\u00f3n con el cuerpo humano, y la sensaci\u00f3n del tiempo que pasa, la perspectiva temporal? Y los _putti_ del \u00f3culo, con sus pliegues de la barriguita que tocan la barbilla, el pez\u00f3n que roza el labio inferior, las nalgas que parecen escaparse de las paletillas bajo una cabeza cubierta de rizos, \u00bftienen, por alguna misteriosa raz\u00f3n, algo que ver con cierta visi\u00f3n de la Historia?\n\nJ: S\u00ed. Su curiosidad por la perspectiva espacial, la fascinaci\u00f3n que le produce, es inseparable de su insistencia en una perspectiva temporal.\n\nK: Mira cualquiera de las caras pintadas en estas paredes. \u00bfHab\u00edas visto alguna vez unas arrugas, unas l\u00edneas faciales mejor representadas? \u00bfHab\u00edas visto unas arrugas pintadas que parecieran tan vivas o, mejor dicho, tan vividas? En ninguna otra parte hab\u00eda visto una observaci\u00f3n tan precisa del paso del tiempo en una frente, en unos p\u00e1rpados, en unos p\u00f3mulos o en una barbilla.\n\nJ: Muy pocas veces se ven otros retratos que muestren la vehemencia con la que Mantegna traza, en cualquiera de los suyos, el paso del tiempo en los rostros de las personas. En el caso de los otros pintores, esto solo sucede cuando el tema de la imagen es \"la vejez\". Pero en las caras que pinta Mantegna se ve la labor del tiempo sea cual sea la edad del retratado. (Se dice que entre sus contempor\u00e1neos hab\u00eda a quienes les desasosegaba la idea de que Mantegna los retratara.)\n\nK: Pensemos en los edificios que se ven en el paisaje al otro lado del arco del fresco llamado _El encuentro_. Est\u00e1n bajo el cielo, uno tras otro: una torre en ruinas, una torre en construcci\u00f3n con obreros diminutos subidos a un andamio. Por todas partes se ven restos del pasado y planes para el futuro. \u00bfNo es eso tambi\u00e9n una forma de perspectiva? No hay otra palabra para ello. De no haber sido pintor, Mantegna habr\u00eda sido arquitecto o historiador o geriatra... \u00a1o comadrona! [Mientras Katya habla, John va se\u00f1alando los puntos indicados.]\n\nJ: La idea de la Antig\u00fcedad obsesionaba a Mantegna tal vez m\u00e1s que a cualquier otro pintor del Renacimiento, y se entreg\u00f3 a ella. Pero para comprender lo que significaba, tenemos que dar un salto imaginativo y dejar atr\u00e1s la modernidad y todas sus promesas de progreso continuado.\n\nK: El gusto renacentista por la Antig\u00fcedad no era nost\u00e1lgico. Los modelos de la Antig\u00fcedad cl\u00e1sica ofrec\u00edan una gu\u00eda del comportamiento plenamente humano. Era ejemplar, en el sentido estricto del t\u00e9rmino, en cuanto ofrec\u00eda en su historia, su pensamiento y su arte ejemplos de sabidur\u00eda, justicia y dignidad humanas. Ejemplos que deber\u00edan seguirse, pero que era f\u00e1cil olvidar.\n\nJ: El pasado ofrec\u00eda bastantes m\u00e1s promesas al presente que al futuro. O, para decirlo con otras palabras, cuanto m\u00e1s se alejaba el mundo del acto de su creaci\u00f3n, m\u00e1s confuso se volv\u00eda, y la manera de impedirlo era aprender de sus prototipos, que entonces hab\u00edan de considerarse arquetipos.\n\nMantegna ten\u00eda una colecci\u00f3n de estatuas antiguas. Las dibujaba. Y es muy posible que desempe\u00f1aran un papel importante en su fascinaci\u00f3n por el escorzo. Las estatuas se pueden mover de un lado a otro, se pueden tumbar, se pueden dibujar desde cualquier punto de vista.\n\nK: Pero a pesar de toda esta experiencia, de toda esta observaci\u00f3n, las figuras de tama\u00f1o natural que est\u00e1n alrededor del lecho son inherentemente inm\u00f3viles.\n\nYa desde el principio, desde que se le empez\u00f3 a considerar un maestro de la pintura, la gente dec\u00eda que pon\u00eda la misma alma en las rocas que en el cuerpo humano, que para \u00e9l lo existente era primero y esencialmente mineral.\n\nJ: S\u00ed, en efecto, hay algo muy mineral en las pinturas de Mantegna, pero sus figuras no me parecen vaciadas, fundidas, sino que lo que veo es una piedra o una superficie met\u00e1lica, desgastada, mellada, ara\u00f1ada, resistente, una superficie que refleja los diferentes aspectos de la experiencia humana sometida al paso del tiempo. Como si para \u00e9l los cuatro elementos no fueran el aire, la tierra, el agua y el fuego, sino solo uno, la piedra... o, para ser exactos, el metal: hierro, cobre, esta\u00f1o, oro.\n\nK: La imprimaci\u00f3n natural que mejor conoc\u00eda Mantegna era la herrumbre. Desde el siglo XV, el tiempo no ha dejado de obrar a su favor. Ah\u00ed, bajo sus colores, estaba el color de los metales oxidados; ah\u00ed estaba en el a\u00f1o 1500, y a\u00fan m\u00e1s persistente en el 2000.\n\nJ: No, no siempre. En sus cuadros de escenas humanas, s\u00ed. Pero entre los \u00e1ngeles, en el cielo del \u00f3culo, no hay lugar para la herrumbre. Los humanos soportan tanto el peso del metal como su envejecimiento, su deterioro, un deterioro que produce cierta belleza. Mantegna pintaba las arrugas, las l\u00edneas faciales y su oxidaci\u00f3n, que se manifiesta en esa p\u00e1tina especial, entre verde y naranja, que los metales adquieren con el tiempo.\n\nK: Est\u00e1 el color de la herrumbre y est\u00e1 el peso. Los metales pesan. [John gira el panel al lado blanco.]\n\nJ: Resulta revelador comparar a Mantegna con su cu\u00f1ado, Giovanni Bellini. [Proyecci\u00f3n en el panel blanco de la _Virgen con ni\u00f1o_ , de Giovanni Bellini.]\n\nGiovanni Bellini y Andrea Mantegna ten\u00edan casi la misma edad. Mantegna se cas\u00f3 con la hermana de Giovanni y Gentile. Se influyeron mutuamente y ambos hicieron versiones de las obras del otro. Sin embargo, eran muy distintos. Giovanni vivi\u00f3 hasta los ochenta y seis a\u00f1os, y todas sus pinturas parecen las de un joven; no se trata de que sean inmaduras, tentativas o faltas de originalidad, sino de que muestran un apetito o unos apetitos amables.\n\nY Andrea, el joven prodigio, ya pintaba a los diecisiete a\u00f1os como un viejo. Lo que pinta est\u00e1 premeditado, pacientemente sopesado, medido. No conozco otro pintor en la historia del arte europeo m\u00e1s viejo que \u00e9l. [Fin de la proyecci\u00f3n de la _Virgen con ni\u00f1o_.]\n\nHace unos veinte a\u00f1os se descubri\u00f3 una escultura de Mantegna. Una representaci\u00f3n de santa Eufemia en tama\u00f1o natural, tallada en el m\u00e1rmol de las canteras cercanas a Padua.\n\nLa figura est\u00e1 de pie y tiene una mano entre las fauces de un le\u00f3n, pero este, en lugar de morderla, se la lame. Tiene quince a\u00f1os, y es una joven elegantemente vestida. Su cara es tersa, sin una sola arruga. Su expresi\u00f3n es la de alguien que est\u00e1 esperando a que acabe aquello que le est\u00e1n contando o que est\u00e1 presenciando.\n\nSanta Eufemia vivi\u00f3 en el siglo III y fue una de las m\u00e1rtires de Asia Menor. Intercedi\u00f3 ante el gobernador romano en favor de los cristianos que eran torturados y arrojados a los leones. \u00a1Pr\u00e9ndame a m\u00ed primero!, le pidi\u00f3. Y su compostura era tal que las otras v\u00edctimas se tranquilizaron y recuperaron el valor. Cuenta la leyenda que cuando arrojaron a Eufemia a los leones, las bestias no la devoraron, sino que formaron un lecho con sus colas para que ella se tendiera.\n\nLa expresi\u00f3n de la cabeza esculpida de esta santa de quince a\u00f1os tiene algo en com\u00fan con la mirada de viejo que atribuyo a nuestro pintor. La misma distancia y la misma atenci\u00f3n. La misma preocupaci\u00f3n por los detalles y la misma clarividencia con respecto al final de todas las historias. Una compostura parecida. [Proyecci\u00f3n de la escultura de _Santa Eufemia_ proyectada en la parte blanca del panel.]\n\nK: Vimos la pieza original en la exposici\u00f3n de la obra de Mantegna que tuvo lugar en el Louvre: esa _Santa Eufemia_ decidida y un poco anonadada, su mano, tranquila y a salvo entre las fauces del le\u00f3n, unas fauces casi ocultas por la mano a la que no lastiman. Sus dedos y, tal vez, tambi\u00e9n la ca\u00edda de su vestido captan toda nuestra atenci\u00f3n. No, no toda. Mi mirada se detiene en el lugar en donde las dos criaturas \u2014virgen y animal\u2014 se funden realmente: los pies. Los largos dedos de sus cuatro pies son similares. Son similares en su ser, en su extra\u00f1amente controlada bravura. [Fin de la proyecci\u00f3n de _Santa Eufemia_.]\n\nY as\u00ed recorr\u00ed el resto de la exposici\u00f3n del Louvre guiada por la sospecha de que Mantegna ten\u00eda una fijaci\u00f3n con los pies. \u00a1En Viena, cuatro siglos despu\u00e9s, lo habr\u00edan tildado de fetichista! \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 los pies? Porque los pies dicen mucho de la posici\u00f3n erecta y de la condici\u00f3n humana. Los pies articulan, llevan y transportan.\n\nJ: Son las firmas humanas al final del cuerpo.\n\nK: Al final de la p\u00e1gina.\n\nFui a ver _Judith con su criada Abra_. Las dos mujeres acaban de salir de la tienda de Holofernes. Judith est\u00e1 metiendo la cabeza del general decapitado en el saco que sostiene su vieja criada, de modo que a la izquierda del cuadro vemos la cabeza del hombre, una cabeza con una espesa cabellera y todav\u00eda sangrante. Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 vemos a la derecha? Una cama, en la que suponemos que dorm\u00eda Holofernes antes de que lo atacaran. Pero lo \u00fanico que se ve en ella es un pie. Del cuerpo del hombre solo vemos la cabeza y un pie, y est\u00e1n separados: el pedacito espiritual y el pedacito terrestre. Uno celestial y el otro mineral.\n\nMe vinieron a la memoria otros cuadros que no estaban en la exposici\u00f3n. Sobre todo, claro, _Cristo muerto_ , cuyos pies est\u00e1n en primer plano y tienen la misma importancia que la cabeza. [John gira el panel al lado del \u00f3culo.]\n\nPens\u00e9 en los pies y las piernas de sus _putti,_ tan rotundos; pens\u00e9 en los disc\u00edpulos dormidos en _La oraci\u00f3n en el huerto_. Con sus perspectivas y sus escorzos, Mantegna no perd\u00eda la ocasi\u00f3n de ladear nuestra verticalidad y, as\u00ed, de poner en duda nuestras prioridades.\n\nJ: Su pasi\u00f3n por la Antig\u00fcedad le llev\u00f3 muchas veces a dar prioridad al pasado sobre el presente y el futuro: el futuro simbolizado por las tareas de construcci\u00f3n que siempre tienen lugar al fondo de muchos de sus cuadros. Le gustaba invertir el orden normal de las cosas. \u00a1Todo patas arriba!\n\nK: El pie. Conexi\u00f3n entre el hombre y el suelo, bisagra entre el cielo y el infierno, ancla, plinto, punto de equilibrio, el signo animal m\u00e1s distintivo de todos.\n\nSi no me equivoqu\u00e9 al contar, a lo largo del borde inferior de los dos frescos de la _C\u00e1mara de los esposos_ hay 25 pies humanos y animales. Y detr\u00e1s hay m\u00e1s. Los pies constituyen la frontera entre las escenas pintadas y la estancia vivida, habitada. Es m\u00e1s, la mayor\u00eda de los pies humanos est\u00e1n descalzos; una excepci\u00f3n es la de los pies del mensajero que viene a entregar la carta al duque. Pies descalzos, pies cubiertos con calcetines, pezu\u00f1as de perro y los cascos de un caballo.\n\nJ: Esta habitaci\u00f3n, pensada para la cama en la que nos tendemos, en la que ponemos los pies en alto para que est\u00e9n al mismo nivel que la cabeza. [John y Katya se ponen en pie mientras dicen estas palabras; despu\u00e9s se tumban sobre la s\u00e1bana y miran al techo.]\n\nYa no hay peso. La gravidez del metal ha quedado atr\u00e1s. Ya no hay fuerza de la gravedad. O, si la hay (nuestras espaldas todav\u00eda presionan el colch\u00f3n), ha sido transcendida por la fuerza de la atracci\u00f3n, por la invitaci\u00f3n a ascender.\n\nK: \u00bfNo intenta hacer algo extraordinario el sue\u00f1o que la habitaci\u00f3n ofrece a quien duerme en ella? \u00bfMostrar la totalidad de un momento?\n\nJ: Un momento.\n\nK: Reunirlo todo: las reliquias del pasado, los edificios en construcci\u00f3n, las diferentes actividades, la yuxtaposici\u00f3n de luz diurna y nocturna, las plantas, los animales atrapados en medio de un movimiento, los diferentes rangos sociales de todos los presentes, los detalles de su vestimenta, las expresiones de sus caras, sus arrugas, sus susurros en un aparte, sus miradas errantes; y todo ello, la totalidad, bajo un cielo de _putti_ y una nube.\n\nJ: Quien duerma en esta habitaci\u00f3n puede cerrar los ojos, reconciliado con todas las capas y estratos interminablemente complicados de lo real.\n\nK: Y al quedarse dormido, tendr\u00e1 a su alrededor el ejemplo, la demostraci\u00f3n, de un artista que tuvo el valor, s\u00ed, el valor, de tener en cuenta y aceptar e incluir todos esos estratos simult\u00e1neos.\n\nMantegna, cual bot\u00e1nico que recoge un esp\u00e9cimen de todas las plantas que salen a su paso. Pintados en las cuatro paredes: albaricoqueros, naranjos, limoneros, perales, melocotoneros, manzanos y granados; cedros, pl\u00e1tanos, acantos, pinos. Mantegna, quien se propuso abarcar la totalidad de lo que ofrece nuestro mundo en un momento dado.\n\nSolo el ser humano separa y jerarquiza todos estos estratos y procesos y cursos temporales. Y el aparato que tiene para hacerlo, que le fuerza a hacerlo, es su ego. Este aparato, el ego, previsto por la naturaleza para la supervivencia del ser humano, no tiene, sin embargo, un equivalente en la naturaleza. Es su parte m\u00e1s mortal. Cuando muere un ser humano, solo esta parte, solo este aparato de separaci\u00f3n, desaparece. Todo lo dem\u00e1s se recicla. [John y Katya juntos:] Cada cual es cada cual.\n\nJ: Anoche tuve un sue\u00f1o. Llevaba una cartera muy grande colgada al hombro, como la que sol\u00edan llevar los carteros. No s\u00e9 si era de cuero o de lona. Probablemente de pl\u00e1stico. Conten\u00eda todos los cuadros de Mantegna (112). Los frescos no estaban. Los sacaba de la cartera, uno tras otro, para mirarlos, y los sacaba sin esfuerzo alguno (ni los cuadros ni la cartera pesaban nada), lo hac\u00eda con gusto, como si fuera a tomar una decisi\u00f3n o llegar a una conclusi\u00f3n. \u00bfSobre qu\u00e9? No lo s\u00e9. Me despert\u00e9 contento.\n\nEl \u00f3culo al que estamos mirando no nos propone un escape, una evasi\u00f3n. Con su esmerada aplicaci\u00f3n y su valor constante, Mantegna insist\u00eda en enfrentarse a lo real, en no volver la vista de lo que sucede. Lo que propone es fundirse con ello.\n\nK: En esta habitaci\u00f3n decorada para dormir en ella, hay algo de la muerte. Y este algo no es ni r\u00edgido ni morboso. Tiene que ver con el ejemplo de un pintor que supo c\u00f3mo quedarse fuera, valerosamente, s\u00ed, para poder observar el n\u00famero infinito de acontecimientos y momentos que constituyen el mundo.\n\nMantegna los cuenta, los suma obstinadamente, los re\u00fane, hace de ellos un todo. Una suma total. Sabe c\u00f3mo desaparecer. Se funde y nos funde a nosotros con la naturaleza. Y aqu\u00ed sue\u00f1o con cerrar los ojos para siempre, acostada entre estas cuatro paredes que se atreven a recopilar todo lo que est\u00e1 en la tierra, m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la percepci\u00f3n humana.\n\n## **Giovanni Bellini**\n\n## hacia 1433-1516\n\nGiovanni Bellini fue el primer gran pintor veneciano. Quiero hablar aqu\u00ed de cuatro V\u00edrgenes pintadas por \u00e9l a lo largo de un per\u00edodo de treinta y cinco a\u00f1os.\n\nLa primera data de la d\u00e9cada de 1470, cuando estaba en la cuarentena. La segunda la pint\u00f3 unos diez a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, entrado en los cincuenta. La tercera, de nuevo, diez a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde. Y la \u00faltima, hacia 1505, cuando ya era un anciano de setenta.\n\nPuede que hoy parezca que no hay mucha diferencia entre las cuatro pinturas. Todas representan el mismo tema; todas tienen la misma funci\u00f3n religiosa. En todas ellas, la Virgen lleva casi los mismos ropajes. Y, sin embargo, en realidad, detr\u00e1s de la evoluci\u00f3n que entra\u00f1an estas pinturas reside una de las innovaciones m\u00e1s atrevidas de toda la historia del arte. El tema es siempre el mismo, pero la actitud del artista hacia \u00e9l, su modo de verlo, sufre un cambio revolucionario.\n\nEntre la primera pintura y la \u00faltima hay una gran diferencia, la misma que puede observarse entre dos obras de cualquier artista en la historia de la pintura.\n\nLa luz fue la pasi\u00f3n de Bellini a lo largo de toda su existencia. No es de sorprender cuando se piensa que trabaj\u00f3 en Venecia y sobre Venecia. Claro est\u00e1 que sin luz no tendr\u00edamos pintura alguna; sin luz no vemos. Sin embargo, lo que atra\u00eda a Bellini no era la luz, que, al destruir la oscuridad, nos permite distinguir los objetos; lo que le atra\u00eda era la manera en la que la luz, cuando es difusa, crea una unidad de todos los objetos sobre los que se derrama. Esta es la raz\u00f3n, por ejemplo, por la que una estancia o un paisaje son tan distintos vistos a las tres de la tarde y a las once de la ma\u00f1ana. Quiz\u00e1 para ser m\u00e1s precisos habr\u00eda que decir que el inter\u00e9s real de Bellini era la luz del d\u00eda. En este sentido, la luz implica espacio. No es solo una chispa o una llama; es un d\u00eda entero. Y as\u00ed, luch\u00f3 toda su vida por crear en sus cuadros el espacio que pudiera mantener y contener todo aquello que encierra para nosotros la luz natural.\n\nEn la primera pintura hay muy poco espacio. Las dos figuras son casi un bajorrelieve contra el muro liso que deja fuera todo lo dem\u00e1s. En esta pintura, el d\u00eda tiene, como si dij\u00e9ramos, no m\u00e1s de un palmo de profundidad.\n\nEn la segunda pintura, empieza a atreverse a colocar las figuras en un espacio abierto. Ha echado abajo el muro. Deja pasar el d\u00eda por cada lado, pero solo tentativamente. Todav\u00eda hay una cortina lisa detr\u00e1s de las figuras que cuelga misteriosamente del cielo. Me da la impresi\u00f3n de que en esta pintura el espacio tan solo empieza a filtrarse por cada lado.\n\nEn la tercera pintura, la cortina est\u00e1 m\u00e1s retirada, y las figuras no miran de frente al espectador. Est\u00e1n giradas, formando un \u00e1ngulo, y este \u00e1ngulo, este giro, conduce nuestra mirada hacia el paisaje que hay detr\u00e1s, hacia el d\u00eda. Pero aqu\u00ed todav\u00eda est\u00e1n protegidas las figuras, todav\u00eda atrincheradas. No solo se trata de la cortina, sino tambi\u00e9n del antepecho sobre el que est\u00e1 tendido el ni\u00f1o. Este funciona realmente como el borde de un escenario que nos separa de los actores y limita el espacio en el que pueden actuar.\n\nPero en la \u00faltima pintura lo logra de verdad, treinta a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la primera. Las figuras est\u00e1n completamente al aire libre y a plena luz del d\u00eda. Podemos andar alrededor de ellas. Toda la pintura, todo el paisaje es tan espacioso como largo es el d\u00eda.\n\nGiovanni Bellini, _Virgen griega_ , 1470.\n\nGiovanni Bellini, _Virgen con ni\u00f1o_ , 1480-1490.\n\nGiovanni Bellini, _Virgen con ni\u00f1o_ , 1480-1500.\n\nGiovanni Bellini, _Virgen en el prado_ , hacia 1500.\n\nCabe preguntarse: \u00bffue tan dif\u00edcil esta conquista del espacio?, pues en eso consiste el logro de Bellini. \u00bfNo se conoc\u00edan las leyes de la perspectiva antes de la \u00e9poca de Bellini? S\u00ed, se conoc\u00edan, pero a Bellini no solo le interesaba crear una ilusi\u00f3n de distancia. Lo que quer\u00eda era llenar de luz todo el espacio que introduc\u00eda en estas pinturas, como quien llena un tanque de agua. No se contentaba con solo pintar los objetos cercanos grandes y los lejanos peque\u00f1os. Quer\u00eda mostrar que la luz cae uniforme sobre ellos, y crear, en cada pintura, el equivalente de ese orden y de esa unidad que la luz puede imponer en la naturaleza. Hab\u00eda, pues, una segunda lucha, a fin de crear un nuevo tipo de orden y de unidad en sus cuadros.\n\nEn el primero, se percibe la l\u00ednea recta que forma el costado derecho del ni\u00f1o, se la ve subir y coincidir tan limpiamente con el velo de la Virgen. La pintura rebosa c\u00e1lculos y gu\u00edas de este tipo, lo que le da orden y unidad. Pero como la pintura es plana, sin espacio, esta organizaci\u00f3n no deja de ser una cuesti\u00f3n de l\u00edneas. Observemos, por ejemplo, las manos de la Virgen. Cada dedo est\u00e1 separado y perfilado, de modo que, en conjunto, parecen casi las teclas de un piano. Y, en verdad, el esquema del que depende todo el cuadro se basa en el contraste de luces planas contra zonas oscuras planas, algo semejante al teclado de un piano.\n\nEn el segundo, se trata todav\u00eda de organizar su unidad seg\u00fan l\u00edneas, de manera plana. Es cierto que aqu\u00ed el ni\u00f1o parece patalear un poquito en el espacio, pero observemos las dos tiras de cielo y paisaje a cada lado. Funcionan en buena medida como una especie de motivo plano. Se parecen m\u00e1s bien al veteado del m\u00e1rmol que hay al pie del cuadro. Pero en el tercero, las cosas empiezan a cambiar. Ya no se trata de organizar las l\u00edneas, sino de masas en el espacio. Los dedos de la Virgen ya no se perciben separados, sino que toda la mano se ahueca y encierra la del ni\u00f1o y la manzana, igual que podr\u00eda \u2014si la escala fuera diferente\u2014 encerrar la colina que hay detr\u00e1s, una colina que parece hecha con la forma exacta para adaptarse a su mano. Observemos tambi\u00e9n el manto y c\u00f3mo le rodea la cabeza, de la misma manera que los oscuros \u00e1rboles rodean y cubren la colina. Y por fin, en el \u00faltimo cuadro, Bellini logra una unidad completa entre las figuras y el d\u00eda espacioso y lleno de luz. Las manos de la Virgen, cuyos dedos apenas se tocan, encierran el mismo tipo de espacio que debe de encerrar la torre en lo alto de la colina. El ni\u00f1o llena su regazo de la misma manera que la luz del sol podr\u00eda llenar una hondonada en un paisaje. Y la propia naturaleza est\u00e1 organizada en una unidad. Los \u00e1rboles de la izquierda ya no son solo l\u00edneas en una pintura, sino que existen en un paisaje y en el espacio. Pero el p\u00e1jaro gu\u00eda nuestra mirada hasta las copas y luego la gira ligeramente hacia la derecha, en perfecta consonancia con la posici\u00f3n girada de la Virgen.\n\nAs\u00ed es como el inter\u00e9s de Bellini por la luz del d\u00eda lo llev\u00f3 a conquistar el espacio en sus pinturas, a relacionar el ser humano con la naturaleza de un modo que no se hab\u00eda dado nunca antes de \u00e9l. Y lo que esto implica va mucho m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del arte.\n\nEl primer cuadro, que es casi bizantino, es una pintura que todav\u00eda pertenece a la tradici\u00f3n medieval, al mismo mundo que esas im\u00e1genes de los muros de las iglesias, que excluyen todo movimiento y todo el tr\u00e1fico terrenal. Solo puedes acercarte a ellas de frente, para adorarlas. Pero en la \u00faltima pintura, se trata de una madre en un campo. No solo no tiene halo, sino que adem\u00e1s ahora uno se puede aproximar a ella desde cualquier direcci\u00f3n, incluso desde atr\u00e1s, y eso significa que forma parte de la naturaleza, que se puede contemplar desde todos lados, y se puede cuestionar e investigar. Ya no hay un punto de vista fijo, un centro fijo. El hombre, como en el mundo cl\u00e1sico que el Renacimiento descubr\u00eda por entonces, se ha transformado en su propio centro, y, as\u00ed, es libre de ir a donde se le ocurra.\n\nEntre el primero de los cuadros y el \u00faltimo, Crist\u00f3bal Col\u00f3n descubri\u00f3 Am\u00e9rica, Vasco de Gama hab\u00eda dado la vuelta al cabo de Buena Esperanza y llegado a la India, y en Padua, donde Bellini hab\u00eda estudiado, Cop\u00e9rnico trabajaba en su primera teor\u00eda para demostrar que la Tierra giraba alrededor del Sol. El espacio que Bellini introdujo en sus cuadros, por lo tanto, ofrec\u00eda la medida exacta de la nueva libertad que por entonces estaban alcanzando los seres humanos. Por eso puede decirse que la diferencia entre estas cuatro pinturas sobre un mismo tema es una diferencia revolucionaria.\n\n## **El Bosco**\n\n## hacia 1450-1516\n\nEn la historia de la pintura encontramos a veces extra\u00f1as profec\u00edas, profec\u00edas que no fueron pensadas como tales por los pintores. Se dir\u00eda que lo visible puede tener sus propias pesadillas. Por ejemplo, _El triunfo de la Muerte_ de Pieter Breughel el Viejo, que fue pintado hacia 1580 y que hoy se conserva en el Museo del Prado, ya contiene una terrible profec\u00eda de los campos de exterminio nazis.\n\nLa mayor parte de las profec\u00edas, cuando son espec\u00edficas, anuncian algo malo, pues a lo largo de la historia siempre han surgido nuevos terrores, y aunque algunos desaparezcan, nunca surge una felicidad nueva; la felicidad es siempre la de antes. Lo que cambia son los modos de luchar en pos de esa felicidad.\n\nMedio siglo antes de Breughel, El Bosco pint\u00f3 el tr\u00edptico de _El jard\u00edn de las delicias,_ que tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1 en el Museo del Prado.\n\nEl panel izquierdo muestra a Ad\u00e1n y Eva en el Para\u00edso; el central, que es m\u00e1s grande, describe el jard\u00edn de las delicias; y el derecho representa el infierno. Y este infierno se ha convertido en una extra\u00f1a profec\u00eda del clima mental que la globalizaci\u00f3n y el nuevo orden econ\u00f3mico han impuesto en el mundo.\n\nExplicar\u00e9 por qu\u00e9. No tiene nada que ver con el simbolismo empleado en la pintura. Los s\u00edmbolos de El Bosco proceden del lenguaje secreto, her\u00e9tico y proverbial de ciertas sectas milenaristas del siglo XV, que cre\u00edan que si se venc\u00eda al mal, se pod\u00eda construir el cielo en la tierra. Se han escrito muchos ensayos sobre las alegor\u00edas que encierran sus obras,1 pero la profec\u00eda que entra\u00f1a la visi\u00f3n del infierno de El Bosco no se encuentra tanto en los detalles \u2014por grotescos y obsesivos que sean\u2014 como en el conjunto. O, para decirlo de otro modo, en lo que constituye el _espacio_ del infierno.\n\nEs un espacio sin horizonte. Tampoco hay continuidad entre las acciones, ni pausas, ni senderos, ni pautas, ni pasado ni futuro. Solo vemos el clamor de un presente desigual y fragmentario. Est\u00e1 lleno de sorpresas y sensaciones, pero no aparecen por ning\u00fan lado las consecuencias o los resultados de las mismas. Nada fluye libremente; solo hay interrupciones. Lo que vemos es una especie de delirio espacial.\n\nComparemos este espacio con lo que se ve, por lo general, en los anuncios de publicidad, en el t\u00edpico telediario de la CNN o en muchos de los reportajes realizados en los diferentes medios de comunicaci\u00f3n. Nos encontramos ante una incoherencia similar, una infinidad similar de emociones inconexas, un frenes\u00ed similar.\n\nLo que profetiz\u00f3 El Bosco es la imagen del mundo que hoy nos transmiten los medios de comunicaci\u00f3n, bajo el impacto de la globalizaci\u00f3n y su malvada necesidad de vender incesantemente. La profec\u00eda de El Bosco y esta imagen del mundo parecen un rompecabezas cuyas piezas no encajar\u00e1n nunca.\n\nY este es precisamente el t\u00e9rmino que utilizaba el subcomandante Marcos para hablar del nuevo orden mundial en una carta enviada a los medios de comunicaci\u00f3n el a\u00f1o pasado.2 Escrib\u00eda desde Chiapas, al sureste de M\u00e9xico. Para \u00e9l, el planeta es hoy el campo de batalla de una IV Guerra Mundial. (La III fue la llamada Guerra Fr\u00eda.) El objetivo de los beligerantes es la conquista de todos los mercados del mundo. Los arsenales son financieros, pero a cada momento millones de personas mueren o quedan mutiladas a consecuencia de esta guerra. El objetivo de quienes la libran es gobernar el mundo desde unos centros de poder nuevos, abstractos: enormes polos mercantiles que no estar\u00e1n sujetos a control alguno, salvo el de la l\u00f3gica de la inversi\u00f3n. Mientras tanto, nueve de cada diez habitantes del planeta viven con esas piezas melladas de un rompecabezas que no encaja.\n\nEl Bosco, _El jard\u00edn de las delicias_ , 1490-1500.\n\nLa fragmentaci\u00f3n, el quebranto en el panel del infierno de El Bosco es tan parecida que casi tengo la impresi\u00f3n de ver all\u00ed las siete piezas que enumeraba Marcos.\n\nLa primera pieza tiene la forma de un s\u00edmbolo de d\u00f3lar y es verde. Esta pieza la componen la nueva concentraci\u00f3n de toda la riqueza en cada vez menos manos y la extensi\u00f3n sin precedentes de una pobreza cada vez m\u00e1s desesperada.\n\nLa segunda pieza es triangular y consiste en una falacia. El nuevo orden afirma que racionaliza y moderniza la producci\u00f3n y el esfuerzo humano. En realidad, se trata de una vuelta a la barbarie de los inicios de la Revoluci\u00f3n industrial, con la importante diferencia de que esta vez nada, ni consideraci\u00f3n ni principio moral, se opone y contiene el avance de esa barbarie. El nuevo orden es fan\u00e1tico y totalitario. (No hay apelaci\u00f3n posible. Su totalitarismo no ata\u00f1e a la pol\u00edtica, la cual, seg\u00fan reconoce el propio orden, ha quedado desbancada, sino al control monetario del globo.) Pensemos en los ni\u00f1os. Cien millones de ni\u00f1os viven en la calle. Doscientos millones forman parte de la mano de obra mundial.\n\nLa tercera pieza es redonda como un c\u00edrculo vicioso. Consiste esta pieza en la emigraci\u00f3n forzosa a la que se ven abocados millones de personas. Los m\u00e1s emprendedores de quienes no tienen nada intentan sobrevivir emigrando. Pero el nuevo orden mundial trabaja d\u00eda y noche conforme al principio de que quien no produce, quien no consume y quien no tiene dinero que meter en el banco sobra. As\u00ed que los emigrantes, los que no tienen tierra ni techo, son tratados cual desechos del sistema, como algo que hay que eliminar.\n\nLa cuarta pieza es rectangular como un espejo y consiste en el intercambio que est\u00e1 teniendo lugar en nuestros d\u00edas entre los bancos y los estafadores y criminales de todo el mundo, pues el delito tambi\u00e9n se ha globalizado.\n\nLa quinta pieza es m\u00e1s o menos un pent\u00e1gono. Esta pieza es la represi\u00f3n f\u00edsica. Bajo el nuevo orden mundial, los Estados nacionales han perdido su independencia, su iniciativa pol\u00edtica y su soberan\u00eda. (La nueva ret\u00f3rica de la mayor\u00eda de los pol\u00edticos es un intento de ocultar su impotencia pol\u00edtica, aunque tengan poder civil y represivo.) La nueva tarea de los Estados es administrar lo que les toca, proteger los intereses de las grandes empresas y, sobre todo, controlar y vigilar a los que sobran.\n\nLa sexta pieza tiene la forma de un garabato y est\u00e1 compuesta de fragmentos. Por un lado, el nuevo orden hace desaparecer las fronteras y las distancias mediante la telecomunicaci\u00f3n instant\u00e1nea de intercambios y transacciones, la implantaci\u00f3n de zonas de libre comercio (como el NAFTA), y la imposici\u00f3n de una \u00fanica ley incuestionable, la del mercado. Y por el otro lado, a base de socavar la independencia de los estados nacionales, provoca la fragmentaci\u00f3n y la _proliferaci\u00f3n_ de fronteras, como ha sucedido, por ejemplo, en la antigua Uni\u00f3n Sovi\u00e9tica, en Yugoslavia, etc. \"Un mundo de espejos rotos reflejando la in\u00fatil unidad mundial del rompecabezas neoliberal\", dec\u00eda Marcos en la carta.\n\nLa s\u00e9ptima pieza tiene forma de bolsa y la componen todas las bolsas de resistencia contra el nuevo orden que est\u00e1n apareciendo de un lado al otro del planeta. Los zapatistas constituyen una de esas bolsas. Otros, con circunstancias distintas, no han escogido necesariamente la resistencia armada. Estas muchas bolsas no tienen un programa pol\u00edtico com\u00fan. \u00bfC\u00f3mo iban a tenerlo si est\u00e1n dentro de un rompecabezas roto? Pero su heterogeneidad puede ser una promesa. Lo que tienen en com\u00fan es su defensa de los que sobran, de los que est\u00e1n a punto de ser eliminados, y su convencimiento de que la IV Guerra Mundial es un crimen contra la humanidad.\n\nLas siete piezas no encajar\u00e1n nunca; nunca ofrecer\u00e1n una imagen con sentido. Esta carencia de sentido, este absurdo, es end\u00e9mico en el nuevo orden. Como predec\u00eda El Bosco en su visi\u00f3n del infierno, no hay horizonte. El mundo est\u00e1 en llamas. Todas las figuras intentan sobrevivir concentr\u00e1ndose en sus necesidades m\u00e1s inmediatas, en su supervivencia. En su grado m\u00e1s extremo, la claustrofobia no est\u00e1 causada por el exceso de gente, sino por la discontinuidad entre una acci\u00f3n y la siguiente, la cual, sin embargo, est\u00e1 casi al alcance de la mano. Eso es el infierno.\n\nLa cultura en la que vivimos es tal vez la m\u00e1s claustrof\u00f3bica que ha existido; en la cultura de la globalizaci\u00f3n, como en el infierno de El Bosco, no se llega siquiera a entrever un _lugar diferente_ o un _modo distinto_. Lo que se nos da es una prisi\u00f3n. Y enfrentada a este reduccionismo, la inteligencia humana se transforma en pura avaricia.\n\nMarcos terminaba su carta diciendo: \"Es necesario hacer un mundo nuevo, un mundo donde quepan muchos mundos, donde quepan todos los mundos\". Lo que nos recuerda la pintura de El Bosco \u2014si se puede decir que las profec\u00edas recuerdan\u2014 es que el primer paso en la construcci\u00f3n de un mundo alternativo ha de ser rechazar la imagen del mundo que nos han impuesto y todas las falsas promesas empleadas por doquier para justificar e idealizar la necesidad, criminal e insaciable, de vender. Es vital que encontremos otro espacio.\n\nEn primer lugar, tenemos que encontrar un horizonte. Y para eso hemos de volver a tener esperanza, en contra de lo que el nuevo orden pretende y perpetra.\n\nLa esperanza, sin embargo, es un acto de fe y la fe para sostenerse precisa de acciones concretas. Por ejemplo, la acci\u00f3n de _aproximarse_ , de calcular la distancia y _caminar hacia el otro_. Esto conducir\u00eda a una colaboraci\u00f3n que se opone a la discontinuidad. Resistir no significa solo negarse a aceptar la absurda imagen del mundo que se nos ofrece, sino tambi\u00e9n denunciarla. Y cuando el infierno es denunciado desde dentro, deja de ser infierno.\n\nEn las bolsas de resistencia que hoy constituyen esa esperanza, los otros dos paneles del tr\u00edptico de El Bosco \u2014Ad\u00e1n y Eva en el Para\u00edso y el jard\u00edn de las delicias\u2014 se pueden estudiar a la luz de una linterna, en la oscuridad... Los necesitamos.\n\nPara terminar, querr\u00eda citar al poeta argentino Juan Gelman:\n\nlleg\u00f3 la muerte con su recordaci\u00f3n\n\nnosotros vamos a empezar otra vez\n\nla lucha\n\notra vez vamos a empezar\n\notra vez vamos a empezar nosotros\n\ncontra la gran derrota del mundo\n\ncompa\u00f1eritos que no terminan\n\no\n\narden en la memoria como fuegos\n\notra vez\n\notra vez\n\notra vez3\n\n______________\n\n1 Uno de los m\u00e1s originales, aunque ha sido ampliamente rebatido, es el estudio: Fraenger, Willhelm, _Hieronymus Bosch: das tausendj\u00e4hrige Reich_ , Winkler-Verlag, Coburgo, 1947.\n\n2 Esta carta fue publicada en agosto de 1997 en muchos peri\u00f3dicos del mundo, entre los que cabe destacar _Le Monde Diplomatique_ (la versi\u00f3n castellana apareci\u00f3 en _Le Monde Diplomatique_ , edici\u00f3n espa\u00f1ola, julio-agosto 1997 y septiembre 1997).\n\n3 Gelman, Juan, \"Esperan\", en _Si dulcemente_ , Lumen, Barcelona, 1980.\n\n## **Matthias Gr\u00fcnewald**\n\n## hacia 1470-1528\n\nMatthias Gr\u00fcnewald, _Retablo de Isenheim_ , 1512-1516.\n\nLa primera vez que fui a Colmar a ver el retablo de Gr\u00fcnewald fue en el invierno de 1963. Diez a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s volv\u00ed por segunda vez. No lo hab\u00eda planeado as\u00ed. Durante esos a\u00f1os hab\u00edan cambiado muchas cosas. No en Colmar, sino, en general, en el mundo, y tambi\u00e9n en mi vida. El momento cumbre del cambio tuvo lugar exactamente a mitad de esa d\u00e9cada. En 1968, en diversos lugares del globo, salieron a la luz y recibieron un nombre unas esperanzas alimentadas, m\u00e1s o menos clandestinamente, durante a\u00f1os. Y en ese mismo a\u00f1o todas aquellas esperanzas se ver\u00edan categ\u00f3ricamente frustradas. Pero esto lo comprendimos despu\u00e9s. En aquel momento, muchos de nosotros intentamos protegernos contra la dureza de la verdad. Por ejemplo, a principios de 1969, segu\u00edamos pensando que posiblemente volver\u00eda a producirse un segundo 1968.\n\nNo es este el lugar para hacer un an\u00e1lisis de los cambios que se produjeron a escala mundial en el alineamiento de las fuerzas pol\u00edticas. Baste con decir que hab\u00eda quedado abierto el camino para lo que m\u00e1s tarde se llamar\u00eda _normalizaci\u00f3n._ Muchos miles de vidas tambi\u00e9n se vieron modificadas. Pero esto no aparecer\u00e1 nunca en los libros de historia. (En 1848 se dio un momento comparable, aunque diferente de este, y sus efectos en la vida de toda una generaci\u00f3n no est\u00e1n recogidos en la historia, sino en _La educaci\u00f3n sentimental_ de Gustave Flaubert.) Cuando miro a mi alrededor, a mis amigos, y particularmente a aquellos que eran (o siguen siendo) pol\u00edticamente conscientes, comprendo cu\u00e1nto cambi\u00f3 o desvi\u00f3 aquel momento la direcci\u00f3n que tomar\u00edan sus vidas a largo t\u00e9rmino, tanto como podr\u00eda haberla modificado un suceso estrictamente personal: el descubrimiento de una enfermedad, una recuperaci\u00f3n inesperada, la bancarrota. Me imagino que cuando ellos me miran, ven en m\u00ed algo parecido.\n\nLa normalizaci\u00f3n significa que los diferentes sistemas pol\u00edticos que comparten el control de casi todo el mundo pueden intercambiarse todo, con la \u00fanica condici\u00f3n de que nada sea radicalmente cambiado en ninguna parte. Se supone que el presente es continuo; la continuidad que permite el desarrollo tecnol\u00f3gico.\n\nUna \u00e9poca de esperanzas (como las que se dieron antes de 1968) le anima a uno a pensar en s\u00ed mismo como un ser intr\u00e9pido. Uno debe hacer frente a todo. Parece que el \u00fanico peligro fuera la evasi\u00f3n o el sentimentalismo. La dura verdad ayudar\u00e1 a la liberaci\u00f3n. Este principio se integra de tal forma en nuestro pensamiento que llegamos a aceptarlo sin m\u00e1s. Uno es consciente de que las cosas podr\u00edan ser distintas. La esperanza es una lente maravillosa. Nuestros ojos se acoplan a ella. Y con ella podemos examinar cualquier cosa.\n\nEl retablo, al igual que una tragedia griega o una novela del siglo XIX, intentaba abarcar la totalidad de la vida y dar una explicaci\u00f3n del mundo, y con este fin fue originariamente concebido. Consta de varias tablas de madera articuladas. Cuando estas permanec\u00edan cerradas, quienes se encontraban ante el altar ve\u00edan la Crucifixi\u00f3n en el centro y a cada lado de esta a san Antonio y a san Sebasti\u00e1n. Cuando se abr\u00edan, pod\u00eda verse un concierto de \u00e1ngeles y una Virgen con el ni\u00f1o, as\u00ed como una Anunciaci\u00f3n en un lateral y una Resurrecci\u00f3n en el otro. Cuando se abr\u00edan una vez m\u00e1s, se ve\u00eda a los ap\u00f3stoles y a algunos dignatarios de la Iglesia flanqueados por unas pinturas que representaban la vida de san Antonio. Este retablo fue encargado por la orden de san Antonio para un hospicio de la ciudad de Isenheim. El hospicio alojaba a las v\u00edctimas de la peste y la s\u00edfilis. El retablo ten\u00eda la funci\u00f3n de ayudar a las v\u00edctimas a aceptar el sufrimiento.\n\nEn mi primera visita a Colmar, vi la Crucifixi\u00f3n como la clave de todo el retablo y la enfermedad como la clave de la Crucifixi\u00f3n. \"Cuanto m\u00e1s lo miro, m\u00e1s me convenzo de que para Gr\u00fcnewald la enfermedad representa el estado real del ser humano. Para \u00e9l, la enfermedad no es el preludio de la muerte, como el hombre moderno tiende a temer; es la condici\u00f3n de la vida\". Esto es lo que escrib\u00ed en 1963. Entonces ignor\u00e9 el hecho de que se pod\u00eda abrir y cerrar. No necesitaba la esperanza representada en las tablas, pues yo ya ten\u00eda mi propia lente de esperanza. Ve\u00eda a Cristo en la Resurrecci\u00f3n \"tan blanco con la palidez de la muerte\"; ve\u00eda a la Virgen en la Anunciaci\u00f3n respondiendo al \u00e1ngel como si este le \"hubiera anunciado una enfermedad incurable\"; ante la Virgen con el ni\u00f1o me empe\u00f1\u00e9 en ver en los pa\u00f1ales que envuelven al peque\u00f1o el infecto harapo que m\u00e1s tarde servir\u00eda de taparrabos en la Crucifixi\u00f3n.\n\nEsta visi\u00f3n de la obra no era del todo arbitraria. El inicio del siglo XVI se sinti\u00f3 y se experiment\u00f3 en muchas partes de Europa como un tiempo de maldici\u00f3n. Y sin duda alguna esta experiencia _est\u00e1_ presente en el retablo, aunque no sea la \u00fanica. Pero en 1963 yo solo vi eso, solo vi desolaci\u00f3n. No necesitaba ver nada m\u00e1s.\n\nDiez a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, el gigantesco cuerpo crucificado segu\u00eda empeque\u00f1eciendo a los pla\u00f1ideros en la pintura y al observador fuera de ella. Esta vez pens\u00e9: la tradici\u00f3n europea est\u00e1 llena de im\u00e1genes de tortura y dolor, s\u00e1dicas en su mayor\u00eda. \u00bfC\u00f3mo es que esta, que es una de las m\u00e1s despiadadas y atormentadas de todas, constituye una excepci\u00f3n? \u00bfC\u00f3mo est\u00e1 pintada?\n\nEst\u00e1 pintada cent\u00edmetro a cent\u00edmetro. Ni un contorno, ni un hueco, ni una elevaci\u00f3n en los contornos revela una vacilaci\u00f3n moment\u00e1nea en la intensidad de la descripci\u00f3n. Esta se ajusta al dolor sufrido. Puesto que ninguna parte del cuerpo escapa al dolor, la fuerza de la descripci\u00f3n no puede decaer en ninguna zona de la pintura. La causa del dolor es irrelevante; lo \u00fanico que importa es la fidelidad de la descripci\u00f3n. Esta fidelidad tiene su origen en la empat\u00eda del amor.\n\nEl amor confiere inocencia. No tiene nada que perdonar. La persona amada no es la misma que la persona que vemos cruzando la calle o lav\u00e1ndose la cara. Ni tampoco exactamente la misma que la persona que est\u00e1 viviendo su propia vida, su propia experiencia, porque \u00e9l (o ella) no puede ser inocente.\n\n\u00bfQui\u00e9n es entonces la persona amada? Un misterio cuya identidad nadie puede confirmar, salvo el amante. Fi\u00f3dor Dostoyevski lo comprendi\u00f3 muy bien. El amor, aunque una, es solitario.\n\nLa persona amada es el ser que permanece cuando sus propios actos y su egocentrismo han sido disueltos. El amor reconoce a una persona antes de que act\u00fae y a la _misma_ persona despu\u00e9s. Otorga a esta persona un valor que no es traducible en virtud.\n\nEl amor de una madre por su hijo podr\u00eda resumir este tipo de amor. La pasi\u00f3n es solo una modalidad m\u00e1s del mismo. Sin embargo, existen ciertas diferencias. Un ni\u00f1o est\u00e1 en un proceso de continuo devenir. Un ni\u00f1o es incompleto. En lo que es, en un momento dado, puede ser notablemente completo. Pero en el paso entre un momento y otro se hace dependiente, y su estado incompleto, evidente. El amor de la madre se confabula con el ni\u00f1o. Lo imagina m\u00e1s completo. Los deseos de ambos se entremezclan o alternan. Como las piernas al caminar.\n\nEl descubrimiento de una persona amada, ya formada y completa, es el inicio de una pasi\u00f3n.\n\nUno reconoce a quienes no ama por sus logros o cualidades personales. Las cualidades que uno considera importantes pueden ser diferentes de las que la sociedad en general proclama como tales. No obstante, tenemos en cuenta a aquellos que no amamos dependiendo de su manera de llenar un contorno, y para describir dicho contorno utilizamos adjetivos comparativos. Su \"forma\" global es la suma de sus logros o cualidades, tal como las describen los adjetivos.\n\nA la persona amada la vemos de una forma totalmente opuesta. Su contorno o forma no es una superficie encontrada por casualidad, sino un horizonte que lo bordea todo. Uno no reconoce a la persona amada por sus cualidades o logros, sino por los _verbos_ que puedan satisfacerla. Sus necesidades pueden ser muy diferentes de las del amante, pero crean un valor: el valor de ese amor.\n\nPara Gr\u00fcnewald el verbo era _pintar._ Pintar la vida de Cristo.\n\nLa empat\u00eda, llevada hasta el grado en que la llev\u00f3 Gr\u00fcnewald, puede revelar un \u00e1rea de verdad entre lo objetivo y lo subjetivo. Los m\u00e9dicos y los cient\u00edficos que trabajan actualmente en la fenomenolog\u00eda del dolor podr\u00edan estudiar esta obra. Las distorsiones de la forma y de las proporciones \u2014la dilataci\u00f3n de los pies, el torso arqueado a la altura del pecho, el alargamiento de los brazos, la colocaci\u00f3n de los dedos\u2014 describen exactamente la anatom\u00eda _sentida_ del dolor.\n\nNo quiero sugerir con todo esto que en 1973 vi m\u00e1s cosas que en 1963. Vi las mismas, pero de otra manera. Eso es todo. Los diez a\u00f1os transcurridos no implican necesariamente progreso; en muchos sentidos representan una derrota.\n\nEl retablo est\u00e1 alojado en una sala alta con ventanas g\u00f3ticas, cerca de un r\u00edo y de algunos almacenes. Durante mi segunda visita, yo estaba tomando algunas notas y de vez en cuando miraba al concierto de \u00e1ngeles. La sala estaba desierta, a no ser por el vigilante, un viejo que se calentaba las manos, cubiertas ya con guantes de lana, en una estufa port\u00e1til de aceite. Cuando levant\u00e9 la vista tuve una clara conciencia de que algo se hab\u00eda movido o cambiado. Sin embargo, no hab\u00eda o\u00eddo nada, y la sala estaba en completo silencio. Entonces vi lo que hab\u00eda cambiado. Hab\u00eda salido el sol. Muy bajo en el cielo invernal, entraba directamente por las ventanas g\u00f3ticas, de forma que las l\u00edneas de sus apuntados arcos se imprim\u00edan n\u00edtidamente en la blanca pared opuesta a ellas. Pas\u00e9 la mirada desde la pared iluminada por las ventanas a la luz pintada en las tablas: la ventana pintada al fondo de la capilla en donde tiene lugar la Anunciaci\u00f3n, la luz que se derrama por la monta\u00f1a pintada detr\u00e1s de la Virgen, el gran c\u00edrculo de luz que cual aurora boreal envuelve a Cristo resucitado. En todos los casos, la luz pintada se manten\u00eda como tal. Segu\u00eda siendo luz, no se desintegraba en pintura de colores. El sol se ocult\u00f3, y la pared blanca perdi\u00f3 las figuras que la animaban. El retablo mantuvo su resplandor.\n\nMe di cuenta entonces de que todo el retablo trataba de la oscuridad y la luz. El inmenso espacio de cielo y de llanura que se extiende detr\u00e1s de la Crucifixi\u00f3n, la llanura alsaciana cruzada por los miles de refugiados que hu\u00edan de la guerra y la hambruna, est\u00e1 desierta y envuelta en una oscuridad que parece definitiva. En 1963, la luz de las otras tablas me pareci\u00f3 d\u00e9bil y artificial. O, m\u00e1s exactamente, d\u00e9bil y misteriosa. (Una luz so\u00f1ada en la oscuridad.) En 1973, cre\u00ed ver que la luz de aquellas tablas era coherente con la experiencia esencial de la luz.\n\nLa luz solo es uniforme y constante en muy contadas circunstancias. (A veces, en el mar; a veces, en la alta monta\u00f1a.) Normalmente, la luz es variada y cambiante. Las sombras la cruzan. Unas superficies la reflejan mejor que otras. La luz no es, como los moralistas quieren hacernos creer, el polo constantemente opuesto a la oscuridad. La luz resplandece en la oscuridad.\n\nObservemos las tablas de la Virgen y el concierto de \u00e1ngeles. Cuando no es absolutamente regular, la luz disloca las dimensiones regulares del espacio. La luz vuelve a dar forma al espacio tal como nosotros lo percibimos. Al principio, lo que est\u00e1 iluminado tiende a parecer m\u00e1s pr\u00f3ximo que lo que est\u00e1 en la sombra. Se dir\u00eda que por la noche las luces aproximan el pueblo hacia nosotros. Si examinamos este fen\u00f3meno m\u00e1s detenidamente, se vuelve m\u00e1s sutil. Toda concentraci\u00f3n de luz act\u00faa como centro de atracci\u00f3n imaginativa, de forma que uno, en su imaginaci\u00f3n, lo mide todo _desde_ esta, a trav\u00e9s de las zonas de sombra y oscuridad. Y as\u00ed hay tantos espacios articulados como concentraciones de luz. El lugar en el que uno est\u00e1 situado en cada momento establece el espacio primario de una planta arquitect\u00f3nica. Pero lejos de all\u00ed se inicia un di\u00e1logo con todos los lugares iluminados, por muy lejos que est\u00e9n, y cada uno propone otro espacio y una articulaci\u00f3n espacial diferente. Todos los lugares brillantemente iluminados le incitan a uno a imaginarse en ellos. Es como si el ojo que mira viera ecos de s\u00ed mismo all\u00ed donde quiera que se concentre la luz. Esta multiplicidad proporciona un tipo de gozo.\n\nLa atracci\u00f3n del ojo por la luz, la atracci\u00f3n del organismo por la luz como fuente de energ\u00eda son algo b\u00e1sico. La atracci\u00f3n de la imaginaci\u00f3n por la luz es algo m\u00e1s complejo, pues implica toda la mente y, por lo tanto, una experiencia comparativa. Los humanos respondemos a las diversas modificaciones f\u00edsicas de la luz con cambios de humor infinitesimales, pero bien definidos: alegre o triste, esperanzado o temeroso. Ante la mayor\u00eda de las escenas, la experiencia de cada uno con respecto a la luz se divide en zonas espaciales de seguridad y de duda. La visi\u00f3n avanza de una a otra luz, como una figura que atraviesa el r\u00edo de piedra en piedra.\n\nUnamos las dos observaciones que acabamos de hacer: la esperanza atrae, brilla como un punto al que uno quisiera acercarse, desde el que uno quisiera medir todo lo dem\u00e1s. La duda no tiene centro y es ubicua.\n\nDe ah\u00ed la fuerza y la fragilidad de la luz de Gr\u00fcnewald.\n\nLas dos veces que fui a Colmar era invierno, y en ambas ocasiones la ciudad estaba atenazada por el fr\u00edo, ese fr\u00edo que viene de la llanura y trae con \u00e9l un recuerdo del hambre. En la misma ciudad, bajo unas condiciones f\u00edsicas similares, vi de forma diferente. Es un lugar com\u00fan que la significaci\u00f3n de una obra de arte cambia con el tiempo. Por lo general, sin embargo, este conocimiento se utiliza para distinguir entre \"ellos\" (en el pasado) y \"nosotros\" (en el presente). Tendemos a representar a _ellos_ y sus reacciones ante el arte como parte de la historia, al tiempo que _nosotros_ nos atribuimos una visi\u00f3n de conjunto que lo domina todo desde lo que consideramos su cumbre. La obra de arte que ha sobrevivido hasta nuestros d\u00edas parece as\u00ed confirmar nuestra posici\u00f3n superior. El objetivo de su supervivencia \u00e9ramos nosotros.\n\nEsto no es m\u00e1s que una ilusi\u00f3n. La historia no concede privilegios. La primera vez que vi el retablo de Gr\u00fcnewald estaba deseando situar _lo_ hist\u00f3ricamente. En t\u00e9rminos de la religi\u00f3n medieval, la peste, la medicina, el lazareto. Hoy soy yo quien se ve obligado a situarse hist\u00f3ricamente.\n\nEn un per\u00edodo de esperanza revolucionaria, vi una obra de arte que hab\u00eda sobrevivido y era una prueba de la desesperaci\u00f3n del pasado; en una \u00e9poca que ha de ser sobrellevada como se pueda, veo que, milagrosamente, la misma obra nos ofrece un angosto paso a trav\u00e9s de la desesperaci\u00f3n.\n\n## **Alberto Durero**\n\n## 1471-1528\n\nHace m\u00e1s de quinientos a\u00f1os del nacimiento de Durero. (Naci\u00f3 el 21 de mayo de 1471, en N\u00faremberg.) Estos quinientos a\u00f1os pueden parecer mucho o poco tiempo, dependiendo del punto de vista o el humor de cada cual. Cuando parecen poco tiempo, sientes que es posible entender a Durero y mantener con \u00e9l una conversaci\u00f3n imaginaria. Cuando parecen mucho tiempo, el mundo en el que vivi\u00f3 y la conciencia que de \u00e9l ten\u00eda el artista se sienten como algo tan remoto que no es posible di\u00e1logo alguno.\n\nDurero fue el primer pintor obsesionado con su imagen. Nadie antes de \u00e9l hab\u00eda pintado tantos autorretratos. Entre sus primeras obras se encuentra un autorretrato a grafito dibujado a los trece a\u00f1os. El dibujo no solo demuestra que era un prodigio, sino tambi\u00e9n que estaba convencido de que su aspecto era asombroso e inolvidable. Y, tal vez, una de las cosas que lo hac\u00eda asombroso era que parec\u00eda consciente de su propia genialidad. Todos sus autorretratos revelan un sentimiento de orgullo. Se dir\u00eda que la mirada del genio que \u00e9l mismo percibe en sus ojos es un elemento m\u00e1s de la obra maestra que se ha propuesto crear en cada caso. En esto sus autorretratos son la ant\u00edtesis de los de Rembrandt.\n\nAlberto Durero, _Autorretrato con abrigo de piel_ , 1500. \nAlberto Durero, _Autorretrato_ , 1498.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 se pinta un hombre a s\u00ed mismo? Uno de los motivos, entre otros muchos, es el mismo que el que lleva a cualquier persona a querer que la retraten. Para producir pruebas, unas pruebas que seguramente le sobrevivan, de que ha existido. Su mirada permanece; y el doble sentido de la palabra inglesa _look_ , que significa tanto 'aspecto' como 'mirada', sugiere el misterio o el enigma contenido en esa idea. Su mirada interroga a quienes contemplamos el retrato intentando imaginar la vida del artista.\n\nAl recordar estos dos autorretratos de Durero, uno conservado en Madrid y otro en M\u00fanich, soy consciente de ser, junto con otros miles de personas, el espectador imaginario cuyo inter\u00e9s presupuso el pintor hace unos 485 a\u00f1os. Al mismo tiempo, sin embargo, me pregunto cu\u00e1ntas de las palabras que escribo ahora habr\u00edan transmitido a Durero el significado que tienen hoy. Podemos aproximarnos tanto a su rostro, a su expresi\u00f3n, que resulta dif\u00edcil creer que en realidad una gran parte de su experiencia no puede sino escap\u00e1rsenos. Situar a Durero hist\u00f3ricamente no es lo mismo que reconocer su propia experiencia. Me parece importante se\u00f1alar esto en vista de la autocomplacencia con la que se suele dar por supuesta una continuidad entre su tiempo y el nuestro. Autocomplacencia porque cuanto m\u00e1s se insiste en esa llamada continuidad, m\u00e1s tendemos, de un modo extra\u00f1o, a felicitarnos por la genialidad de Durero.\n\nDos a\u00f1os separan las dos pinturas que obviamente representan al mismo hombre en dos estados de \u00e1nimo del todo diferentes. El segundo retrato, hoy en el Museo del Prado de Madrid, muestra al pintor, a los veintisiete a\u00f1os, vestido a la moda de los cortesanos venecianos. Parece seguro de s\u00ed mismo, orgulloso, casi principesco. Tal vez quiera hacerse un leve hincapi\u00e9 en el hecho de que est\u00e1 disfrazado, lo que nos viene sugerido, por ejemplo, por su mano enguantada. La expresi\u00f3n de sus ojos no concuerda con la gracia con la que lleva el tocado. Se dir\u00eda que Durero est\u00e1 confesando a medias que se ha disfrazado para desempe\u00f1ar un papel, el nuevo papel al que aspira. Pint\u00f3 este autorretrato cuatro a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de su primera visita a Italia. Durante esta visita no solo conoci\u00f3 a Giovanni Bellini y descubri\u00f3 la pintura veneciana, sino que tambi\u00e9n lleg\u00f3 a darse cuenta de cu\u00e1n independientes de esp\u00edritu y cu\u00e1n respetados socialmente pod\u00edan ser los pintores. Sus ropas venecianas y el paisaje de los Alpes que se ve por la ventana indican seguramente que la pintura hace referencia a sus experiencias juveniles en Venecia. Interpretado en unos t\u00e9rminos absurdamente toscos, parece que la pintura estuviera diciendo: \"En Venecia tom\u00e9 la medida de mi propia val\u00eda, y espero que se me reconozca aqu\u00ed en Alemania\". Desde su regreso hab\u00eda empezado a recibir importantes encargos por parte de Federico el Sabio, pr\u00edncipe elector de Sajonia. Posteriormente trabajar\u00eda para el emperador Maximiliano I.\n\nEl retrato conservado en M\u00fanich fue pintado en 1500. Muestra al artista vestido con un sombr\u00edo gab\u00e1n ante un fondo oscuro. La pose, la mano que cierra el abrigo a la altura del pecho, la disposici\u00f3n del cabello, la expresi\u00f3n del rostro, o m\u00e1s bien la sacra carencia de ella, sugieren, conforme a las convenciones pict\u00f3ricas de la \u00e9poca, una representaci\u00f3n de la cabeza de Cristo. Y, aunque no se pueda probar, parece que la comparaci\u00f3n era intencionada, o cuando menos Durero quer\u00eda que pasara por la mente del espectador.\n\nSu intenci\u00f3n no deb\u00eda de ser en absoluto blasfema. Era un hombre profundamente religioso y, aunque en cierto modo compart\u00eda la actitud renacentista con respecto a la ciencia y la raz\u00f3n, su religiosidad respond\u00eda a un tipo tradicional. En una \u00e9poca ya tard\u00eda de su vida admir\u00f3 moral e intelectualmente a Lutero, pero fue incapaz de romper con la religi\u00f3n cat\u00f3lica. Esta pintura no puede estar diciendo: \"Me veo como Cristo\". Sino m\u00e1s bien dir\u00eda: \"Por el sufrimiento que conozco aspiro a imitar a Cristo\".\n\nY, sin embargo, como en el otro retrato, hay tambi\u00e9n en este un elemento teatral. Al parecer, en ninguno de sus autorretratos lleg\u00f3 a aceptarse tal como era. La ambici\u00f3n de ser otra cosa, de ser algo m\u00e1s, interviene siempre. El \u00fanico dato de s\u00ed mismo que acept\u00f3 de forma consistente fue el monograma con el que, a diferencia de cualquier otro artista anterior a \u00e9l, firm\u00f3 toda su producci\u00f3n. La gama de posibles personalidades que ver\u00eda reflejadas cuando se miraba al espejo deb\u00eda de fascinarle; a veces, la visi\u00f3n, como sucede en el retrato de Madrid, era extravagante; a veces, como en el de M\u00fanich, llena de presentimientos.\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo puede explicarse la asombrosa diferencia entre estos dos autorretratos? En 1500, miles de personas en el sur de Alemania cre\u00edan firmemente que se acercaban al fin del mundo. A las hambrunas y las pestes se sumaba el nuevo azote de la s\u00edfilis. Los conflictos sociales, que pronto conducir\u00edan a la Guerra de los campesinos alemanes, se intensificaban. Masas de trabajadores y campesinos dejaban sus hogares para convertirse en n\u00f3madas a la b\u00fasqueda de alimentos y venganza, y tambi\u00e9n de salvaci\u00f3n el d\u00eda en que la c\u00f3lera de Dios cayera en forma de lluvia de fuego sobre la tierra, el sol desapareciera y los cielos se abrieran, despleg\u00e1ndose como un pergamino.\n\nDurero, a quien durante toda su vida hab\u00eda obsesionado la idea de la proximidad de la muerte, participaba del terror general. Fue en esta \u00e9poca cuando realiz\u00f3 para un p\u00fablico relativamente extenso, popular, su primera serie importante de xilograf\u00edas. Y el tema de la serie era el Apocalipsis.\n\nEl estilo de estos grabados, por no hablar de la urgencia de su mensaje, constituye una prueba m\u00e1s de lo lejos que estamos hoy de la experiencia de Durero. Seg\u00fan nuestras categor\u00edas, parece una mezcla simult\u00e1nea e incongruente de g\u00f3tico, renacentista y barroco. Hist\u00f3ricamente, lo vemos como el recorrido de todo un siglo. Para Durero, que ve\u00eda acercarse el _fin_ de la historia y alejarse el sue\u00f1o de la belleza renacentista, tal como \u00e9l la hab\u00eda imaginado en Venecia, el estilo de estos grabados deb\u00eda de ser tan inmediato a ese momento y tan natural como el sonido de su propia voz.\n\nNo creo, sin embargo, que ning\u00fan acontecimiento espec\u00edfico sea la causa de la diferencia entre los dos autorretratos. Podr\u00edan haber sido pintados en el mismo mes del mismo a\u00f1o; se complementan; juntos forman una especie de arco que se alza ante toda la obra posterior de Durero. Sugieren el dilema, el marco de autocr\u00edtica en el que trabajaba como artista.\n\nEl padre de Durero fue un joyero h\u00fangaro que se hab\u00eda establecido en N\u00faremberg, a la saz\u00f3n un importante centro de comercio. Tal como lo exig\u00edan entonces las normas del oficio, era un dibujante y grabador competente. Pero en sus actitudes y alcance nunca pas\u00f3 de ser un artesano medieval. Lo \u00fanico que ten\u00eda que preguntarse a s\u00ed mismo con respecto a su trabajo era el \"c\u00f3mo\". No se planteaba otras cuestiones.\n\nA los veintitr\u00e9s a\u00f1os, su hijo era ya el pintor europeo m\u00e1s alejado de la mentalidad del artesano medieval. Cre\u00eda que el artista hab\u00eda de descubrir los secretos del universo si quer\u00eda conseguir la Belleza. La primera cuesti\u00f3n en t\u00e9rminos art\u00edsticos era el \"ad\u00f3nde\" (y tambi\u00e9n de una forma concreta en t\u00e9rminos de viaje; viajaba siempre que pod\u00eda). Durero nunca hubiera logrado este sentido de la independencia y la iniciativa si no hubiera ido a Italia. Pero, parad\u00f3jicamente, lleg\u00f3 a ser mucho m\u00e1s independiente que cualquier pintor italiano, precisamente porque era un forastero sin una tradici\u00f3n moderna; la tradici\u00f3n alemana, hasta que \u00e9l la cambiara, pertenec\u00eda al pasado. \u00c9l por s\u00ed solo constituy\u00f3 la primera vanguardia.\n\nEs esta la independencia expresada en el retrato del Museo del Prado. El que no la abrace por completo, el que parezca un atav\u00edo que uno puede probarse, puede explicarse por el hecho de que, a fin de cuentas, Durero era hijo de su padre. La muerte de este, en 1502, afect\u00f3 al pintor en gran medida; estaba muy unido a \u00e9l. \u00bfCre\u00eda que la diferencia entre \u00e9l y su padre era algo inevitable y ordenado, o la ve\u00eda m\u00e1s bien como una cuesti\u00f3n que depend\u00eda de su libre elecci\u00f3n, una elecci\u00f3n de la que no se sent\u00eda del todo seguro? Ambas cosas probablemente, dependiendo del momento. El retrato de Madrid incluye ese sutil elemento de duda.\n\nSu independencia, combinada con el estilo de su arte, debi\u00f3 de dar a Durero un sentimiento de poder inusual. Su arte se aproxim\u00f3 m\u00e1s a la recreaci\u00f3n de la naturaleza que el de cualquier otro artista anterior a \u00e9l. Su capacidad para representar un objeto debi\u00f3 de parecer entonces, como todav\u00eda lo parece hoy, milagrosa (no tenemos m\u00e1s que pensar en sus acuarelas de flores y animales). Sol\u00eda decir que sus retratos eran _konterfei_ , un t\u00e9rmino que pone de relieve el proceso de producir algo exactamente igual.\n\n\u00bfNo era acaso su forma de describir o de recrear lo que ten\u00eda ante s\u00ed o ve\u00eda en sue\u00f1os similar, en cierto modo, al proceso por el que se dec\u00eda que Dios hab\u00eda creado el mundo y todo lo que lo puebla? Tal vez se plante\u00f3 esta cuesti\u00f3n. De ser as\u00ed, no era un sentido de su propia virtud lo que le llevaba a compararse con la divinidad, sino su conciencia de lo que parec\u00eda ser su propia creatividad. Y, sin embargo, pese a esta creatividad, se ve\u00eda condenado a vivir en un mundo lleno de sufrimiento, un mundo contra el que en definitiva su poder creativo no serv\u00eda para nada. Su autorretrato caracterizado de Cristo es el retrato de un creador en el lado equivocado de la creaci\u00f3n, un creador que no ha tenido parte en su propia creaci\u00f3n.\n\nLa independencia de Durero como artista era a veces incompatible con su fe religiosa, todav\u00eda medieval en gran medida. Estos dos autorretratos expresan los t\u00e9rminos de dicha incompatibilidad. Pero esto no deja de ser una afirmaci\u00f3n abstracta. Seguimos sin poder acceder a la experiencia de Durero. En una ocasi\u00f3n viaj\u00f3 durante seis d\u00edas en una peque\u00f1a barca para examinar, como lo har\u00eda el cient\u00edfico, el esqueleto de una ballena. Al mismo tiempo, cre\u00eda en los Jinetes del Apocalipsis. Consideraba que Lutero era un \"instrumento de Dios\". Cuando se miraba al espejo, \u00bfc\u00f3mo formulaba exactamente esa pregunta que se nos insin\u00faa al contemplar su autorretrato y que planteada en su forma m\u00e1s sencilla ser\u00eda \"de qu\u00e9 soy yo el instrumento\"? \u00bfY cu\u00e1l era su verdadera respuesta?\n\n## **Miguel \u00c1ngel**\n\n## 1475-1564\n\nEstiro el cuello para contemplar el techo de la capilla Sixtina y _La creaci\u00f3n de Ad\u00e1n_ : \u00bfcrees t\u00fa tambi\u00e9n, como lo creo yo, haber so\u00f1ado alguna vez con el toque de esa mano y el extraordinario momento de su retirada? Y \u00a1paf! Te imagino en tu lejana Galicia, restaurando en la cocina de tu casa la Virgen de la iglesia parroquial de una peque\u00f1a aldea. S\u00ed, la restauraci\u00f3n de aqu\u00ed, en Roma, est\u00e1 bien hecha. Quienes protestaron no ten\u00eda raz\u00f3n. Y te dir\u00e9 por qu\u00e9.\n\nAhora se ven con mayor claridad los cuatro tipos de espacio con los que jug\u00f3 Miguel \u00c1ngel en este techo \u2014el espacio del bajorrelieve, el espacio del altorrelieve, el espacio corporal de los veinte desnudos con los que so\u00f1aba como una bienaventuranza mientras pintaba tumbado boca arriba, y el espacio infinito de los cielos\u2014 y se percibe mejor que antes su extraordinaria articulaci\u00f3n. Est\u00e1n articulados, Marisa, con la precisi\u00f3n de un maestro del billar. Y si el techo no estuviera bien restaurado, esto habr\u00eda sido lo primero que se habr\u00eda perdido.\n\nTambi\u00e9n he descubierto algo m\u00e1s: salta a la vista, pero casi todo el mundo pasa de largo. Tal vez, porque el Vaticano impone mucho a la gente. Entre sus riquezas mundanas y su lista de castigos eternos, el visitante se siente empeque\u00f1ecido. Los castigos excesivos que prescrib\u00eda la Iglesia y sus excesivas riquezas eran en realidad complementarios. Sin el infierno, esas riquezas habr\u00edan parecido un robo. En cualquier caso, los visitantes llegados hoy desde todos los rincones del mundo est\u00e1n tan llenos de temerosa admiraci\u00f3n que se olvidan de las \"cositas\" que tienen entre las piernas.\n\nMiguel \u00c1ngel, _Piet\u00e0 Rondanini_ , 1564.\n\nPero no Miguel \u00c1ngel. \u00c9l las pint\u00f3, y las pint\u00f3 con tanto amor que se transformaron en puntos focales, de modo que durante siglos, despu\u00e9s de su muerte, las autoridades vaticanas ordenaron borrar subrepticiamente o pintar encima de casi todos los sexos masculinos de la capilla Sixtina. Por suerte, quedaron unos cuantos.\n\nEn vida se le llam\u00f3 \"el genio sublime\". Asumi\u00f3, en mayor medida a\u00fan que Tiziano y en el \u00faltimo momento hist\u00f3rico en que todav\u00eda era posible, el papel renacentista del artista como supremo creador. Su \u00fanico tema fue el cuerpo humano, y para \u00e9l, lo sublime de ese cuerpo se revelaba en el \u00f3rgano sexual masculino.\n\nEn el _David_ de Donatello, el sexo del joven ocupa discretamente su lugar \u2014como el pulgar de una mano o un dedo del pie\u2014. En el _David_ de Miguel \u00c1ngel, el sexo es el centro del cuerpo, y el resto de las partes se someten a este con una especie de deferencia, como ante un milagro. As\u00ed de simple y as\u00ed de hermoso. De una forma menos espectacular, pero no por ello menos evidente, lo mismo sucede con el sexo del Ni\u00f1o Jes\u00fas en su _Virgen de Brujas_. No se trataba de lujuria, sino de una forma de culto.\n\nDada esta predilecci\u00f3n y dado el gran orgullo del genio renacentista, \u00bfc\u00f3mo dir\u00edas t\u00fa que se imaginaba el para\u00edso? \u00bfNo podr\u00eda ser su para\u00edso la fantas\u00eda de que los hombres dieran a luz?\n\nTodo el techo es realmente una representaci\u00f3n de la creaci\u00f3n, y para \u00e9l, en el \u00faltimo recodo de su deseo, la creaci\u00f3n significaba que todo lo imaginable naciera, empujara y volara de entre las piernas de los hombres.\n\n\u00bfRecuerdas las tumbas de los Medici, las que tienen las figuras aleg\u00f3ricas del D\u00eda y la Noche, el Ocaso y la Aurora? Dos hombres reclinados y dos mujeres reclinadas. Las mujeres juntan modestamente las piernas. Los hombres las tienen abiertas y elevan las pelvis, empujando, como si esperaran un nacimiento. No un nacimiento de carne y sangre, ni, por supuesto, de s\u00edmbolos. El nacimiento que esperan es el del misterio indescriptible y eterno que encarnan sus cuerpos. Y que emerger\u00e1 de ah\u00ed, de entre sus piernas abiertas.\n\nY as\u00ed est\u00e1 representado en el techo. Los visitantes que se mueven por el suelo de la capilla parecen figuras que acabaran de caer de entre los pies y de debajo de las faldas de los profetas y las sibilas. Vale. Las sibilas son mujeres, pero no lo son aqu\u00ed, no. Cuando te acercas son hombres ataviados con ropajes femeninos.\n\nM\u00e1s all\u00e1 se encuentran las nueve escenas de la Creaci\u00f3n y all\u00ed, sentados en las cuatro esquinas de cada una de ellas, se hallan esos desnudos masculinos sorprendentes, inmensos, contorsionados y anhelantes (los _ignudi_ ), cuya presencia parece tan dif\u00edcil de explicar a los historiadores. Unos afirman que representan la Belleza Ideal. Pero entonces \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 tanto esfuerzo, tanto anhelo y tanto trabajo? No; los veinte j\u00f3venes desnudos representados all\u00ed arriba han concebido y acaban de alumbrar todo lo visible y todo lo imaginable y todo lo que vemos en el techo. El amado cuerpo del hombre es all\u00ed arriba la medida de todas las cosas, incluso del amor plat\u00f3nico, incluso de Eva, incluso de ti.\n\nEn una ocasi\u00f3n, hablando del escultor del torso del Belvedere (50 a. C.), Miguel \u00c1ngel dijo lo siguiente: \"Esta es la obra de un hombre que sab\u00eda m\u00e1s que la naturaleza\".\n\nY ah\u00ed reside el sue\u00f1o, el deseo enmara\u00f1ado, el patetismo y la fantas\u00eda.\n\nEn 1536, dos d\u00e9cadas despu\u00e9s de haber terminado el techo de la capilla Sixtina, empez\u00f3 el _Juicio final_ en el gigantesco muro que se eleva detr\u00e1s del altar, posiblemente la pintura al fresco m\u00e1s grande de Europa. Este fresco contiene innumerables figuras, todas desnudas y en su mayor\u00eda hombres. Otros escritores lo han comparado con las obras tard\u00edas de Rembrandt o de Beethoven, pero yo no estoy de acuerdo. Lo que yo veo es terror en estado puro, y el terror est\u00e1 \u00edntimamente relacionado con lo que hay en el techo. El hombre sigue desnudo, pero ahora ya no es la medida de nada.\n\nTodo ha cambiado. El Renacimiento y su esp\u00edritu est\u00e1n acabados. Se ha producido el Saqueo de Roma. Est\u00e1 a punto de aparecer la Inquisici\u00f3n. All\u00ed donde se mire el miedo ha sustituido a la esperanza, y \u00e9l se est\u00e1 haciendo viejo. Tal vez, la situaci\u00f3n no era muy distinta a la de nuestro mundo hoy.\n\nDe pronto se me vienen a la cabeza las fotograf\u00edas de Sebasti\u00e3o Salgado: sus fotos de las minas de oro en Brasil y de los mineros de carb\u00f3n de Bihar, en la India. Los dos artistas parecen espantados por lo que tienen que describir, y los dos muestran unos cuerpos tensados al m\u00e1ximo, a punto de romperse, pero que de alguna manera parecen soportar la tensi\u00f3n.\n\nSebasti\u00e3o Salgado, _Mariscadoras_ , 1988.\n\nAh\u00ed acaba todo el parecido, pues las figuras de Salgado est\u00e1n trabajando, y las de Miguel \u00c1ngel est\u00e1n monstruosamente desocupadas. Su energ\u00eda, sus cuerpos, sus grandes manos, sus sentidos han dejado de valer para nada. La humanidad se ha hecho est\u00e9ril y apenas hay diferencia entre los salvados y los condenados. Ning\u00fan cuerpo sue\u00f1a ya, por hermoso que fuera en su d\u00eda. Solo hay ira y penitencia, como si Dios hubiera abandonado al ser humano a la naturaleza y la naturaleza se hubiera quedado ciega. \u00bfCiega? Finalmente, no es verdad.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de pintar el _Juicio final_ vivi\u00f3 todav\u00eda dos d\u00e9cadas m\u00e1s sin dejar de trabajar. Y cuando muri\u00f3, a los ochenta y nueve a\u00f1os, estaba esculpiendo una _piet\u00e0_ en m\u00e1rmol, la inacabada _Piet\u00e0 Rondanini_.\n\nLa madre que sostiene el desmadejado cuerpo del hijo est\u00e1 toscamente tallada en piedra sin pulimentar. Las dos piernas del hijo y uno de sus brazos est\u00e1n acabados y pulidos. (Tal vez son restos de otra escultura parcialmente destruida. Igual da: tal como es constituye un monumento a su energ\u00eda y su soledad.) La l\u00ednea divisoria, la frontera entre el m\u00e1rmol pulido y la tosca piedra, entre la carne y el bloque de piedra, se encuentra al nivel del sexo de Cristo.\n\nY el inmenso dramatismo de esta obra reside en el hecho de que el cuerpo est\u00e1 retornando y es amorosamente acogido en el bloque de piedra, en su madre. Es, al fin, lo contrario de un nacimiento.\n\nTe env\u00edo la foto de Salgado con las mariscadoras de la r\u00eda de Vigo trabajando con la marea baja en un mes de octubre.\n\n## **Tiziano**\n\n## 1485\/1490-1576\n\nConversaci\u00f3n por correo con su hija Katya Andreadakis Berger\n\nSeptiembre de 1991 \nPlaza de San Marcos, Venecia\n\nJohn:\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 me parece Tiziano? En una sola palabra en una postal: carne.\n\nUn beso,\n\nKatya.\n\nSeptiembre de 1991 \n\u00c1msterdam\n\nKut:\n\nDe acuerdo, carne. Lo primero que se me viene a la cabeza es la suya de viejo. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 pienso inmediatamente en Tiziano viejo? \u00bfPor solidaridad, dada mi propia edad? No, no lo creo. Tiene que ver con el siglo que vivimos y la amargura de su experiencia, un siglo que siempre ha buscado la rabia y la sabidur\u00eda m\u00e1s que la armon\u00eda. Los Rembrandt tard\u00edos, los \u00faltimos Goya, las \u00faltimas sonatas y cuartetos de Beethoven, los Tiziano de los \u00faltimos a\u00f1os... \u00a1Imag\u00ednate el impulso de un siglo cuyo maestro fuera el joven Rafael!\n\nPienso en los autorretratos que pint\u00f3 a los sesenta y setenta a\u00f1os. O en su forma de representarse a los ochenta y tantos como el penitente san Jer\u00f3nimo. (Tal vez este no es un autorretrato: es solo una suposici\u00f3n m\u00eda, pero tengo la sensaci\u00f3n de que deb\u00eda de estar pensando intensamente en s\u00ed mismo mientras lo estaba pintando.)\n\n\u00bfY qu\u00e9 veo? Veo a un hombre cuyo aspecto f\u00edsico impone, un hombre con autoridad. Uno no puede tomarse libertades con \u00e9l. Con el decr\u00e9pito Rembrandt de los \u00faltimos a\u00f1os habr\u00eda sido f\u00e1cil. Este otro, sin embargo, sabe c\u00f3mo funciona el poder y ha ejercido el suyo. Ha convertido en una profesi\u00f3n \u2014como las de general o embajador o banquero\u2014 el oficio de pintor. Fue el primero que lo hizo. Y posee esa confianza que suele acompa\u00f1ar al profesional.\n\nY tambi\u00e9n tiene una confianza pict\u00f3rica. En sus \u00faltimas obras fue el primer europeo que exhibi\u00f3 \u2014en lugar de ocultarlos o disimularlos\u2014 los gestos de la mano al extender el pigmento en el lienzo. De este modo dio a la pintura una nueva confianza f\u00edsica: el movimiento de la mano y del brazo que pintan adquiere una expresividad propia. Otros artistas, como Rembrandt o Van Gogh o Willem de Kooning, seguir\u00e1n su ejemplo. Al mismo tiempo, su originalidad y su audacia nunca fueron irreflexivas. Su actitud hacia todo lo que le rodeaba en Venecia era realista.\n\nY sin embargo, sin embargo..., cuanto m\u00e1s observo su forma de pintarse, m\u00e1s veo en ella a un hombre asustado. No un cobarde, no es eso lo que quiero decir. No corre riesgos, pero tiene valor. No suele mostrar su miedo, pero no puede remediar rozarlo con los pinceles. Se percibe sobre todo en sus manos. Son unas manos nerviosas como las de un prestamista. Pero su miedo, creo yo, no ten\u00eda nada que ver con el dinero.\n\n\u00bfMiedo a la muerte? La peste hac\u00eda estragos en Venecia. \u00bfMiedo a ser juzgado? \u00bfUn miedo que le llevaba al arrepentimiento y la penitencia? Podr\u00eda ser cualquiera de ellos, pero son todos demasiado generales para ayudarnos a comprenderlo o a aproximarnos a \u00e9l. Lleg\u00f3 a ser muy viejo. El miedo le acompa\u00f1\u00f3 durante muchos a\u00f1os. Y un miedo que dura tanto se transforma en duda.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 fue lo que le hizo dudar? Sospecho que estaba \u00edntimamente relacionado con Venecia, con la forma caracter\u00edstica de riqueza, de comercio y de poder de la ciudad. Todas las cuales, como t\u00fa bien dices, ten\u00edan que ver con la carne.\n\nUn beso,\n\nJohn\n\n21 de septiembre de 1991 \nGiudecca, Venecia\n\nJohn:\n\nMientras visitaba la exposici\u00f3n, me cruc\u00e9 varias veces con un viejo, que a ratos segu\u00eda mis pasos y a ratos desaparec\u00eda de mi vista hasta que volv\u00eda a encontrarlo a mi lado. Iba solo, mascullando para s\u00ed.\n\nLa primera vez que repar\u00e9 en \u00e9l, volv\u00eda de una de las \u00faltimas salas y se dirig\u00eda con paso decidido hacia el cuadro de _Cristo con la cruz a cuestas._ Y all\u00ed se detuvo a mi lado.\n\n\u2014Uno usa la pintura para cubrirse, para abrigarse... \u2014dijo de pronto.\n\nAl principio me molest\u00f3 y lo mir\u00e9 con enfado, pero \u00e9l sigui\u00f3 como si nada.\n\n\u2014Jes\u00fas lleva la cruz, y yo, yo llevo el arte de la pintura, lo llevo como una prenda de lana.\n\nMe hab\u00eda ganado para su causa. Ahora se dirig\u00eda hacia el _Descanso en la huida a Egipto._ Deb\u00ed de molestarlo sin darme cuenta, porque parec\u00eda enfadado y escup\u00eda palabras inconexas.\n\n\u2014\u00a1El pelo, bah! El pelo en mi pintura... tonter\u00edas... tonter\u00edas....\n\nJunto al _Caballero ingl\u00e9s,_ habl\u00f3 directamente con el retratado, metiendo la nariz en el cuadro.\n\n\u2014Primero te pint\u00e9 completamente vestido y luego hice una pintura de la piel de un animal.\n\nNo necesit\u00f3 volverse para saber que lo segu\u00eda, y cuando pasamos un grupo de visitantes que escuchaban al gu\u00eda, me dijo torciendo la boca, como si fuera un chiste.\n\n\u2014Perros, conejos, ovejas, todos tienen un pelo que los abriga, y yo quiero imitarlos con mis pinceles.\n\nCuando volvi\u00f3 a hablar, no sin cierto orgullo, no s\u00e9 si se refer\u00eda al retrato de un cardenal o al _Retrato de un caballero (Tommaso Mosti)._\n\n\u2014\u00a1Nadie ha pintado mejor la barba masculina! \u2014dijo. Parece tan suave como el pelo de los monos.\n\nLo perd\u00ed de vista. Poco despu\u00e9s empez\u00f3 a sonar la alarma del museo. Dado que mi amigo (para entonces ya nos hab\u00edamos sonre\u00eddo varias veces) sab\u00eda poco sobre las costumbres y las normas de las exposiciones de arte modernas, pens\u00e9 en \u00e9l inmediatamente. Y no bien lo hice, vi a uno de los vigilantes jurados hablando con el anciano y mostr\u00e1ndole la distancia reglamentaria que se ha de respetar delante de los cuadros. Mi viejo dec\u00eda:\n\n\u2014Seguramente se da cuenta de que el terciopelo, seguro que se da cuenta, de que el terciopelo es mi tejido favorito y que no puedo resistirme a tocarlo.\n\nA partir de ese momento decidi\u00f3 quedarse conmigo. Me sigui\u00f3 de un lado al otro. Continuaba con su mon\u00f3logo, sin embargo, y en ning\u00fan momento pretendi\u00f3 entablar ninguna conversaci\u00f3n.\n\nCuando estaba contemplando la _D\u00e1nae,_ me arrastr\u00f3 bruscamente hacia el _Autorretrato_ de Berl\u00edn.\n\n\u2014Es una pena que no los hayan puesto en la misma sala \u2014dijo. El vello corporal, el cabello, las plumas, nadie puede desnudarse m\u00e1s... Lavo y lavo mis colores hasta que parecen el pelo de un animal. Trabajando y trabajando los ropajes se puede hacer que parezcan usados, sedosos, ce\u00f1idos, casi como la carne.\n\nTras este esfuerzo de palabras, pareci\u00f3 un poco descorazonado. En media hora no volvi\u00f3 a decir nada. Frente a _Venus y Adonis_ , se limit\u00f3 a verificar que yo estaba estudiando correctamente la pintura. Por mi parte, yo mostraba mi admiraci\u00f3n abriendo unos ojos como platos, qued\u00e1ndome con la boca abierta.\n\nParec\u00eda que hab\u00eda terminado.\n\nAnte _El castigo de Marsias_ volvieron a chisporrotear sus palabras:\n\n\u2014Cuando se desuella un animal se toca la verdad de la carne.\n\nDelante de _La piedad,_ se sent\u00f3. Creo que estuvo un buen rato sentado. Al principio no sab\u00eda si esperar, si saludarlo o contarle mis impresiones. Me hizo una se\u00f1a para que me acercara. No cab\u00eda duda de que sab\u00eda que sus observaciones sobre el pelo animal me hab\u00edan impresionado, pues en lugar de hablarme de esa famosa mano misteriosa que se alza suplicante hacia la imagen del santo \u2014la mano en la que \u00e9l ten\u00eda la vista fija\u2014 continu\u00f3 con lo mismo y repiti\u00f3:\n\n\u2014El pelo es al cuerpo lo que la pintura es para el mundo.\n\nLuego, con una risa que parec\u00eda salirle del fondo del alma, a\u00f1adi\u00f3 algo que me record\u00f3 a ti:\n\n\u2014Puedes hundirte en \u00e9l, puedes mirar bajo \u00e9l, puedes levantarlo, puedes tirar de \u00e9l, pero no intentes afeitarlo. \u00a1Volver\u00e1 a salir!\n\nAntes de alejarme de \u00e9l para siempre, tuve una clara imagen de mi propio cuerpo tendido desnudo en un lienzo de la exposici\u00f3n; del musgo debajo de m\u00ed, del perro que ten\u00eda al lado, de mis contornos, apenas separables del paisaje que me rodeaba. Un paisaje por el que mucho despu\u00e9s podr\u00eda haber andado Courbet. Con la hierba, las nubes y el barro, mi carne habr\u00eda pasado a formar parte de la piel de la tierra.\n\nBesos,\n\nKatya\n\nOctubre de 1991 \nAlta Saboya\n\nKut:\n\nTodo lo que dices sobre el pelo me ha hecho pensar en sus perros. \u00bfPor casualidad, llevaba un perro tu anciano?\n\nCreo que le gustaban los perros. Tal vez lo calmaban o lo animaban. \u00bfEran testigos? Testigos de los que se pod\u00eda fiar. Testigos mudos, mudos. Tal vez, a veces, suced\u00eda que mientras pintaba con la mano derecha, con la izquierda acariciaba ferozmente a uno de sus perros: el pelo animal cual compa\u00f1\u00eda para sus dedos, y el perro inclin\u00e1ndose a un lado y otro al ritmo de su mano.\n\nEn su \u00e9poca, incluir perros en los cuadros era una moda. Se los puede ver en Rubens, en Vel\u00e1zquez, en Veronese, en Cranach, en Van Dyck... Entre otras cosas, eran una especie de mensajeros entre los hombres y las mujeres. Embajadores del deseo. Representaban (dependiendo de su tama\u00f1o y de su raza) tanto la feminidad como la virilidad. Eran casi humanos \u2014o participaban de la intimidad de los humanos\u2014, y, sin embargo, eran inocentes. Tambi\u00e9n eran cachondos, pero nadie pod\u00eda mirarlos con desaprobaci\u00f3n porque, al fin y al cabo, solo eran perros.\n\nLos vemos en muchos de sus cuadros. En los retratos de hombres y mujeres, y en las obras de temas mitol\u00f3gicos. Pero en ninguno de una forma tan extra\u00f1a como en el _Ni\u00f1o con perros_ , una de sus pinturas tard\u00edas. No hay en toda la obra de Tiziano un cuadro semejante, y yo me inclino por la opini\u00f3n de aquellos expertos que desechan la idea de que se trata de un detalle tomado de un lienzo mayor. Lo que vemos es m\u00e1s o menos lo que tu viejo quer\u00eda que vi\u00e9ramos. Un chico \u2014\u00bfcu\u00e1ntos a\u00f1os crees que tiene? \u00bfTres? \u00bfCuatro como m\u00e1ximo?\u2014, solo en un oscuro entorno junto a dos perros y dos cachorrillos (\u00bfde unas cuatro semanas?). El ni\u00f1o agarra al perro blanco \u2014que, creo yo, es macho\u2014, como refugi\u00e1ndose en \u00e9l. La perra es la \u00fanica que mira al espectador, y los cachorros hunden la nariz en el pelo de la madre en busca de los pezones.\n\nPese a la penumbra, la escena es sosegada, calma, _combl\u00e9,_ como dicen los franceses. Nadie necesita nada m\u00e1s.\n\nLos perros son la familia del chico. Yo incluso dir\u00eda que son sus padres. Las piernas del chico y las dos patas visibles del perro blanco parecen las cuatro patas de una misma mesa: son pr\u00e1cticamente intercambiables. Todos esperan, lo que equivale a decir que est\u00e1n vivos.\n\n\u00bfNo es la espera la principal ocupaci\u00f3n de los perros? Una ocupaci\u00f3n aprendida, tal vez, dada su proximidad con los humanos. Esperar al siguiente acontecimiento, la siguiente llegada. En este caso, se dir\u00eda que el \u00faltimo acontecimiento importante ha sido el parto. Unos cachorros y un ni\u00f1o nacidos a esta perra vida. Nacidos para esperar a la muerte. Pero mientras tanto hay calor, leche, el pelo animal lleno de misterio y ojos sin palabras.\n\nEl viejo buscaba, sin duda, tu comprensi\u00f3n. No, no tu comprensi\u00f3n; buscaba tu inter\u00e9s. Porque si te interesaba, posar\u00edas para \u00e9l, y \u00e9l quer\u00eda pintarte. Pintando a las mujeres olvidaba su duda. Pero con cada olvido aumentaba su inquietud. Todas las mujeres que pint\u00f3 \u2014desde Ariadna a la Magdalena\u2014 representaban esa inquietud, una inquietud que nada ten\u00eda que ver con las mujeres. Cada una de ellas le consolaba y, al mismo tiempo, aumentaba su inquietud.\n\nEl cuadro del ni\u00f1o con los perros funciona como un consuelo. Es una pintura dulce. Es una pintura que habla de un tipo de dicha. Los cachorros han descubierto la dicha que encierra el tacto del pelo de su madre, una dicha que J\u00fapiter nunca encontrar\u00e1 con D\u00e1nae ni D\u00e1nae con J\u00fapiter. Mientras tanto, los otros tres (el ni\u00f1o y los perros adultos) esperan... Y los dos perros que miran, esperando, son los c\u00f3mplices del viejo pintor. Son lo m\u00e1s parecido que ha podido encontrar a lo que ha so\u00f1ado pintar y a aquello con lo que pinta.\n\nBesos,\n\nJohn\n\nNoviembre de 1991 \nAtenas\n\nJohn:\n\nIntento buscar una respuesta a la pregunta: \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 pintaba Tiziano? Y solo oigo una palabra que emerge del caos completo de la materia, como del fondo de un pozo.\n\nDeseo. Su deseo (como corresponde a un pintor eminentemente viril) consist\u00eda, si no en ocupar las apariencias, al menos, en penetrar y perderse en la piel de las cosas. Pero siendo humano y pintor, se top\u00f3 con la imposibilidad de hacerlo: el coraz\u00f3n de la naturaleza, el animal dentro del humano, el pellejo del mundo, nunca se dejan atrapar y, sobre todo, son irrepetibles, imposibles de reproducir. Y por eso, durante alg\u00fan tiempo, como muchos de sus contempor\u00e1neos, utiliz\u00f3 su destreza para mostrar que todo era vanidad, _vanitas vanitatis:_ la belleza, la riqueza, el arte.\n\nEn sus cuadros, las mujeres \u2014o m\u00e1s bien esas mujeres sencillas e inocentes\u2014 constituyen un recordatorio implacable de su impotencia art\u00edstica, de su derrota. \u00a1\u00c9l, que era un maestro! \u00bfPodr\u00eda ser, tal vez, que las mujeres encarnaran esa duda de la que t\u00fa hablas? Desnudas, los colores de su carne parecen dispuestos para hundirte en ellos. No hay otros cuerpos femeninos pintados que pidan como lo hacen los suyos ser tocados, abrazados, como _Mar\u00eda Magdalena_ presionando su mano contra el cabello sobre su pecho. Pero, como el resto de los cuerpos pintados por todo el mundo, los de Tiziano tampoco pueden tocarse ni te puedes sumergir en ellos.\n\nPoco a poco, Tiziano lleg\u00f3 a comprender que en la impotencia misma de su arte (ese arte que subrayaba continuamente la virilidad de los hombres que representaba) podr\u00eda esconderse un milagro. En lugar de representar la textura del pellejo del mundo, podr\u00eda utilizar los pelos y las cerdas de sus pinceles para retorcerle los miembros. Incapaz de reproducir, pod\u00eda transformar y transfigurar. En lugar de ser el esclavo de las apariencias, obligado a lamerles los pies, podr\u00eda imponerles su voluntad. Producir brazos o manos que no podr\u00edan haber existido nunca. Doblar los miembros contra su propia natura. Emborronar los objetos hasta hacerlos irreconocibles. Hacer temblar los contornos de modo que llegaran a representar la materia sin contenerla. Negar la diferencia entre los cuerpos y los cad\u00e1veres. (Pienso aqu\u00ed en su \u00faltima _piet\u00e0_.)\n\nAmontono en un mismo hilo de pensamiento, un tanto abstracto, por otro lado, cuestiones relativas al poder, al prestigio, incluso a los perros. La verdad es que el arte de Tiziano es en s\u00ed mismo intocable, inviolable. Te llama a gritos y luego te impide que te aproximes. Nos deja siempre con la boca abierta.\n\nBesos,\n\nKatya\n\nDiciembre de 1991 \nPar\u00eds\n\nKut:\n\n_Vanitas vanitatis._ En 1575, la peste hizo estragos en Venecia, matando casi a un tercio de su poblaci\u00f3n. El viejo Tiziano muri\u00f3 a consecuencia de la peste en 1576, pr\u00f3ximo ya a cumplir cien a\u00f1os. Tambi\u00e9n muri\u00f3 su hijo. Tras la muerte de ambos, su casa en el Biri Grande, llena de cuadros y objetos preciosos, fue saqueada. Y al a\u00f1o siguiente, un incendio en el Palacio Ducal destruy\u00f3 obras suyas, junto con otras de Bellini, Veronese y Tintoretto.\n\nTiziano, _Ni\u00f1o con perros_ , 1570-1575.\n\nTiziano, _El desollamiento de Marsias_ , 1570-1576.\n\nTe veo hoy, no en la plaza de San Marcos, sino en la terraza de tu piso en Atenas. En Gyzi, donde todas las ventanas se miran y hay ropa tendida entre los cables del tel\u00e9fono y los hibiscos florecidos. Tal vez Atenas sea las ant\u00edpodas de Venecia. Seca, improvisada, ingobernable. Una ciudad de comerciantes, de h\u00e9roes nacionales y de viudas de h\u00e9roes, en la que nadie se disfraza.\n\nY yo te escribo desde un barrio del extrarradio parisino. He estado en el mercadillo dominical. Hab\u00eda parejas de j\u00f3venes, p\u00e1lidos, mal vestidos para la lluvia, en vaqueros, con el pelo tieso de laca, llenos de acn\u00e9 urbano, d\u00e1ndose la mano, empujando cochecitos de ni\u00f1o, bromeando en argot, todos ellos con su receta personal para la felicidad, una receta escueta, con el colmillo retorcido. Y mir\u00e1ndolos, me pregunt\u00e9: \u00bfqu\u00e9 pensar\u00edan ellos de _El desollamiento de Marsias_? Qui\u00e9n sabe. Todo el mundo vive sus propias leyendas.\n\nEn _El desollamiento de Marsias,_ un perrito faldero lame las gotas de sangre que caen al suelo debajo del cuerpo suspendido. A la derecha se ve otro perro, sujeto por un ni\u00f1o que se parece mucho al del cuadro de los cachorros.\n\nLa leyenda cuenta que Marsias, el artista s\u00e1tiro, particip\u00f3 en un concurso musical con el dios Apolo. La condici\u00f3n acordada era que el ganador pod\u00eda hacer lo que quisiera con el perdedor, y Apolo escogi\u00f3 desollar vivo al s\u00e1tiro. Hay algunas interpretaciones aleg\u00f3ricas convincentes, pero lo que me interesa es por qu\u00e9 escogi\u00f3 este tema nuestro anciano. La raz\u00f3n de su elecci\u00f3n tiene mucho que ver con lo que te dijo en la exposici\u00f3n. Por definici\u00f3n, los s\u00e1tiros eran unas criaturas que demostraban hasta qu\u00e9 punto la piel se parec\u00eda al pelo animal, y c\u00f3mo ambos eran la cobertura externa de un misterio. Un tipo de vestimenta que no se pod\u00eda desabrochar, salvo con un cuchillo asesino.\n\nLos dos hombres representados en el lienzo de Marsias, con sus afilados cuchillos y su precisi\u00f3n (he visto muchos campesinos desollando cabras con exactamente los mismos gestos), son los precursores de Lucio Fontana y de Antonio Saura, quienes, ya en nuestro siglo, rasgaban los lienzos que pintaban en busca de lo que hab\u00eda detr\u00e1s de la piel de estos, al fondo de la herida.\n\nPero incluso despu\u00e9s de haber aceptado e interpretado el tema, uno se encuentra con algo a\u00fan m\u00e1s sorprendente. La escena (que en la vida real podr\u00eda ser una espantosa escena de tortura) est\u00e1 ba\u00f1ada con una luz dulzona y una atm\u00f3sfera de eleg\u00edaca complacencia.\n\nExactamente esa misma atm\u00f3sfera se aprecia en el lienzo de _Ninfa con pastor,_ pintado por la misma \u00e9poca. Pero este \u00faltimo es una escena de amor, y en ella el pastor toca la flauta que le cost\u00f3 la vida a Marsias.\n\nB\u00fascalo en Atenas y preg\u00fantale qu\u00e9 quer\u00eda decir.\n\nDebe de ser ahora el tiempo de las granadas.\n\nBesos,\n\nJohn\n\nEnero de 1993 \nAtenas\n\nJohn:\n\nHas adivinado bien, es el tiempo de las granadas. Ahora mismo tengo una frente a m\u00ed. Reventada y abierta por la fuerza centr\u00edfuga de su propia madurez. \u00c9l habr\u00eda podido pintar su v\u00edvida sangre y su carne granulosa, salvo que es algo demasiado ex\u00f3tico, demasiado oriental para \u00e9l. Le pega m\u00e1s el hueso de un melocot\u00f3n. Muy ampliado y aplanado, en realidad veo ese hueso como fondo de sus cuadros, como una especie de revestimiento del lienzo.\n\nMe preguntas si paseando por Atenas me he encontrado con el anciano. Lo busqu\u00e9. Examin\u00e9 los muros m\u00e1s \u00e1speros, esperando encontrar su sombra en esa aspereza. Mir\u00e9 a trav\u00e9s de las ventanas m\u00e1s opacas, por si se escond\u00eda detr\u00e1s. Toqu\u00e9 todos los tipos de tela que salieron a mi encuentro, tal vez se cubr\u00eda el cuerpo con ellas. Todo en vano.\n\nCreo que nunca volver\u00e9 a verlo con la forma de un anciano. En Venecia sencillamente se hab\u00eda puesto uno de sus muchos disfraces. Al igual que Zeus se transform\u00f3 en lluvia dorada para tomar a D\u00e1nae, mi viejo se transforma continuamente, conforme a las circunstancias, el lugar y el deseo.\n\nSi se me aparece aqu\u00ed, ser\u00e1 en las toscas tapias y muros oscurecidos por el sucio aire de Atenas, o en la tierra \u2014seca, ligeramente humedecida por la lluvia\u2014, o en una nube en el cielo, algodonosa, apelotonada, gris; o en el estruendo de una moto que pasa, pedorreando, tosiendo, escupiendo.\n\nA cada ocasi\u00f3n s\u00e9 que es \u00e9l, pues siempre me dice lo mismo y con la misma voz. \"Rasca, rasca \u2014dice\u2014, rasca todo lo que puedas rascar\". Y la palabra bulle en las profundidades de su garganta.\n\nO\u00ed su voz casi todos los d\u00edas durante los seis meses que tuve que guardar cama en Gyzi. En la pared, al lado de la cama, hab\u00eda un gran p\u00f3ster (todav\u00eda est\u00e1 all\u00ed) de su cuadro de D\u00e1nae. Durante las horas interminables, pod\u00eda mirar por la ventana, que daba a otra ventana tras la cual se estaba viviendo otra vida, o pod\u00eda ver la televisi\u00f3n (tras la cual se fing\u00eda que se viv\u00edan otras vidas), o pod\u00eda contemplar esa pintura: una mujer, desnuda, siempre la misma, recostada sobre unos almohadones, con una s\u00e1bana bajo su cuerpo.\n\nUna mujer pintada como desde dentro y solo luego vestida con su propia piel. Lo contrario de lo que hizo Goya cuando desnud\u00f3 a la Maja. El viejo Tiziano se introdujo primero en el lienzo \u2014o se situ\u00f3 tras \u00e9l\u2014, y desde all\u00ed fue abri\u00e9ndose camino hasta la superficie visible del cuerpo. En el caso de ambos pintores, esto se hace patente en la forma de los pechos. En el cuadro de Tiziano, uno tiene que imaginarse que est\u00e1 dentro del cuerpo para sentir la plenitud del pecho derecho de la figura: su sombra es sugerida de manera tan sutil que resulta imperceptible a menos que uno la sienta desde dentro. Pero ello hace al conjunto m\u00e1s real, m\u00e1s vibrante, m\u00e1s deseable.\n\nMientras que en Goya, la protuberancia, la turgencia, es demasiado clara, est\u00e1 demasiado realzada por un cors\u00e9 que ha desaparecido, es demasiado visible, y, por consiguiente, aunque parezca extra\u00f1o, demasiado poco carnal. \u00bfNo?\n\nMi viejo Tiziano estaba \u00e1vido. \u00c1vido de dinero, de mujeres, de poder, de a\u00f1os que vivir. Envidiaba a Dios. Estaba furioso. As\u00ed que empez\u00f3 a imitarlo. Y no se limit\u00f3 a reproducir, como tantos otros pintores, la apariencia de las cosas creadas por Dios, sino que empez\u00f3 a darles a estas cosas, como lo hab\u00eda hecho Dios, una piel, un pelo, grasa, una epidermis, unos pliegues, arrugas. (O todo lo contrario. Quit\u00f3 lo que cubr\u00eda la carne, como en _El desollamiento de Marsias;_ lo raja para demostrar la depuraci\u00f3n de su arte de la carne.)\n\nNing\u00fan otro artista se aproxima tanto a hacernos creer en la vida palpitante de lo que pinta. Y lo consigue no solo copiando de la naturaleza, sino igualmente con su conocimiento de c\u00f3mo manipular el cerebro del espectador. Sabe d\u00f3nde localizamos _nosotros_ la vida, el calor, la ternura de los cuerpos que pinta. Tiziano trabajaba como Shakespeare. Ante cualquiera de las obras de ambos tienes la impresi\u00f3n de que un brazo o una palabra pueden decirlo todo porque, como los magos, sab\u00edan exactamente d\u00f3nde le gusta ahogarse al esp\u00edritu humano. En cierto modo, son m\u00e1s grandes que Dios, pues lo saben todo de sus semejantes, hombres y mujeres. De ah\u00ed su venganza.\n\nMe imagino un cuadro que podr\u00eda haber pintado \u00e9l, de la misma forma que t\u00fa te inventaste una vez un Frans Hals. Representar\u00eda la creaci\u00f3n de Eva a partir de una costilla de Ad\u00e1n. La carne saliendo de la carne. Dios poniendo sus manos en la materia y dando vida a otra vida. El escenario ser\u00eda un bosque con muchos troncos y mucho musgo. Dos formas inertes, desnudas en el barro, cuya sustancia parece viva. Finalmente, el acto de pintar, continuamente repetido como una forma de fornicaci\u00f3n, se convierte en un cuerpo. No como en el caso de Pigmali\u00f3n, cuyo cuerpo es m\u00e1rmol puro. Aqu\u00ed se convierte en un cuerpo junto con todo lo que puede ser obsceno a veces. Eva nacida de Ad\u00e1n como el universo naci\u00f3 de Dios, o la pintura nacida de Tiziano; como la vida puede nacer del arte, como yo nac\u00ed de ti, y Chloe de m\u00ed.\n\nAs\u00ed que he de decirte que a mi viejo lo veo por todas partes, incluso en tu propia nieta, que es m\u00e1s bonita que la luz, m\u00e1s dulce que el fuego, m\u00e1s suave que el agua. Ella ya ha vencido a nuestra muerte...\n\nUn beso,\n\nKatya\n\n19 de enero de 1993 \nTren de Ginebra a Par\u00eds\n\nKut:\n\n\u00bfPodr\u00eda ser que toda la carne fuera femenina, incluso la carne de los hombres?\n\nTal vez lo que es espec\u00edficamente masculino son las fantas\u00edas, las ambiciones, las ideas, las obsesiones. \u00bfPodr\u00eda ser femenina su carne? \u00bfEsperan los hombres ver esto en el Marsias?\n\nEn el _Entierro de Cristo_ , el cuerpo de Cristo palpita desde el interior de la misma manera que el de D\u00e1nae, pero lo que evoca es compasi\u00f3n, en lugar de deseo. La compasi\u00f3n y el deseo, los dos son carnales. Los dos inquietan a lo que ha nacido de la manera m\u00e1s inmediata que uno se pueda imaginar. Los dos conducen a un tipo de caricia similar.\n\nBesos,\n\nJohn\n\nFebrero de 1993 \nAtenas\n\nJohn:\n\nTiziano, el pintor de la carne y las entra\u00f1as, de sus ruidos y humores. El pintor del pelo y de la bestia domada que habita dentro del hombre. El pintor de la piel como una entrada o una salida, como la brillante superficie del agua para el buzo, la superficie a la que vuelve despu\u00e9s de haberse sumergido en los abismos del cuerpo y sus \u00f3rganos ocultos, la superficie a la que vuelve tras hacerse con el secreto de la _personalidad._ (F\u00edjate en que en sus retratos de caballeros se nos transmite mucho de su vida interior.)\n\n\u00a1Pues claro que no! \u00a1La carne no es solo femenina! El que a lo largo de los siglos las mujeres nunca hayan dejado de ser deseadas, el que los hombres las deseen siempre, se debe, en parte, a una peque\u00f1a mentira, tan vieja como el mundo, seg\u00fan la cual toda la carne es femenina. No es m\u00e1s que una convenci\u00f3n en virtud de la cual los hombres usan los cuerpos de las mujeres para expresar sus propios deseos pasivos, su deseo a abandonarse, a tenderse, anhelantes, en una cama. Los hombres han _delegado_ en las mujeres este aspecto del deseo. El cuerpo de la mujer se ha convertido no solo en el objeto, sino tambi\u00e9n en el embajador, del deseo masculino. O, m\u00e1s bien, del deseo sin m\u00e1s, al margen del g\u00e9nero. La piel del hombre \u2014\u00bfte has fijado alguna vez?\u2014 cuando es suave lo es mucho m\u00e1s que la de las mujeres.\n\nTiziano fue un pintor de la carne que ordena, m\u00e1s que de la que invita. \"T\u00f3mame\". \"B\u00e9beme\", ordena esa carne. Puede que se disfrazara para m\u00ed de anciano o de perro, pero tambi\u00e9n se disfraz\u00f3 de mujer en muchas ocasiones. \u00a1Tiziano como Mar\u00eda Magdalena o Afrodita!\n\nY aqu\u00ed nos aproximamos a algo en lo que se basa su fuerza: se pon\u00eda el disfraz de todo lo que pintaba. Intentaba estar en todas partes. Competir con Dios. Quer\u00eda crear con su paleta de pintor ni m\u00e1s ni menos que la vida, y gobernar el universo. Y su desesperaci\u00f3n (la duda sobre la que t\u00fa te preguntabas) es que no pod\u00eda, como Pan, _serlo todo._ Solo pod\u00eda crear pinturas y disfrazarse. Tem\u00eda ser solo hombre, no ser un dios adem\u00e1s, y tambi\u00e9n mujer, y un bosque, y la bruma, y un mont\u00f3n de tierra. \u00a1Temor a ser solo hombre!\n\nEl pecho de D\u00e1nae \u2014tan maravilloso, tan sugerente y tan intangible\u2014 revela, de una vez y al mismo tiempo, todos los l\u00edmites y todos los triunfos de su creaci\u00f3n pict\u00f3rica cuando se la compara con la de Dios.\n\nBesos,\n\nKatya\n\n## **Hans Holbein el Joven**\n\n## 1497\/1498-1543\n\n\"Cuando alguien est\u00e1 muerto, lo sabes a una distancia de doscientos metros\", dice Francisco de Goya en una obra que escribimos hace alg\u00fan tiempo, y contin\u00faa: \"La silueta se queda fr\u00eda\".1\n\nQuer\u00eda ver el cuadro del Cristo muerto de Holbein. Lo pint\u00f3 en 1552, a la edad de veinticinco a\u00f1os. Es largo y estrecho, como la losa de una morgue, o como una predela, aunque parece que la pintura nunca form\u00f3 parte de ning\u00fan altar o retablo. Cuenta la leyenda que el modelo en el que se bas\u00f3 Holbein fue el cad\u00e1ver de un jud\u00edo ahogado en el Rin.\n\nMe hab\u00edan hablado mucho del cuadro, hab\u00eda le\u00eddo sobre \u00e9l, y no poco de las palabras del pr\u00edncipe Michkin, el personaje de _El idiota_ , de Fi\u00f3dor Dostoyevski. \"\u00a1Ese cuadro! \u2014repuso el pr\u00edncipe\u2014. \u00a1Ese cuadro! Yo creo que examin\u00e1ndolo puede llegarse a perder la fe\".\n\nA Dostoyevski debi\u00f3 de impresionarle tanto como al pr\u00edncipe Michkin, pues hace decir a Hip\u00f3lito, otro personaje de _El idiota_ : \"Supongamos que el Se\u00f1or hubiera visto este cuadro un d\u00eda antes de su agon\u00eda, \u00bfhabr\u00eda sido capaz de dirigirse, de la manera en la que se dirigi\u00f3, a su crucifixi\u00f3n y muerte?\".\n\nHolbein pint\u00f3 una imagen de la muerte, sin signo alguno de redenci\u00f3n. Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 efecto produce exactamente en el espectador?\n\nLa mutilaci\u00f3n es un tema recurrente en la iconograf\u00eda cristiana. Las vidas de los m\u00e1rtires, santa Catalina, san Sebasti\u00e1n, san Juan Bautista, la Crucifixi\u00f3n, el Juicio Final. El asesinato y la violaci\u00f3n son temas comunes en las representaciones de la mitolog\u00eda cl\u00e1sica.\n\nFrente al _San Sebasti\u00e1n_ de Antonio Pollaiuolo, en lugar de horrorizarse (o convencerse) viendo las heridas, los miembros desnudos de los ejecutores y del ejecutado seducen al espectador. Frente al _Rapto de las hijas de Leucipo_ de Rubens, uno piensa en noches de amor compartido. Esta suerte de prestidigitaci\u00f3n por la cual una serie de apariencias sustituye a otra (el martirio se transforma en una escena del Olimpo; la violaci\u00f3n, en un acto de seducci\u00f3n) reconoce, sin embargo, un dilema original: \u00bfc\u00f3mo se puede hacer visiblemente aceptable la brutalidad?\n\nLa cuesti\u00f3n se inicia en el Renacimiento. En el arte medieval, el sufrimiento del cuerpo estaba supeditado a la vida del alma. Y esto era un art\u00edculo de fe que el espectador aportaba a la imagen; la imagen en s\u00ed no ten\u00eda que demostrar la vida del alma. Gran parte del arte medieval es grotesco; es decir, nos recuerda que lo f\u00edsico no tiene valor. El Renacimiento idealiza el cuerpo y reduce la brutalidad al gesto. (En las pel\u00edculas del Oeste se da una reducci\u00f3n parecida: pensemos en John Wayne o Gary Cooper.) Las im\u00e1genes de la brutalidad resultante (Pieter Brueghel el Viejo, Matthias Gr\u00fcnewald, etc.) eran marginales a la tradici\u00f3n renacentista de presentar arm\u00f3nicamente los dragones, las ejecuciones, la crueldad y las masacres.\n\nGoya es el primer artista moderno por su inquebrantable manera de tratar, a principios del siglo XIX, el horror y la brutalidad. Sin embargo, quienes optan por contemplar sus grabados no optar\u00edan nunca por contemplar los cuerpos mutilados representados en ellos con tanta fidelidad. As\u00ed que nos vemos obligados a volver a la misma cuesti\u00f3n, que podr\u00eda formularse de este otro modo: \u00bfc\u00f3mo funciona la catarsis en las artes visuales, si es que funciona?\n\nLa pintura es distinta de las dem\u00e1s artes. La m\u00fasica, por naturaleza, transciende lo particular y lo material. En el teatro, las palabras redimen a los actos. La poes\u00eda habla a las heridas, pero no a los torturadores. Con lo que trata calladamente la pintura, sin embargo, es con las apariencias, y es raro que los muertos, los heridos, los vencidos o los torturados _parezcan_ hermosos o ilustres.\n\n\u00bfPuede dar pena un cuadro?\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo se hace visible la pena?\n\n\u00bfNace, tal vez, al contemplar el cuadro?\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 unas obras causan pena y otras no? No creo que sea una cuesti\u00f3n de pena. Una chuleta de cordero pintada por Goya se acerca m\u00e1s a la compasi\u00f3n que una masacre de Eug\u00e8ne Delacroix.\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo funciona entonces la catarsis?\n\nNo funciona de ninguna manera. Las pinturas no ofrecen catarsis alguna. Ofrecen otra cosa, parecida, pero distinta.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9?\n\nNo lo s\u00e9. Por eso quiero ver el Holbein.\n\nCre\u00edamos que el Holbein estaba en Berna. Llegamos entrada la tarde y descubrimos que estaba en Basilea. Como acab\u00e1bamos de atravesar los Alpes en moto, los cien kil\u00f3metros suplementarios hasta esa ciudad nos parecieron demasiados. A la ma\u00f1ana siguiente visitamos, en su lugar, el museo de Berna.\n\nEs un museo di\u00e1fano, bien iluminado, que recuerda a una de esas naves espaciales que aparecen en las pel\u00edculas de Stanley Kubrick o de Andr\u00e9i Tarkovski. Los visitantes tienen que pegarse la entrada en la solapa. Fuimos de sala en sala. Un Courbet con tres truchas, de 1873. Un Monet con un r\u00edo helado, de 1882. Un Braque cubista temprano con unas casas de L'Estaque, de 1908. Una canci\u00f3n de amor con luna nueva, de Paul Klee, de 1939. Un Rothko, de 1963.\n\n\u00a1Cu\u00e1nto valor y cu\u00e1nta energ\u00eda hicieron falta para luchar por el derecho a pintar de maneras distintas! Y hoy, esos cuadros, todos ellos resultado de esa lucha, cuelgan pac\u00edficamente al lado de las obras m\u00e1s conservadoras: reunidas y envueltas todas en el agradable aroma de caf\u00e9 que llega desde la cafeter\u00eda, contigua a la librer\u00eda.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 se dirim\u00eda en esas batallas? La respuesta m\u00e1s simple: el lenguaje pict\u00f3rico. Ninguna pintura es posible sin un lenguaje pict\u00f3rico. No obstante, con el nacimiento de la modernidad, tras la Revoluci\u00f3n francesa, el uso de cualquier lenguaje fue siempre algo muy controvertido. Las batallas se libraban entre los custodios de la tradici\u00f3n y los innovadores. Los custodios pertenec\u00edan a las instituciones respaldadas por una clase dirigente o una \u00e9lite que necesitaba que las apariencias se representaran de tal manera que sustentaran la base ideol\u00f3gica de su poder.\n\nLos innovadores eran rebeldes. Dos axiomas hemos de tener aqu\u00ed presentes: la sedici\u00f3n es por naturaleza gramaticalmente incorrecta; el artista es el primero que se da cuenta de que un lenguaje determinado miente. Iba por la segunda taza de caf\u00e9 y segu\u00eda haci\u00e9ndome preguntas sobre el cuadro de Holbein, que estaba a cien kil\u00f3metros de este museo.\n\nHip\u00f3lito, en _El idiota_ , contin\u00faa diciendo: \"Cuando miras este cuadro, te imaginas que la naturaleza es un monstruo, mudo e implacable. O, m\u00e1s bien \u2014por inesperada que pueda ser, esta comparaci\u00f3n se acerca m\u00e1s a la verdad\u2014 te imaginas la naturaleza como una inmensa m\u00e1quina moderna, inexorable, muda, que arrebataba, aplastaba y se tragaba a un gran Ser, un Ser sin precio, que por s\u00ed solo vale lo que toda la naturaleza...\".\n\n\u00bfImpresion\u00f3 tanto el cuadro a Dostoyevski porque era lo opuesto a los iconos? El icono redime mediante la oraci\u00f3n, con los ojos cerrados, a la que invita. \u00bfEs posible que el valor de no cerrar los ojos ofrezca otro tipo de redenci\u00f3n?\n\nMe encontr\u00e9 frente a un paisaje pintado a principios de siglo XX por una artista llamada Caroline M\u00fcller: _Chal\u00e9s alpinos en Sulward, cerca de Isenflushul_. El problema de pintar monta\u00f1as es siempre el mismo. La t\u00e9cnica (igual que nosotros) resulta empeque\u00f1ecida por la propia monta\u00f1a, de modo que esta no vive; se limita a estar ah\u00ed, como la tumba de un antepasado lejano, gris o blanca. Las \u00fanicas excepciones europeas que conozco son J. M. W. Turner, David Bomberg y el pintor berlin\u00e9s contempor\u00e1neo Werner Schmidt.\n\nEn el lienzo, por otro lado bastante soso, de Caroline M\u00fcller, tres peque\u00f1os manzanos me dejaron sin aliento. _Esos \u00e1rboles_ hab\u00edan sido vistos. Era algo que todav\u00eda se sent\u00eda ochenta a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de haber sido pintados. En aquel trocito del cuadro, el lenguaje pict\u00f3rico utilizado no era un lenguaje pict\u00f3rico sencillamente logrado o consumado, se hab\u00eda hecho urgente.\n\nTodo lenguaje aprendido tiende a cerrarse, a perder su poder de significaci\u00f3n original. Cuando sucede esto, se dirigen a la mente cultivada, pero dejan a un lado la existencia de las cosas y de los acontecimientos.\n\n\"Palabras, palabras, palabras sin m\u00e1s, al margen del coraz\u00f3n\".\n\nSin un lenguaje pict\u00f3rico, nadie puede representar lo que ve. Con un lenguaje pict\u00f3rico, puede que dejen de ver. As\u00ed es la extra\u00f1a dial\u00e9ctica de la pr\u00e1ctica de pintar o dibujar las apariencias desde el comienzo del arte.\n\nLlegamos a una sala enorme con cincuenta cuadros de Ferdinand Hodler. Una obra gigantesca. Pero solo en uno de los cuadros hab\u00eda olvidado su dominio y pod\u00edamos nosotros olvidar que est\u00e1bamos contemplando unos pigmentos virtuosamente aplicados. Era un cuadro relativamente peque\u00f1o y representaba a una amiga del pintor, Augustine Dupin, agonizante en su cama. Augustine hab\u00eda sido vista. El lenguaje se hab\u00eda abierto al ser utilizado.\n\n\u00bfHab\u00eda visto en este sentido el joven Holbein al jud\u00edo ahogado en el Rin? \u00bfY qu\u00e9 podr\u00eda significar ese ser visto?\n\nVolv\u00ed a contemplar los cuadros que hab\u00eda examinado un rato antes. En el Courbet, una extra\u00f1a luz impregna la redondez y la piel h\u00fameda de los tres peces, colgados de un gancho en una rama. No tiene nada que ver con una forma de brillar. No est\u00e1 en la superficie, sino que la atraviesa. Una luz parecida, pero no id\u00e9ntica (es m\u00e1s granulosa) la transmiten tambi\u00e9n los guijarros de la orilla del r\u00edo. La energ\u00eda lum\u00ednica es el verdadero tema de este cuadro.\n\nEn el r\u00edo del Monet est\u00e1 empezando el deshielo. Entre las irregulares masas de hielo opaco se ve el agua. En esta agua (pero, claro, no en el hielo), Monet ve\u00eda el inm\u00f3vil reflejo de los \u00e1lamos de la otra orilla. Y estos reflejos, entrevistos _detr\u00e1s_ del hielo, constituyen el coraz\u00f3n del cuadro.\n\nEn el Braque de L'Estaque, los cubos y los tri\u00e1ngulos de las casas y las formas en V de los \u00e1rboles no se imponen a lo que ve\u00edan sus ojos (como suceder\u00e1 m\u00e1s tarde cuando el cubismo adopte unas formas afectadas), sino que est\u00e1n sacadas, tra\u00eddas desde detr\u00e1s, rescatadas de donde las apariencias hab\u00edan empezado a hacerse realidad, pero todav\u00eda no hab\u00edan alcanzado toda su particularidad.\n\nEn el Rothko, el mismo movimiento es todav\u00eda m\u00e1s claro. La ambici\u00f3n de su vida fue reducir la sustancia de lo aparente a una fina pel\u00edcula, radiante por lo que tiene detr\u00e1s. Detr\u00e1s del rect\u00e1ngulo gris se encuentra la madreperla, detr\u00e1s del marr\u00f3n, m\u00e1s estrecho, el yodo del mar. Ambos mar\u00edtimos.\n\nRothko fue un pintor conscientemente religioso. No as\u00ed Courbet. Si consideramos que las apariencias son como una frontera, podr\u00edamos decir que los pintores buscan los mensajes que la cruzan: mensajes que proceden de la parte de atr\u00e1s de lo visible. Y esto no se debe a que los pintores sean todos plat\u00f3nicos, sino a la intensidad con la que miran.\n\nEn la creaci\u00f3n de im\u00e1genes se empieza por interrogar a las apariencias y por hacer marcas. Todos los artistas descubren que el dibujo, cuando es una actividad urgente, entra\u00f1a un doble proceso. Dibujar no consiste solo en medir y trazar en un papel, sino que tambi\u00e9n consiste en recibir. Cuando la intensidad con la que se mira alcanza cierto grado, uno se hace consciente de que le llega una energ\u00eda igualmente intensa a trav\u00e9s de la apariencia de lo que sea que est\u00e9 examinando. Toda la obra de Alberto Giacometti lo demuestra.\n\nEl encuentro de estas dos energ\u00edas, su di\u00e1logo, no tiene la forma de pregunta y respuesta. Es un di\u00e1logo feroz e inarticulado. Hace falta fe para mantenerlo. Es semejante a horadar en la oscuridad, a horadar bajo lo aparente. Las grandes im\u00e1genes surgen cuando los dos t\u00faneles se encuentran y se unen perfectamente. A veces, cuando el di\u00e1logo es r\u00e1pido, casi instant\u00e1neo, se parece a algo que se tira y se coge.\n\nNo tengo una explicaci\u00f3n para esta experiencia. Sencillamente creo que muy pocos artistas la negar\u00e1n. Es un secreto profesional.\n\nEl acto de pintar \u2014cuando su lenguaje se abre\u2014 es una respuesta a una energ\u00eda que se experimenta como si vinera desde detr\u00e1s de una serie dada de apariencias. \u00bfQu\u00e9 es esta energ\u00eda? \u00bfPodr\u00edamos decir que es la voluntad de lo visible de que exista la visi\u00f3n? Meister Eckardt se refer\u00eda a la misma reciprocidad cuando escrib\u00eda: \"El ojo con el que veo a Dios es el mismo ojo con el que \u00e9l me ve a m\u00ed\". No es la teolog\u00eda la que nos ofrece aqu\u00ed una clave, sino la simetr\u00eda de las energ\u00edas.\n\nTodo acto verdadero de pintar es el resultado de someterse a esa voluntad, de modo que en la versi\u00f3n pintada no solo se interpreta lo visible, sino que se le permite ocupar activamente su lugar en la comunidad de lo pintado. Todo suceso que ha sido pintado de verdad \u2014de tal modo que el lenguaje pict\u00f3rico se abre\u2014 se une a la comunidad de todo lo que ha sido pintado. Unas patatas en un plato se unen a la comunidad formada por una mujer amada, una monta\u00f1a o un hombre en la cruz. Esta, y solo esta, es la redenci\u00f3n que ofrece la pintura. Este misterio es lo m\u00e1s parecido a la catarsis que puede ofrecer la pintura.\n\nHans Holbein el Joven, _El cuerpo de Cristo muerto en la tumba_ , 1520-1522.\n\n______________\n\n1 Se refiere a: Berger, John y Bielski, Nella, _Goya's Last Portrait_ , Faber, Londres, 1989 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El \u00faltimo retrato de Goya_ , Alfaguara, 1996, p\u00e1g. 86) [N. del Ed.].\n\n## **Pieter Brueghel el Viejo**\n\n## hacia 1525-1569\n\nTodos nos sentimos mejor cuando pensamos en Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo representa el culmen de las aspiraciones humanas veladas por una nube de misterio (u otras palabras que obren el mismo efecto). Rembrandt nos sirve a la inversa. Rembrandt representa al genio oscuro, sufriente. Cuando pensamos en Rembrandt, todos tendemos a ser indulgentes con quienes nos han malinterpretado. As\u00ed obligamos al arte a consolarnos y le compensamos diciendo que es hermoso.\n\nDe todos los grandes artistas, el m\u00e1s reacio a estos efectos fue Brueghel. Cierto es que se lo suele presentar como el pintor de los campesinos joviales bailando y las sencillas Navidades blancas. Pero nunca podemos utilizar como ejemplo su talento o citar su pasi\u00f3n. De hecho, no se suele mencionar ninguna de las dos cosas, y en nuestro fuero interno se queda para siempre el fantasma de una idea, una idea que nunca tendremos el desparpajo de mencionar: Brueghel fue, quiz\u00e1, un poquito simple.\n\nLa inc\u00f3moda verdad es que fue el artista menos indulgente que haya existido. En un cuadro tras otro, Brueghel recopil\u00f3 pruebas para un juicio, un juicio que no cre\u00eda, porque no ten\u00eda ninguna raz\u00f3n para ello, que llegar\u00eda a celebrarse.\n\nLos cargos que quer\u00eda presentar eran de indiferencia. La indiferencia del campesino arando por la ca\u00edda de \u00cdcaro, la indiferencia de la multitud apresur\u00e1ndose hacia el Calvario para contemplar impasibles la Crucifixi\u00f3n, la indiferencia de los soldados espa\u00f1oles (solo obedec\u00edan \u00f3rdenes) a las s\u00faplicas de los flamencos, a quienes saquearon y masacraron; la indiferencia de los ciegos frente a la noticia de que est\u00e1n siendo guiados por otro ciego, la indiferencia de los borrachos hacia la vida, la indiferencia de los jugadores por el tiempo que pasa, la indiferencia de Dios por la muerte.\n\nLa dificultad de Brueghel para creer que el juicio llegar\u00eda a tener lugar era el resultado de no saber a qui\u00e9n acusar. El campesino inclinado sobre el arado no pod\u00eda ser completamente responsable de no reparar en la ca\u00edda de \u00cdcaro. Y esto, a su vez, es el resultado de que Brueghel no era capaz de imaginar los medios que podr\u00edan modificar su estado mental. Ten\u00eda una conciencia nacida hist\u00f3ricamente demasiado pronto para contar con el conocimiento que podr\u00eda justificarlo. Lo \u00fanico que pod\u00eda hacer era cuestionar algunas cosas, sin conocer las respuestas. Pero cuestionar de una forma demasiado obvia no solo era inmediata y pol\u00edticamente peligroso, sino que tambi\u00e9n conduc\u00eda al pecado mortal de la Soberbia, el pecado que le obsesionaba ( _La Torre de Babel_ , _El suicidio de Sa\u00fal_ , _La ca\u00edda de los \u00e1ngeles rebeldes_ ), porque, conforme a los c\u00e1nones de su Dios medieval, tem\u00eda constantemente haber ca\u00eddo en ella, por m\u00e1s discreto y mesurado que se propusiera ser.\n\nPieter Brueghel el Viejo, _El triunfo de la Muerte_ , 1562-1563.\n\nSin embargo, las mismas contradicciones que acosaban a Brueghel lo forzaron a un modo de ver extraordinariamente original y prof\u00e9tico. No introdujo chivos expiatorios. No traz\u00f3 una l\u00ednea divisoria definida entre los inocentes y los culpables. Se abstuvo de moralizar. No resalt\u00f3 ninguna figura a modo de buen o mal ejemplo. Su pasi\u00f3n moral solo se revela en la determinaci\u00f3n inquebrantable con la que presenta los hechos para el juicio. Era incapaz de condenar una sola acci\u00f3n, a una sola persona, porque no ve\u00eda c\u00f3mo podr\u00edan comportarse de otro modo la mayor\u00eda de las personas. Y por eso, sin llegar a convertirse en un mis\u00e1ntropo, ten\u00eda que acusar a todos de no ser diferentes o de no obrar de forma diferente.\n\nDe este modo, los hechos o las acciones comunes se convierten en delitos en los cuadros de Brueghel. El delito del mendigo es ser mendigo, el delito del ciego es ser ciego, el delito del soldado es estar en el ej\u00e9rcito, el delito de la nieve es cubrir las pisadas. Brueghel fue el pintor favorito de Bertolt Brecht. En su poema \"La complacencia de la Naturaleza\" dec\u00eda as\u00ed:\n\nPobre perro\n\nque quiere atenci\u00f3n,\n\nque halaga al homicida y se frota contra su pierna.\n\nPobres olmos cuya sombra verde\n\nguarece al hombre que a la salida\n\ndel pueblo viol\u00f3 a la ni\u00f1a.\n\nY el amistoso polvo ciego nos exhorta\n\na que ahora mismo nos olvidemos\n\nde las huellas de los asesinos.\n\nPese a los cuatro siglos que los separan, Brueghel y Brecht quieren que se entienda lo mismo: Brueghel de una forma instintiva, Brecht porque ve\u00eda con mayor claridad c\u00f3mo la gente se refugia en su impotencia, en su indefensi\u00f3n. Ambos quer\u00edan que se entendiera que no resistir es ser indiferente, que olvidar o no saber tambi\u00e9n significa indiferencia, y que mostrarse indiferente es aprobar.\n\nEsto \u2014y no las coincidencias tem\u00e1ticas\u2014 es lo que hace que los cuadros de Brueghel parezcan totalmente relevantes al hablar de las guerras modernas y de los campos de concentraci\u00f3n, m\u00e1s relevantes que casi cualquier otro cuadro de todos los que se hayan pintado desde entonces.\n\n## **Caravaggio**\n\n## 1571-1610\n\nCada uno se dirige a su propio descanso. Pero todos ellos est\u00e1n regresando al mundo, y el primer don que este les otorga es el espacio; m\u00e1s tarde, el segundo don ser\u00e1 una mesa y una cama. Para los m\u00e1s afortunados, la cama es compartida.\n\nIncluso tras la gran separaci\u00f3n, volveremos a vosotras al caer la noche, salidos del inmenso cielo, y nos reconocer\u00e9is por nuestro cansancio y por la pesadez de nuestras cabezas en vuestros cuerpos, que tanto necesit\u00e1bamos.\n\nDependiendo de que estemos en el mismo lugar o separados, te conozco dos veces. Eres dos personas.\n\nCuando est\u00e1s lejos, para m\u00ed est\u00e1s igualmente presente. Esta presencia es multiforme: consiste en un sinf\u00edn de im\u00e1genes, pasajes; significados, cosas conocidas, hitos, y, sin embargo, todo el conjunto no deja de estar marcado por tu ausencia; en eso es difuso. Es como si tu persona se convirtiera en un pa\u00eds, tus contornos en horizontes. Vivo entonces en ti como si viviera en un pa\u00eds. Est\u00e1s en todas partes. Pero en ese pa\u00eds nunca puedo encontrarte cara a cara.\n\n_Partir est mourir un peu_. Era muy joven cuando o\u00ed esta frase por primera vez; expresaba una verdad que yo ya conoc\u00eda. Lo recuerdo ahora porque la experiencia de vivir en ti como si fueras un pa\u00eds, el \u00fanico pa\u00eds del mundo en el que nunca puedo concebir encontrarme cara a cara contigo, se parece un poco a la experiencia de vivir con el recuerdo de los muertos. Lo que no sab\u00eda cuando era joven es que nada puede borrar el pasado: el pasado va creciendo poco a poco alrededor de uno, como una placenta para morir.\n\nEn el pa\u00eds que eres t\u00fa, conozco tus gestos, la entonaci\u00f3n de tu voz, la forma de cada parte de tu cuerpo. F\u00edsicamente, no eres menos real aqu\u00ed, pero s\u00ed menos libre.\n\nLo que cambia cuando te tengo ante mis ojos es que te vuelves impredecible. Desconozco lo que vas a hacer en cada momento. Yo te sigo. T\u00fa act\u00faas. Y con cada cosa que haces me vuelvo a enamorar.\n\nUna noche en la cama me preguntaste qui\u00e9n era mi pintor favorito. Dud\u00e9, intentando encontrar la respuesta menos deliberada, m\u00e1s sincera. Caravaggio. Mi propia respuesta me sorprendi\u00f3. Hay pintores m\u00e1s nobles y pintores con una mayor amplitud de miras. Hay pintores a los que admiro m\u00e1s y que son m\u00e1s admirables. Pero, al parecer, pues la respuesta no era premeditada, no hay ninguno de quien me sienta m\u00e1s cerca.\n\nLas escasas telas de mi propia e incomparablemente modesta vida como pintor que me gustar\u00eda volver a ver son aquellas que pint\u00e9 a finales de la d\u00e9cada de 1940 de las calles de Livorno. Esta ciudad se recuperaba entonces de las heridas sufridas en la guerra y era muy pobre. Fue all\u00ed donde empec\u00e9 a aprender algo sobre el ingenio de los despose\u00eddos. Fue all\u00ed tambi\u00e9n donde descubr\u00ed que no quer\u00eda tener nada que ver en este mundo con los que ejercen el poder. Esto \u00faltimo ha llegado a convertirse en una aversi\u00f3n para toda la vida.\n\nCreo que la complicidad que siento con Caravaggio empez\u00f3 durante aquella temporada en Livorno. \u00c9l fue el primer pintor de la vida tal como la siente el _popolaccio_ , la gente de las callejuelas, los _sans-culottes_ , el _Lumpenproletariat_ , las clases bajas, los bajos fondos. No hay lengua europea que para llamar al pobre urbano no utilice una palabra ya sea denigrante, ya sea paternalista.\n\nSiguiendo a Caravaggio desde su tiempo hasta hoy, otros pintores \u2014Adriaen Brouwer, Adriaen van Ostade, William Hogarth, Francisco de Goya, Jean-Luis-Andr\u00e9-Th\u00e9odore G\u00e9ricault, Renato Guttuso\u2014 han pintado im\u00e1genes del mismo medio social. Pero todas ellas \u2014con ser maravillosas\u2014 no son sino obras de g\u00e9nero, pintadas a fin de mostrar a otros c\u00f3mo viven los menos afortunados o los m\u00e1s peligrosos. En Caravaggio, sin embargo, no se trataba de presentar escenas, sino de comprender los bajos fondos. No los describe para otros: su visi\u00f3n es la de alguien que pertenece a ellos.\n\nEn los libros de historia del arte, Caravaggio aparece como uno de los grandes maestros innovadores del claroscuro y el pionero de la luz y la sombra posteriormente utilizadas por Rembrandt y otros. No hay duda de que desde el punto de vista de la historia del arte su visi\u00f3n puede considerarse como un paso adelante en la evoluci\u00f3n del arte europeo. Desde esta perspectiva, era casi inevitable que surgiera un Caravaggio, a modo de enlace entre el elevado arte de la Contrarreforma y el arte dom\u00e9stico de la naciente burgues\u00eda holandesa; este enlace adoptar\u00eda la forma de un nuevo tipo de espacio, definido por la oscuridad tanto como por la luz. Para Roma y \u00c1msterdam, la condenaci\u00f3n se hab\u00eda convertido en algo totalmente cotidiano.\n\nPara el Caravaggio que existi\u00f3 realmente, para el muchacho de nombre Michelangelo nacido en un pueblo cercano a B\u00e9rgamo, no lejos de donde son mis amigos, los le\u00f1adores italianos, la luz y la sombra, tal como \u00e9l las imaginaba y las ve\u00eda ten\u00edan un profundo significado personal, intrincadamente entrelazado con sus deseos y su instinto de supervivencia. Y es por esto, y no en raz\u00f3n de una l\u00f3gica hist\u00f3rico art\u00edstica, por lo que su arte est\u00e1 ligado al submundo.\n\nEl claroscuro le permit\u00eda desterrar la luz del d\u00eda. Las sombras le ofrec\u00edan el mismo cobijo que cuatro paredes y un techo. Independientemente de qu\u00e9 y d\u00f3nde pintara, lo que pintaba realmente eran interiores. Algunas veces, como en el _Descanso en la huida a Egipto_ y en uno de sus queridos bautistas, se vio obligado a incluir un paisaje al fondo. Pero estos paisajes son como alfombras o tapices colgados en un patio interior. Solamente se sent\u00eda en casa \u2014no, en casa no se sent\u00eda en parte alguna\u2014, solo se sent\u00eda relativamente c\u00f3modo _dentro_.\n\nLa oscuridad de sus cuadros huele a velas, a melones maduros, a la colada h\u00fameda que espera para ser tendida al d\u00eda siguiente: es la oscuridad de las escaleras, de los jugadores que apuestan en un rinc\u00f3n, de las viviendas baratas, de los encuentros fortuitos. Y la promesa no reside en lo que ha de resplandecer en contraposici\u00f3n a esto, sino en la propia oscuridad. El amparo que ofrece es solo relativo, pues el claroscuro revela violencia, sufrimiento, anhelo, mortalidad, pero al menos los revela \u00edntimamente. Lo que ha quedado desterrado, junto con la luz del d\u00eda, son la distancia y la soledad: dos cosas temidas en los bajos fondos.\n\nQuienes viven precariamente y, por lo general, api\u00f1ados desarrollan una fobia hacia los espacios abiertos que transforma su frustrante falta de espacio e intimidad en algo que les da seguridad. Caravaggio compart\u00eda estos temores.\n\n_La vocaci\u00f3n de san Mateo_ representa a cinco hombres sentados en torno a su mesa de costumbre contando historias, chismes, presumiendo de lo que har\u00e1n alg\u00fan d\u00eda, reparti\u00e9ndose dinero. La habitaci\u00f3n est\u00e1 en penumbra. De repente, la puerta se abre de par en par. Las dos figuras que entran forman parte todav\u00eda de la violenta invasi\u00f3n de ruido y luz. (Bernard Berenson dec\u00eda que Cristo, que es una de las figuras, entra como un inspector de polic\u00eda a hacer un arresto.)\n\nDos de los amigos de Mateo se niegan a levantar la vista; los dos m\u00e1s j\u00f3venes se quedan mirando a los intrusos con una mezcla de curiosidad y condescendencia. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 estar\u00e1 proponiendo algo tan loco? \u00bfQui\u00e9n estar\u00e1 protegiendo al delgado que lleva la voz cantante? Y Mateo, el recaudador de impuestos, cuya cambiante conciencia lo hac\u00eda menos razonable que la mayor\u00eda de sus colegas, se se\u00f1ala a s\u00ed mismo y pregunta: \u00bfde verdad soy yo quien debe ir? \u00bfDe verdad soy yo quien ha de seguirte?\n\n\u00a1Cu\u00e1ntos miles de decisiones de partir se han parecido a la mano de Cristo en este cuadro! La mano est\u00e1 tendida hacia el que tiene que decidir, y, sin embargo, de tan evanescente es inalcanzable. Marca el camino, pero no ofrece una ayuda directa. Mateo se levantar\u00e1 y seguir\u00e1 al delgado extranjero fuera de la habitaci\u00f3n, por las estrechas callejuelas hasta salir del distrito. M\u00e1s tarde escribir\u00e1 su evangelio, viajar\u00e1 a Etiop\u00eda y al sur del Caspio, a Persia. Probablemente ser\u00e1 asesinado\n\nY tras el drama de este momento de decisi\u00f3n en el cuarto encima de la escalera, hay una ventana que da al mundo exterior. Tradicionalmente, en la pintura, las ventanas, de no ser fuentes de luz, constitu\u00edan un marco para la naturaleza o para cualquier tipo de suceso ejemplar exterior al tema. No as\u00ed con esta ventana. Ninguna luz entra por ella; es una ventana opaca. No vemos nada. Y menos mal que no vemos nada porque lo que sucede fuera no puede ser m\u00e1s que amenazante. Es una ventana por la cual solo pueden llegar las peores noticias.\n\nCaravaggio fue un pintor her\u00e9tico: sus obras fueron rechazadas o criticadas por la Iglesia a causa de su tem\u00e1tica, aunque algunos altos cargos lo defendieron. Su herej\u00eda consisti\u00f3 en trasplantar los temas religiosos a las tragedias populares. Se dice que para _La muerte de la Virgen_ tom\u00f3 como modelo a una prostituta ahogada, pero este hecho es solo la mitad de la historia; la otra mitad, mucho m\u00e1s importante, es que la mujer muerta est\u00e1 tendida como los pobres tienden a sus muertos, y los acompa\u00f1antes la est\u00e1n llorando como los pobres lloran a sus muertos. Como los siguen llorando.\n\nNo hay cementerio en Marinella ni en Selinunte, as\u00ed que cuando muere alguien lo llevamos a la estaci\u00f3n y lo enviamos a Castelvetrano. Luego, nosotros, los pescadores, permanecemos juntos. Damos el p\u00e9same a la familia del muerto. \"Era un buen hombre. Es una verdadera p\u00e9rdida, le quedaban muchos a\u00f1os por delante\". Luego nos marchamos al puerto a ocuparnos de nuestros asuntos, pero no dejamos de hablar del difunto y durante tres d\u00edas completos no salimos a pescar. Y los familiares m\u00e1s cercanos o los amigos dan de comer durante una semana por lo menos a las familias en duelo.1\n\nCaravaggio, _La muerte de la Virgen_ , 1604-1606.\n\nOtros pintores manieristas de la \u00e9poca produjeron turbulentas escenas de multitudes, pero con un esp\u00edritu diferente. Las multitudes eran consideradas un signo de calamidad, como el fuego o las inundaciones, y, por tanto, sus cuadros reflejan un \u00e1nimo de condenaci\u00f3n terrestre. El espectador observaba, desde una posici\u00f3n privilegiada, un teatro c\u00f3smico. A diferencia de ellos, los atestados cuadros de Caravaggio est\u00e1n compuestos sencillamente por individuos que viven codo con codo, que coexisten en un espacio limitado.\n\nEn los bajos fondos, todo es teatro, pero un teatro que no tiene nada que ver con los efectos c\u00f3smicos o con el divertimento de las clases dirigentes. En el teatro cotidiano del submundo todo est\u00e1 en primer plano, todo se enfatiza. Lo que est\u00e1 \"representado\" puede convertirse en cualquier momento en la \"realidad\". No hay un espacio protector ni un orden de inter\u00e9s jer\u00e1rquico. Caravaggio recib\u00eda continuas cr\u00edticas precisamente por esto: por la falta de discriminaci\u00f3n de sus cuadros, su intensidad, la ausencia en ellos de un conveniente distanciamiento.\n\nLos bajos fondos se exhiben en su propio ocultamiento. Esta es la paradoja de su atm\u00f3sfera social y la expresi\u00f3n de sus necesidades m\u00e1s profundas. Tienen sus propios h\u00e9roes y villanos, su propia honra y deshonra, celebradas en leyendas, historias y modos de actuar cotidianos. Estos \u00faltimos suelen ser algo as\u00ed como ensayos de sus verdaderas haza\u00f1as. Son escenas, creadas en el fervor del momento, en las cuales la gente se representa a s\u00ed misma, empujada hasta el l\u00edmite. Si no tuvieran lugar estas \"representaciones\", el c\u00f3digo moral y el sentido del honor propios del submundo correr\u00edan el peligro de caer en el olvido, o para ser m\u00e1s exactos, avanzar\u00eda a toda prisa el juicio negativo, el oprobio, de la sociedad circundante.\n\nLa supervivencia y el orgullo en los bajos fondos dependen del teatro, un teatro en el que cada cual se afirma represent\u00e1ndose llamativamente a s\u00ed mismo, pero en el que, al mismo tiempo, la supervivencia de cada uno puede depender de su discreci\u00f3n, de su no dejarse ver. La tensi\u00f3n resultante produce un tipo especial de urgencia expresiva en la cual los gestos ocupan todo el espacio disponible, en la cual el deseo de toda una vida podr\u00eda muy bien expresarse con una simple mirada. Esto viene a constituir otro tipo de abarrotamiento, otro tipo de intensidad.\n\nCaravaggio es el pintor de los bajos fondos, pero tambi\u00e9n es el excepcional y profundo pintor del deseo sexual. A su lado, la mayor\u00eda de los pintores heterosexuales parecen alcahuetas que desnudaran sus \"ideales\" para el espectador. \u00c9l, sin embargo, solo tiene ojos para su objeto de deseo.\n\nEl deseo cambia el car\u00e1cter del objeto deseado en 180 grados. Muchas veces, cuando surge por primera vez, se siente como el deseo de poseer. El deseo de acariciar es, en parte, un deseo de hacer nuestro lo deseado, de tomarlo. Posteriormente, transformado, el mismo deseo se convierte en un deseo de ser tomado, de perderse uno mismo en el objeto deseado. De estos dos momentos contrapuestos se deriva una de las dial\u00e9cticas del deseo; ambos momentos pueden aplicarse a los dos sexos, y, adem\u00e1s, oscilan. Evidentemente, el segundo momento, el deseo de perderse en el objeto deseado, es el m\u00e1s desesperado, el que expresa m\u00e1s abandono, y es este el que decidi\u00f3 revelar, o se vio obligado a revelar, Caravaggio en sus cuadros.\n\nLos gestos de sus figuras son a veces, dada la tem\u00e1tica simb\u00f3lica, ambiguamente sexuales. Un ni\u00f1o de seis a\u00f1os roza con el dedo el corpi\u00f1o de la Virgen; la mano de la Virgen acaricia invisiblemente el muslo del ni\u00f1o por debajo de su camisita. Un \u00e1ngel toma a san Mateo por el dorso de su evang\u00e9lica mano del mismo modo que podr\u00eda hacerlo una prostituta con un cliente ya viejo. Un joven san Juan Bautista sostiene la pata delantera de una oveja entre sus piernas, como si fuera un pene.\n\nCasi todos los actos de tocar o rozar presentes en la pintura de Caravaggio tienen una carga sexual. Incluso cuando las materias que entran en contacto son diferentes (pelaje y piel, harapos y cabellos, metal y sangre), este contacto pasa a ser un rozamiento deliberado. En su Cupido [ _El amor victorioso_ ], una pluma de una de las alas roza la parte superior del muslo del muchacho con la precisi\u00f3n de un amante. El que el muchacho pueda controlar su reacci\u00f3n, el que no se digne inmutarse, forma parte del deliberado car\u00e1cter evasivo de Caravaggio, de su manera de medio burlarse medio reconocer sus pr\u00e1cticas de seductor. Pienso en Constantino Cavafis, el maravilloso poeta griego:\n\nNos amamos durante un mes.\n\nDespu\u00e9s \u00e9l se march\u00f3, creo que a Smirna\n\na trabajar all\u00ed, y no volvimos a vernos.\n\nLos ojos grises \u2014si a\u00fan vive\u2014 se habr\u00e1n afeado;\n\nmarchito estar\u00e1 aquel bello rostro.\n\nCons\u00e9rvalos, oh memoria, como eran.\n\nY alguna vez aquel amor,\n\ny aquella noche devu\u00e9lveme.2\n\nHay una expresi\u00f3n facial peculiar que, pintada, solo se da en las obras de Caravaggio. Es la expresi\u00f3n del rostro de la Judith de _Judith y Holofernes,_ de la cara del muchacho en el _Muchacho mordido por un lagarto,_ de la de Narciso cuando se mira en el agua, de la de David mientras sostiene en alto, agarrada por la cabellera, la cabeza del gigante Goliat. Es una expresi\u00f3n de cerrada concentraci\u00f3n y apertura, de fuerza y vulnerabilidad, de severidad y compasi\u00f3n. Sin embargo, estas palabras son demasiado \u00e9ticas. He visto una expresi\u00f3n bastante parecida en algunos animales, antes de aparearse y antes de matar.\n\nSer\u00eda absurdo pensar en ello en t\u00e9rminos sadomasoquistas. Es algo mucho m\u00e1s profundo que cualquier predilecci\u00f3n personal. El hecho de que esta expresi\u00f3n vacile se debe a que esa dicotom\u00eda es inherente a la propia experiencia sexual. La sexualidad es el resultado de la destrucci\u00f3n de una unidad original, es el resultado de una separaci\u00f3n. Y en este mundo, tal y como est\u00e1n las cosas, la sexualidad asegura, como ninguna otra cosa puede hacerlo, una uni\u00f3n moment\u00e1nea. Toca el amor y se opone a la crueldad original.\n\nLas caras de Caravaggio est\u00e1n iluminadas por ese conocimiento, profundo como una herida. Son las caras de los ca\u00eddos: se ofrecen al deseo con una sinceridad cuya existencia solo los ca\u00eddos conocen.\n\nPerderse en el objeto de deseo. \u00bfC\u00f3mo lo expresaba Caravaggio en los cuerpos que pintaba? Dos muchachos medio desnudos o desnudos. Aunque todav\u00eda son j\u00f3venes, sus cuerpos llevan la marca del uso y la experiencia. Unas manos sucias. Un muslo demasiado grueso. Unos pies estropeados. Un torso (en \u00e9l el pez\u00f3n como un ojo) que naci\u00f3 y creci\u00f3, que suda y jadea, que da vueltas en la noche sin sue\u00f1o: nunca un torso esculpido a partir de un ideal. Al no ser inocentes, sus cuerpos contienen experiencia.\n\nY esto significa que su sensibilidad puede hacerse palpable; hay todo un universo al otro lado de su piel. La carne del cuerpo deseado no es un destino so\u00f1ado, sino un punto de partida inmediato. Su misma aparici\u00f3n apunta hacia lo _sobreentendido,_ en el sentido m\u00e1s desusado y carnal de esa palabra. Caravaggio, al pintarlos, so\u00f1aba con sus profundidades.\n\nComo cabr\u00eda esperar, en el arte de Caravaggio no aparece la propiedad. Unas cuantas herramientas y recipientes, sillas, una mesa. Y as\u00ed, todo lo que rodea a las figuras carece de inter\u00e9s. La luz de un cuerpo que brilla en la oscuridad de un interior. Al igual que el mundo exterior a la ventana, el ambiente impersonal queda olvidado. El cuerpo deseado revel\u00e1ndose en la oscuridad, una oscuridad que no tiene nada que ver con la hora del d\u00eda o de la noche, sino con la vida, tal como es en este planeta; el cuerpo deseado, resplandeciente como una aparici\u00f3n, apunta m\u00e1s all\u00e1, no con un gesto provocativo, sino con el hecho sincero de su propia sensibilidad, prometiendo el universo que se extiende al otro lado de su piel, invit\u00e1ndote a partir. En el rostro deseado, una expresi\u00f3n que va m\u00e1s all\u00e1, mucho m\u00e1s all\u00e1, que una invitaci\u00f3n, porque es el reconocimiento de uno mismo, de la crueldad del mundo y de su \u00fanico cobijo, su \u00fanico don: dormir juntos. Aqu\u00ed. Ahora.\n\n______________\n\n1 Dolci, Danilo, _Racconti siciliani_ , Giulio Einaudi, Tur\u00edn, 1963 [N. del Ed.].\n\n2 Cavafis, Constantino, \"Gris\" [1917], en _Poes\u00edas completas_ , Hiperi\u00f3n, Madrid, 1981 [N. del Ed.].\n\n## **Frans Hals**\n\n## 1582\/1583-1666\n\nEn mi imaginaci\u00f3n veo la historia de Frans Hals en t\u00e9rminos teatrales.\n\nEl primer acto se abre con un banquete que ha empezado hace ya varias horas. (En realidad, muchos de estos banquetes sol\u00edan durar varios d\u00edas.) Es un banquete de los oficiales de una de las compa\u00f1\u00edas de guardias c\u00edvicos de Haarlem; por ejemplo, el celebrado en 1627 por la Compa\u00f1\u00eda de San Jorge. Escojo esta porque Hals dej\u00f3 testimonio pintado de la ocasi\u00f3n en el mejor retrato de grupo de todos los realizados por el pintor a las compa\u00f1\u00edas de guardias c\u00edvicos.\n\nLos oficiales parecen alegres, bulliciosos y en\u00e9rgicos. Su aspecto soldadesco tiene m\u00e1s que ver con la ausencia de mujeres y con los uniformes que con sus rostros y gestos, que son demasiado afables para unos soldados de campa\u00f1a. Pens\u00e1ndolo mejor, incluso sus uniformes parecen curiosamente nuevos o poco usados. Brindan y beben por la amistad y la confianza eternas. \u00a1Por que sigamos prosperando juntos!\n\nUno de los m\u00e1s animados es el capit\u00e1n Michiel de Wael (hacia la parte delantera de la escena, con un jub\u00f3n amarillo). Su mirada es la de un hombre que est\u00e1 seguro de que es tan joven como la noche y de que todos sus compa\u00f1eros lo saben. Es una mirada que uno puede encontrar en un momento dado en la mayor\u00eda de las mesas de cualquier club nocturno. Pero Hals fue el primero que la capt\u00f3. El espectador observa al capit\u00e1n De Wael del mismo modo que la persona sobria observa, con frialdad y plenamente consciente de ser un intruso, c\u00f3mo se va achispando alguien que tiene a su lado. Es igual que contemplar c\u00f3mo parte de viaje un grupo al que no hemos podido sumarnos por falta de medios. Doce a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde, Hals pint\u00f3 al mismo hombre, vestido con el mismo jub\u00f3n de gamuza, en otro banquete. En este, tiene la mirada fija y los ojos empa\u00f1ados. Ahora, siempre que puede pasa la tarde bebiendo en las tascas. Y cuando habla y cuenta historias, su voz gutural tiene una suerte de urgencia que da a entender que anta\u00f1o, hace mucho tiempo, cuando era joven, vivi\u00f3 como nunca lo hemos hecho nosotros.\n\nHals est\u00e1 en el banquete, aunque no aparece en el cuadro. Es un hombre de cerca de cincuenta a\u00f1os y tambi\u00e9n muy bebedor. En ese momento se encuentra en la cumbre del \u00e9xito. Tiene fama de terco y de pasar s\u00fabitamente del aletargamiento a la violencia. (Veinte a\u00f1os antes hab\u00eda sido motivo de esc\u00e1ndalo porque se dec\u00eda que, estando borracho, hab\u00eda matado a su mujer de una paliza. M\u00e1s tarde se volvi\u00f3 a casar y tuvo ocho hijos.) Es un hombre de una inteligencia notable. Estoy seguro de que en la conversaci\u00f3n, aunque no tengamos pruebas de ello, era r\u00e1pido, cr\u00edtico, epigram\u00e1tico. Parte de su atractivo deb\u00eda de residir en el hecho de que se comportaba como si estuviera disfrutando realmente de esa libertad en la que, en principio, cre\u00edan sus compa\u00f1eros. Pero m\u00e1s atractiva resultaba todav\u00eda su capacidad como pintor. Solo \u00e9l pod\u00eda pintar a sus compa\u00f1eros como ellos deseaban. Solo \u00e9l pod\u00eda salvar la contradicci\u00f3n que encerraba ese deseo. Cada uno de ellos ten\u00eda que ser pintado como un individuo claramente diferenciado y, al mismo tiempo, como un miembro espont\u00e1neo y natural del grupo.\n\n\u00bfQui\u00e9nes son esos hombres? Como bien hemos podido darnos cuenta, no son soldados. Las compa\u00f1\u00edas de guardias c\u00edvicos, aunque originariamente formadas para el servicio activo, ya hace mucho tiempo que se han convertido en clubs puramente ceremoniales. Estos hombres pertenecen a las familias de comerciantes m\u00e1s ricas y m\u00e1s poderosas de Haarlem, un centro de manufactura textil.\n\nFrans Hals, _Retrato de Willem van Heythuysen sentado sosteniendo una fusta_ , 1625.\n\nHaarlem, una ciudad que hac\u00eda tan solo veinte a\u00f1os se hab\u00eda convertido, de forma repentina y espectacular, en la capital econ\u00f3mica de todo el mundo, se encuentra a unos dieciocho kil\u00f3metros de \u00c1msterdam. En \u00c1msterdam se negocia con el grano, los metales preciosos, las divisas, los esclavos, las especias y otros productos de todo tipo, a una escala y con unos resultados que no solo asombran al resto de Europa, sino que tambi\u00e9n lo hacen depender econ\u00f3micamente de la capital holandesa.\n\nParece que se ha liberado un nuevo tipo de energ\u00eda, al tiempo que est\u00e1 surgiendo cierta metaf\u00edsica del dinero. Este adquiere su propia virtud y, en sus propios t\u00e9rminos, demuestra una forma de tole rancia. (Holanda es el \u00fanico Estado de Europa sin persecuciones religiosas.) Todos los valores tradicionales est\u00e1n siendo sustituidos o limitados a un contexto, lo que quiere decir que su absolutismo est\u00e1 siendo eliminado. Los Estados Holandeses han declarado oficialmente que la Iglesia no debe inmiscuirse en las cuestiones de usura relacionadas con el mundo de la banca. Los comerciantes de armas holandeses no solo las venden a todos los pa\u00edses europeos en guerra, sino tambi\u00e9n, durante las contiendas m\u00e1s sangrientas de su historia, a sus propios enemigos.\n\nLos oficiales de la Compa\u00f1\u00eda de San Jorge de Haarlem pertenecen a la primera de toda la serie de generaciones que se caracterizar\u00edan por el esp\u00edritu moderno de la iniciativa privada. Un poco m\u00e1s tarde, Hals pint\u00f3 un retrato que describe este esp\u00edritu m\u00e1s v\u00edvidamente que cualquier otro cuadro o fotograf\u00eda que yo haya visto. Es el de Willem van Heythuysen.\n\nLo que distingue a este de todos los dem\u00e1s retratos de hombres ricos o poderosos pintados anteriormente es su inestabilidad. Nada est\u00e1 a salvo en su lugar. Uno tiene la impresi\u00f3n de estar viendo a un hombre en el interior de un camarote durante una galerna. La mesa parece deslizarse por el suelo de la habitaci\u00f3n, dejando caer el libro depositado encima de ella. Las cortinas pueden venirse abajo en cualquier momento.\n\nPara realzar a\u00fan m\u00e1s esta precariedad, convirti\u00e9ndola en una virtud, el hombre se reclina hacia atr\u00e1s en su asiento hasta donde lo permiten las leyes del equilibrio y tensa la fusta que tiene en la mano hasta el punto de que casi parece que se va a partir. Y lo mismo sucede con su rostro y su expresi\u00f3n. Su mirada es esquiva, y en torno a los ojos se puede ver el cansancio propio de la persona que tiene que estar continuamente haciendo c\u00e1lculos y m\u00e1s c\u00e1lculos.\n\nAl mismo tiempo, este retrato no sugiere decadencia ni desintegraci\u00f3n. Puede que haya una galerna, pero el barco navega r\u00e1pida y confiadamente. Hoy, Van Heythuysen ser\u00eda sin duda descrito por sus socios como un hombre \"el\u00e9ctrico\", y millones de hombres lo tomar\u00edan, aunque no siempre de forma consciente, como modelo a seguir en sus vidas.\n\nTraslademos a Van Heythuysen a una silla giratoria, sin modificar su postura pong\u00e1mosle delante una mesa de despacho, cambiemos la fusta que tiene en las manos por una regla o una varilla de aluminio y veremos c\u00f3mo se convierte en el t\u00edpico ejecutivo moderno que dedica unos minutos de su valioso tiempo a escuchar nuestro caso.\n\nPero volvamos ahora al banquete. Los hombres ya est\u00e1n todos bastante borrachos. Las manos, que previamente hac\u00edan equilibrios con un cuchillo, manten\u00edan una copa de vino entre los dedos o exprim\u00edan un lim\u00f3n sobre las ostras, empiezan a estar un poco torpes. Y, al mismo tiempo, los gestos se hacen m\u00e1s exagerados y se dirigen hacia nosotros, el p\u00fablico imaginario, de una forma m\u00e1s directa. No hay nada como el alcohol para hacerle creer a uno que la personalidad de que est\u00e1 haciendo gala en ese momento es su verdadera personalidad, que hasta entonces siempre hab\u00eda permanecido oculta.\n\nSe interrumpen unos a otros, produci\u00e9ndose un sinf\u00edn de malentendidos. Cuanto m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil se les hace comunicar sus ideas, m\u00e1s inclinados se sienten a enlazarse por los hombros. De vez en cuando entonan alguna canci\u00f3n, contentos de haber sido por fin capaces de actuar al un\u00edsono, pues cada uno de ellos, medio perdido en su propia fantas\u00eda de autopresentaci\u00f3n, solo desea demostrarse a s\u00ed mismo y a los dem\u00e1s una cosa: que, de todos ellos, \u00e9l es el amigo m\u00e1s fiel.\n\nLas m\u00e1s de las veces, Hals se mantiene a cierta distancia del grupo. Parece que mira a los hombres tal cual los miramos nosotros.\n\nEl segundo acto se abre con el mismo decorado, la misma mesa, pero ahora Hals est\u00e1 sentado solo en un extremo de ella. Acaba de cumplir setenta a\u00f1os o est\u00e1 a punto de hacerlo, pero guarda todav\u00eda pleno uso de sus facultades. Sin embargo, el paso de los a\u00f1os ha cambiado considerablemente la atm\u00f3sfera de la escena. Esta ha adquirido un peculiar ambiente decimon\u00f3nico. Hals viste una capa negra y lleva un sombrero negro que recuerda en algo a esos sombreros de copa t\u00edpicos del siglo XIX. La botella que tiene delante es tambi\u00e9n negra. El holgado cuello de su camisa blanca y la p\u00e1gina, igualmente blanca, del libro abierto sobre la mesa resultan el \u00fanico alivio en esta oscuridad.\n\nNo se trata, sin embargo, de una oscuridad f\u00fanebre. Tiene algo de libertino y desafiante. Pienso en Charles Baudelaire. Empiezo a comprender la raz\u00f3n por la que Gustave Courbet y \u00c9douard Manet sent\u00edan una admiraci\u00f3n tan profunda por Hals.\n\nEl punto decisivo ocurri\u00f3 en 1645. Durante los a\u00f1os que precedieron a esta fecha, Hals hab\u00eda ido recibiendo cada vez menos encargos. La espontaneidad de sus retratos, que tanto hab\u00eda gustado a sus contempor\u00e1neos, pas\u00f3 de moda con la siguiente generaci\u00f3n, la cual empez\u00f3 a demandar unos retratos que fueran m\u00e1s tranquilizadores desde el punto de vista moral; lo que ped\u00eda, de hecho, eran los prototipos de ese retrato oficial burgu\u00e9s e hip\u00f3crita que desde entonces no ha dejado de practicarse.\n\nEn 1645, Hals pint\u00f3 el retrato de un hombre vestido de negro mir\u00e1ndonos por encima del respaldo de una silla. Probablemente, el modelo era un amigo suyo. Tambi\u00e9n en este caso, Hals registra por primera vez una expresi\u00f3n nunca pintada hasta entonces. Es la mirada del hombre que no cree en la vida que se desarrolla a su alrededor, pero tampoco le ve una alternativa. Este hombre ha considerado, de una forma bastante impersonal, la posibilidad de que la vida sea absurda. No est\u00e1 desesperado por ello. Est\u00e1 interesado. Pero su inteligencia lo aleja de los objetivos reales del resto de los hombres y de los supuestos objetivos divinos. Unos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, Hals pint\u00f3 un autorretrato que muestra esta misma expresi\u00f3n en el rostro de otra persona.\n\nPor su manera de estar sentado es razonable suponer que est\u00e1 pensando en su situaci\u00f3n. Ahora, al escasearle los encargos, se encuentra con grandes dificultades econ\u00f3micas. Pero esta crisis financiera es para \u00e9l secundaria en relaci\u00f3n con sus dudas acerca del significado de su obra.\n\nCuando pinta, lo hace a\u00fan con mayor maestr\u00eda que antes. Pero esta se ha convertido en un problema. Nadie antes de Hals hab\u00eda pintado unos retratos que expresaran una mayor dignidad y comprensi\u00f3n del modelo por parte del pintor y que entra\u00f1aran una realizaci\u00f3n t\u00e9cnica superior. Pero tampoco nadie capt\u00f3, como lo supo hacer Hals, la personalidad moment\u00e1nea del modelo. Con \u00e9l naci\u00f3 la noci\u00f3n de \"parecido elocuente\". Todo queda sacrificado a las exigencias de la presencia inmediata del modelo.\n\nO casi todo, pues el pintor necesita defenderse de la amenaza que puede encerrar el convertirse en un simple m\u00e9dium utilizado por el modelo para presentarse a s\u00ed mismo. Las pinceladas de los retratos de Hals van adquiriendo una vida propia. Su energ\u00eda no resulta en ning\u00fan caso absorbida por la funci\u00f3n descriptiva. No solo se nos presenta con toda precisi\u00f3n el sujeto pintado, sino tambi\u00e9n _c\u00f3mo_ est\u00e1 pintado. Junto con la noci\u00f3n de \"parecido elocuente\" con el modelo, nace tambi\u00e9n la de ejecuci\u00f3n virtuosa por parte del pintor, siendo esta \u00faltima la protecci\u00f3n empleada por el artista para defenderse de la primera.\n\nNo obstante, se trata de una protecci\u00f3n que ofrece muy poco consuelo, pues el que realiza una ejecuci\u00f3n virtuosa solo se siente satisfecho durante el transcurso de esta. Mientras est\u00e1 pintando es como si la interpretaci\u00f3n de cada mano, de cada rostro, fuera una partida colosal cuyas apuestas ser\u00edan las r\u00e1pidas y definidas pinceladas. \u00bfPero qu\u00e9 queda cuando el cuadro est\u00e1 terminado? El documento de una personalidad ef\u00edmera y el testimonio de una ejecuci\u00f3n que ha llegado a su fin. No hay apuestas reales. Solo hay carreras. Y de estas, haciendo de la necesidad una virtud, no quiere saber nada.\n\nMientras est\u00e1 all\u00ed sentado van entrando otras personas, y a estas alturas, sus ropajes, propios del siglo XVII holand\u00e9s, nos sorprenden; llegan hasta el extremo opuesto de la mesa y se detienen. Algunos son amigos. Otros son mecenas. Todos desean que les haga un retrato. En la mayor\u00eda de los casos, Hals declina la oferta. Su let\u00e1rgica actitud le ayuda. Quiz\u00e1, tambi\u00e9n su edad. Pero en esta actitud hay tambi\u00e9n cierto desaf\u00edo. El pintor quiere dejar claro que ya no es el que era en su juventud, que ha dejado de compartir sus mismas ilusiones.\n\nFrans Hals, _Las regentas del asilo de ancianos de Haarlem_ , 1664.\n\nOcasionalmente accede a pintar un retrato. Su m\u00e9todo de selecci\u00f3n parece bastante arbitrario: unas veces se trata de alg\u00fan amigo suyo; otras le interesa el rostro del modelo. (Hemos de aclarar que este segundo acto abarca un per\u00edodo de varios a\u00f1os.) Tal vez podr\u00edamos deducir de su conversaci\u00f3n que cuando un rostro le interesa, lo hace en tanto en cuanto el car\u00e1cter del modelo guarda cierta relaci\u00f3n con el problema que le preocupa; el problema de saber qu\u00e9 es lo que ha cambiado tan radicalmente durante su vida.\n\nEs con este esp\u00edritu como Hals pinta a Ren\u00e9 Descartes, al nuevo e ineficaz profesor de teolog\u00eda, al pastor Herman Langelius, quien \"luch\u00f3 contra el ate\u00edsmo no solo con la ayuda de la palabra de Dios, sino tambi\u00e9n con la de la espada\", as\u00ed como los retratos gemelos de Alderman Geraerdts y su esposa.\n\nEn el suyo, la esposa est\u00e1 de pie, vuelta hacia la derecha, ofreciendo una rosa con el brazo extendido. Sonr\u00ede con docilidad. El marido aparece sentado con una mano ligeramente levantada como para recibir la rosa. Su expresi\u00f3n es al mismo tiempo lasciva y calculadora. No hace ning\u00fan esfuerzo por disimular. Es como si estuviera alargando la mano para tomar el billete que se le debe.\n\nAl final del segundo acto, un panadero demanda a Hals por el impago de una deuda de 200 florines que hab\u00eda contra\u00eddo con \u00e9l. Sus propiedades y sus cuadros son requisados y Hals se declara en bancarrota.\n\nEl tercer acto transcurre en el asilo de ancianos de Haarlem. Se trata del asilo cuyos gobernantes y gobernantas hab\u00eda pintado Hals por encargo en 1664. Los dos cuadros resultantes de este encargo se encuentran entre los mejores del pintor.\n\nTras arruinarse, Hals se vio obligado a solicitar un subsidio municipal. Durante mucho tiempo se crey\u00f3 que \u00e9l era en realidad un residente m\u00e1s del asilo \u2014hoy convertido en el Frans Hals Museum\u2014, pero, al parecer, no fue este el caso. No obstante, s\u00ed que es cierto que padeci\u00f3 una extrema pobreza y vivi\u00f3 de la caridad oficial.\n\nEn el centro de la escena, los viejos residentes se sientan en torno a la misma mesa del banquete del primer acto; cada uno tiene ante s\u00ed un cuenco de sopa. De nuevo vuelve a sorprendernos el car\u00e1cter decimon\u00f3nico, dickensiano, de la escena. Detr\u00e1s de los viejos, entre dos lienzos a medio pintar montados en sendos caballetes, Hals mira hacia el espectador. Tendr\u00e1 ahora unos ochenta a\u00f1os. Durante este acto, Hals no deja de examinar y pintar estos dos lienzos, manteni\u00e9ndose totalmente al margen de lo que est\u00e1 sucediendo a su alrededor. Est\u00e1 muy delgado, con esa delgadez propia de los viejos.\n\nA la izquierda, subidos en una tarima, est\u00e1n los gobernantes, a quienes Hals est\u00e1 retratando en uno de los lienzos; a la derecha, sobre otra tarima semejante a la anterior, se encuentran las gobernantas, que est\u00e1n siendo retratadas en el otro.\n\nEntre cucharada y cucharada de sopa, los residentes miran fijamente al espectador o a uno de los dos grupos. De vez en cuando estalla una disputa entre ellos.\n\nLos gobernantes hablan de asuntos privados y de la ciudad. Pero cuando se dan cuenta de que est\u00e1n siendo observados, dejan de hablar y vuelven a adoptar la postura en que los pint\u00f3 Hals, perdidos en sus propias fantas\u00edas de moralidad, agitando las manos cual alas rotas. Solamente el borracho del sombrero ladeado sigue recordando el pasado y proponiendo ocasionalmente un simulacro de brindis. En una ocasi\u00f3n intenta dar conversaci\u00f3n a Hals.\n\n(Debo aclarar aqu\u00ed que se trata de una imagen teatral; de hecho, los gobernantes posaron cada cual por separado para estos retratos de grupo.)\n\nLas mujeres hablan del car\u00e1cter de los residentes y explican su falta de iniciativa o rectitud moral. Cuando se da cuenta de que las est\u00e1n mirando, la mujer situada en el extremo derecho del grupo baja la mano y la descansa sobre el muslo, y a esta se\u00f1al, las otras devuelven la mirada a los viejos que comen delante de ellas.\n\nLa hipocres\u00eda de estas mujeres no reside en que den sin sentir nada, sino m\u00e1s bien en el hecho de que nunca reconocen el odio permanentemente alojado bajo sus ropas negras. Este odio las obsesiona en secreto. Durante el largo invierno, todas ellas lo alimentan una ma\u00f1ana tras otra, poni\u00e9ndole migas de pan en el alf\u00e9izar, hasta que acaba por estar lo suficientemente amaestrado para golpear el vidrio de la ventana de su dormitorio y despertarlas al amanecer.\n\nOscuridad. Solo quedan los dos cuadros: dos de las acusaciones m\u00e1s severas que se hayan pintado nunca. Est\u00e1n proyectados uno al lado del otro, formando una especie de pantalla que ocupa todo el escenario.\n\nFuera del escenario se oye el ruido de un banquete. Una voz anuncia: ten\u00eda ochenta y cuatro a\u00f1os y hab\u00eda perdido el tacto. Ya no era capaz de controlar el pulso. El resultado es tosco y, considerando lo que el pintor hab\u00eda sido en su momento, pat\u00e9tico.\n\n***\n\nLas historias se te vienen a la mente a fin de ser contadas. A veces ocurre lo mismo con las pinturas. Describir\u00e9 esta con toda la precisi\u00f3n de que soy capaz. Pero antes la situar\u00e9 hist\u00f3ricamente, como suelen hacerlo siempre los entendidos. La pintura es de Franz Hals. En mi opini\u00f3n, fue realizada entre 1645 y 1650.\n\nEl a\u00f1o 1645 supuso un momento decisivo en la carrera de Hals como retratista. Tendr\u00eda por entonces unos sesenta a\u00f1os. Hasta ese momento hab\u00eda sido un pintor muy solicitado, siempre con m\u00faltiples encargos. A partir de esa fecha, su fama empez\u00f3 a declinar gradualmente y ya no dej\u00f3 de hacerlo hasta su muerte, veinte a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s y en la m\u00e1s absoluta miseria. Este cambio en su suerte coincidi\u00f3 con el surgimiento de un nuevo tipo de vanidad.\n\nAhora intentar\u00e9 describir la pintura en cuesti\u00f3n. Se trata de un gran lienzo horizontal de 1,83 por 1,30 metros. La figura reclinada es un poco m\u00e1s peque\u00f1a del natural. Para ser un Hals est\u00e1 en buen estado de conservaci\u00f3n (los descuidados m\u00e9todos de trabajo del pintor han dado lugar a que a menudo el pigmento aparezca resquebrajado). De llegar alg\u00fan d\u00eda a una sala de subastas, podr\u00eda alcanzar, dado que el tema es \u00fanico en la obra de Hals, entre dos y seis millones de d\u00f3lares. Desde este momento hemos de tener en cuenta la posibilidad de las falsificaciones.\n\nHasta ahora, la identidad de la modelo es, claro est\u00e1, un misterio. Reposa desnuda sobre la cama mirando al pintor. Existe entre ellos una complicidad obvia. Por r\u00e1pido que Hals trabajara, ella tuvo que haber posado para \u00e9l durante varias horas. Pero su mirada es valorativa y esc\u00e9ptica.\n\n\u00bfEra la amante del pintor? \u00bfEra la mujer del burgu\u00e9s de Haarlem que le hab\u00eda encargado la pintura? Y de ser as\u00ed, \u00bfen d\u00f3nde se propon\u00eda colgarla ese cliente imaginario? \u00bfSer\u00eda acaso una prostituta quien le rogara a Hals que le hiciera un retrato, tal vez para colgarlo en su dormitorio? \u00bfEra una de las hijas del pintor? (Queda aqu\u00ed una puerta abierta a una prometedora carrera para el m\u00e1s detectivesco de nuestros historiadores del arte europeo.)\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 es lo que est\u00e1 sucediendo en esta habitaci\u00f3n? La pintura me dio la impresi\u00f3n de que ni el pintor ni la modelo tienen la vista puesta en algo m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de sus actos inmediatos, y, por consiguiente, son estos, realizados por s\u00ed mismos, los que constituyen un misterio. Por parte de ella, el acto de estar tumbada en la cama deshecha, frente al pintor, y por parte del pintor, el acto de escrutarla, de pintarla de tal manera que su apariencia pudiera sobrevivirlos a ambos.\n\nAparte de la modelo, los dos tercios inferiores del lienzo est\u00e1n ocupados por la cama, o, m\u00e1s bien, por el blanco revoltijo de s\u00e1banas arrugadas. El tercio superior lo ocupa la pared situada detr\u00e1s de la cama. En esta pared, que tiene ese color crema como de lino o cart\u00f3n que Hals utiliz\u00f3 a menudo en sus fondos, no hay nada. La mujer, con la cabeza girada hacia la izquierda, est\u00e1 tendida cuan larga es, ligeramente atravesada en la cama. No hay almohadones. La cabeza, vuelta a fin de poder mirar al pintor, est\u00e1 apoyada sobre las manos, que hacen las veces de almohada.\n\nTiene el torso torcido, pues, aunque el busto est\u00e1 ligeramente vuelto hacia el artista, las caderas miran al techo, y las piernas se alargan hacia el lado de la cama pegado a la pared. Su piel es muy blanca, rosada en algunos puntos. El hombro y el pie izquierdos rompen la l\u00ednea de la cama y est\u00e1n perfilados en la pared cremosa. Tiene el pelo negro, como las plumas de un cuervo. Y estamos tan condicionados por las convenciones de la historia del arte, que a uno le sorprende tanto el hecho de ver representado el vello p\u00fabico de la modelo en una pintura del siglo XVII como le sorprender\u00eda su ausencia en la vida real.\n\n\u00bfHasta qu\u00e9 punto puede uno imaginar un cuerpo desnudo pintado por Hals? Es preciso desechar todas esas ropas negras que enmarcan rostros sufridos y manos nerviosas, y luego imaginar todo un cuerpo pintado con el mismo grado de observaci\u00f3n, intensa y lac\u00f3nica. No se trata de una observaci\u00f3n estricta de las formas como tales \u2014Hals fue el m\u00e1s antiplat\u00f3nico de los pintores\u2014, sino de todas las huellas que la experiencia ha dejado en esas formas.\n\nHals pint\u00f3 sus pechos como si fueran rostros completos: el m\u00e1s alejado, de perfil; el que aparece en primer t\u00e9rmino, en una visi\u00f3n de tres cuartos; sus costados, como si fueran manos con las puntas de los dedos ocultas entre el vello negro de su vientre. Una de las rodillas est\u00e1 pintada como si pudiera revelar, al igual que lo hace la barbilla, muchas de las reacciones de la mujer. El resultado es desconcertante porque no estamos acostumbrados a ver representada as\u00ed la experiencia de un cuerpo; la mayor\u00eda de los desnudos est\u00e1n tan desprovistos de experiencia como los objetivos que no llegan a cumplirse. Y, por otra raz\u00f3n que todav\u00eda est\u00e1 por definir, resulta asimismo desconcertante la concentraci\u00f3n total del artista a la hora de pintarla: es ella y solo ella, y no una fantas\u00eda.\n\nTal vez sean las s\u00e1banas las que sugieren de una forma m\u00e1s inmediata que el autor es Hals. Nadie sino \u00e9l pod\u00eda haber pintado unas ropas con semejante violencia y extravagancia, como si la inocencia que sugieren unas s\u00e1banas blancas perfectamente planchadas fuera algo que su visi\u00f3n de la experiencia no pudiera tolerar. Todos y cada uno de los pu\u00f1os de las camisas que pint\u00f3 en sus retratos ilustran los movimientos habituales de la mu\u00f1eca que ocultan. Pero aqu\u00ed no hay nada oculto. El ovillo de s\u00e1banas \u2014en el que los pliegues parecen ramillas grises entretejidas para formar un nido, y los brillos, agua\u2014 es una muestra elocuente de lo que ha sucedido en la cama.\n\nM\u00e1s matizada es la relaci\u00f3n entre las s\u00e1banas, la cama y la figura que reposa inm\u00f3vil sobre ella. Hay un patetismo en esta relaci\u00f3n que no tiene nada que ver con el ego\u00edsmo del pintor. (De hecho, puede que Hals no llegara siquiera a tocarla, y que la elocuencia de las s\u00e1banas no sea sino la de una memoria sexagenaria.) La relaci\u00f3n tonal entre las dos es muy sutil; en algunos lugares, el cuerpo de la mujer es apenas un poco m\u00e1s oscuro que la s\u00e1bana. Esto me record\u00f3 vagamente a la _Olympia_ de \u00c9douard Manet (quien sent\u00eda una admiraci\u00f3n tan profunda por Hals). Pero todo el parecido acaba aqu\u00ed, a un nivel puramente \u00f3ptico, pues mientras Olympia, sin duda una mujer ociosa y sensual, est\u00e1 reclinada en el lecho asistida por una criada negra, uno est\u00e1 seguro de que la mujer que aparece ahora tendida en la cama pintada por Hals posteriormente lavar\u00eda y planchar\u00eda las s\u00e1banas para volver a hacerla. Y el patetismo reside precisamente en la repetici\u00f3n de este ciclo: la mujer como representaci\u00f3n del abandono total, la mujer en su papel de limpiadora, ordenadora, plegadora. Si su rostro muestra burla, es porque en su fuero interno se est\u00e1 riendo, entre otras cosas, de la sorpresa que provoca en los hombres este contraste, en los hombres que vanamente se enorgullecen de su homogeneidad.\n\nSu rostro es inesperado. De acuerdo con las convenciones del desnudo, al estar sin ropas, su mirada deber\u00eda limitarse a sugerir o deber\u00eda quedar directamente oculta. Bajo ning\u00fan concepto puede ser la mirada tan sincera como el cuerpo desnudo. Pero esta pintura va todav\u00eda m\u00e1s lejos, pues el cuerpo tambi\u00e9n ha sido pintado como un rostro abierto a su propia experiencia.\n\nY, sin embargo, Hals no era consciente de haber logrado semejante sinceridad; le era indiferente. La pintura encierra una desesperaci\u00f3n que no comprend\u00ed al principio. La energ\u00eda de las pinceladas es sexual y, al mismo tiempo, constituyen el paroxismo de una impaciencia atroz. \u00bfImpaciencia con qu\u00e9? En mi imaginaci\u00f3n comparo esta pintura con la _Betsab\u00e9_ de Rembrandt, que, si no me equivoco con las fechas, fue pintada casi por la misma \u00e9poca, en 1654. Las dos pinturas tienen una cosa en com\u00fan. Ninguno de los dos artistas deseaba idealizar a la modelo, y esto significaba que ninguno de los dos quer\u00eda marcar una distinci\u00f3n, en lo que se refiere a la forma de mirarlos, entre el rostro y el cuerpo. Aparte de esto, las dos pinturas no solo son diferentes, sino que son opuestas. Mediante esta oposici\u00f3n, el Rembrandt me ayud\u00f3 a comprender el Hals.\n\nLa imagen que Rembrandt nos ofrece de Betsab\u00e9 es la de la mujer amada por el creador de la imagen. Su desnudez es, por decirlo de alg\u00fan modo, original. Aparece como es antes de ponerse la ropa y reunirse con el resto del mundo, antes de ser juzgada por los dem\u00e1s. Su desnudez es una funci\u00f3n de su ser y resplandece con la luz de su existencia.\n\nLa modelo de la Betsab\u00e9 fue Hendrickye, la amante de Rembrandt. Pero la pasi\u00f3n que el pintor sent\u00eda por ella no basta para explicar el hecho de que se negara a idealizarla. Hemos de tener en cuenta al menos otros dos factores.\n\nEn primer lugar, tenemos la tradici\u00f3n realista de la pintura holandesa del XVII. Dicha tradici\u00f3n era inseparable de aquella otra forma de \"realismo\" que supuso un arma ideol\u00f3gica esencial en el establecimiento de un poder independiente, puramente laico, por parte de la burgues\u00eda mercantilista holandesa. Y en segundo lugar, _en contradicci\u00f3n con lo primero_ , Rembrandt ten\u00eda una visi\u00f3n del mundo profundamente influida por la religi\u00f3n. Fue esta combinaci\u00f3n dial\u00e9ctica lo que permiti\u00f3 o impuls\u00f3 al Rembrandt viejo a aplicar, de una forma m\u00e1s radical que cualquier otro pintor de la escuela holandesa, la pr\u00e1ctica realista a un tema basado en la experiencia individual. Lo que importa no es su elecci\u00f3n de temas b\u00edblicos, sino el hecho de que su visi\u00f3n religiosa le ofrec\u00eda un principio de _redenci\u00f3n_ , y esto le permit\u00eda observar imp\u00e1vido, con una m\u00ednima, tenue, esperanza, los estragos de la experiencia.\n\nTodas las figuras tr\u00e1gicas pintadas por Rembrandt durante la segunda mitad de su vida \u2014Hannan, Sa\u00fal, Jacob, Homero, Julius Civilis, los autorretratos\u2014 est\u00e1n a la espera. No se ha evitado ninguna de sus tragedias, pero el hecho de _ser pintadas_ les permite aguardar; y a lo que aguardan es a que se otorgue un significado, un significado \u00faltimo, a toda su experiencia.\n\nLa desnudez de la mujer que reposa en la cama pintada por Hals es muy diferente de la desnudez de la Betsab\u00e9 de Rembrandt. La de Hals no est\u00e1 en un estado natural anterior al acto de ponerse la ropa. M\u00e1s bien, acaba de quit\u00e1rsela, y la que yace en la cama, reci\u00e9n tra\u00edda desde el mundo exterior hasta esta habitaci\u00f3n de paredes color de lino, es su experiencia pura. A diferencia de la Betsab\u00e9, esta mujer no resplandece con la luz de su propia existencia. Lo que brilla es sencillamente su piel ruborizada y perlada de sudor. Hals no cre\u00eda en el principio de la redenci\u00f3n. Para \u00e9l no hab\u00eda nada que pudiera contrarrestar la pr\u00e1ctica realista; solo contaba con su valor y su temeridad para llevarla a la pr\u00e1ctica. Es irrelevante preguntarse si la modelo era o no era su amante, si la quer\u00eda o no. La pint\u00f3 de la \u00fanica manera que pod\u00eda hacerlo. Tal vez su famosa rapidez como pintor era en parte el resultado de que, una vez que hab\u00eda reunido el valor necesario para ello, quer\u00eda terminar con ese modo de mirar lo antes posible.\n\nEs cierto que esta pintura tambi\u00e9n encierra placer. El placer en este caso no est\u00e1 impl\u00edcito en el acto de pintar \u2014como sucede en Veronese o Claude Monet\u2014, sino que se hace referencia a \u00e9l. No solo por la historia que nos cuentan las s\u00e1banas (o pretenden contarnos, como si fueran narradoras), sino tambi\u00e9n por el placer que se puede encontrar en el cuerpo que reposa sobre ellas.\n\nLejos de destruir la pintura, las resquebrajaduras del pigmento, finas como cabellos, parecen acrecentar la luminosidad y la calidez de la piel de la mujer. En algunos lugares, es esta calidez lo que distingue el cuerpo de la s\u00e1bana, la cual, por contraste, adquiere una tonalidad casi verdosa, g\u00e9lida. La genialidad de Hals radica en su capacidad para representar todas las cualidades f\u00edsicas de esta superficialidad. Es como si a la hora de pintar se fuera aproximando poco a poco a sus temas hasta estar codo con codo con ellos. Y esta vez, la proximidad ya supon\u00eda un placer en s\u00ed misma. A\u00f1\u00e1dase a esto el hecho de que la desnudez puede reducirnos a todos a dos denominadores comunes y que de esta simplificaci\u00f3n se deriva cierto tipo de alivio.\n\nSoy consciente de que no consigo describir apropiadamente la desesperaci\u00f3n que entra\u00f1a esta pintura. Volver\u00e9 a intentarlo empezando de una forma m\u00e1s abstracta. La era del capitalismo plenamente desarrollado, que se inici\u00f3 en Holanda en el siglo XVII, se abre simult\u00e1neamente con una gran confianza y una gran desesperaci\u00f3n. La primera \u2014la confianza en la individualidad, en la navegaci\u00f3n, en la libre empresa, en el comercio, en la bolsa\u2014 forma parte de la historia aceptada. La desesperaci\u00f3n ha tendido a quedar relegada o, como en el caso de Blaise Pascal, explicada en otros t\u00e9rminos. Y, sin embargo, hay pruebas sorprendentes de ella en todos y cada uno de los retratos pintados por Hals a partir de la d\u00e9cada de 1630. En dichos retratos de hombres (no as\u00ed en los de mujeres) vemos una tipolog\u00eda social totalmente nueva y, dependiendo de cada caso en concreto, unas formas nuevas de ansiedad y desesperaci\u00f3n. Si nos fiamos de Hals \u2014y si Hals no es digno de confianza, no hay muchos pintores que puedan serlo\u2014, el mundo de hoy no comenz\u00f3 precisamente con un gran regocijo general.\n\nMirando a esta mujer tendida en la cama comprend\u00ed por primera vez hasta qu\u00e9 punto y de qu\u00e9 forma pudo haber compartido Hals la desesperaci\u00f3n que tan a menudo ve\u00eda en sus modelos. Hab\u00eda en \u00e9l una desesperaci\u00f3n potencial que era intr\u00ednseca a su pr\u00e1ctica como pintor. Hals pintaba apariencias. Dado que todo lo visible _aparece_ , uno podr\u00eda suponer err\u00f3neamente que toda la pintura trata de las apariencias. Hasta el siglo XVII, el objetivo de la mayor parte de la pintura era inventar un mundo visible; este mundo inventado tomaba muchas cosas del mundo real, pero exclu\u00eda la contingencia. Sacaba conclusiones, y aqu\u00ed es interesante la homonimia que existe en ingl\u00e9s entre los verbos \"extraer\" y \"dibujar\" ( _draw_ ). Despu\u00e9s del siglo XVII, el objetivo de la mayor parte de la pintura era disfrazar las apariencias; la tarea de las nuevas academias era ense\u00f1ar los diferentes modos de disfrazarlas. Hals empezaba y acababa con apariencias. Fue el \u00fanico pintor cuya obra profetiz\u00f3 la fotograf\u00eda, aunque ninguna de sus pinturas es \"fotogr\u00e1fica\".\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 significaba para Hals el empezar y acabar con apariencias? Su pr\u00e1ctica como pintor no consist\u00eda en reducir un ramo de flores, una perdiz muerta o unas figuras distantes en la calle a sus apariencias respectivas; consist\u00eda en reducir a su apariencia la _experiencia_ fielmente observada. La crueldad de este ejercicio corr\u00eda pareja a la de reducir sistem\u00e1ticamente todo el valor existente al valor del dinero.\n\nHoy, tres siglos despu\u00e9s, y tras d\u00e9cadas de publicidad y consumismo, podemos observar hasta qu\u00e9 punto el empuje del capitalismo ha terminado por vaciarlo todo de su contenido, no dejando m\u00e1s que la c\u00e1scara de las apariencias. Hoy podemos verlo porque existe una alternativa pol\u00edtica. Para Hals no hab\u00eda tal alternativa, como tampoco exist\u00eda redenci\u00f3n alguna.\n\nCuando pintaba esos retratos de unos hombres cuya identidad hoy desconocemos, esa _equivalencia_ entre su pr\u00e1ctica art\u00edstica y la experiencia que todos ellos ten\u00edan de la sociedad de su tiempo puede haberles proporcionado cierta satisfacci\u00f3n tanto al pintor como a aquellos de los modelos que contaran con alguna visi\u00f3n de futuro. Los artistas no pueden cambiar o hacer la historia. Lo m\u00e1s que pueden hacer es despojarla de sus pretensiones. Y hay diferentes modos de hacerlo, entre los que se incluye el de mostrar la crueldad existente.\n\nPero cuando a Hals se le ocurri\u00f3 pintar a la mujer recostada en la cama, era diferente. Parte del poder de la desnudez reside en que parece que es ajena a la historia. Gran parte del siglo y de la d\u00e9cada desaparecen junto con la ropa. Parece que la desnudez nos hace volver a la naturaleza. Parece, porque tal noci\u00f3n ignora las relaciones sociales, las formas de emoci\u00f3n y las inclinaciones de la conciencia. Pero tampoco es totalmente ilusoria, pues el poder de la sexualidad humana \u2014su capacidad para convertirse en una pasi\u00f3n\u2014 depende de la promesa de un nuevo comienzo. Y este nuevo se siente como si no solo se refiriera al destino individual, sino igualmente al c\u00f3smico, que, durante ese momento y de una forma extra\u00f1a, llena y trasciende la historia. La prueba de que sucede as\u00ed es la repetici\u00f3n de met\u00e1foras c\u00f3smicas en la poes\u00eda amorosa de todo el mundo, incluso en per\u00edodos revolucionarios.\n\nEn esta pintura no pod\u00eda haber equivalencia entre la pr\u00e1ctica de Hals como pintor y el tema representado, pues este estaba cargado, aunque fuera de forma prematura, aunque fuera nost\u00e1lgicamente, con la promesa potencial de un nuevo comienzo. Hals pint\u00f3 el cuerpo recostado sobre la cama con la consumada maestr\u00eda que hab\u00eda adquirido con el paso de los a\u00f1os. Pint\u00f3 la experiencia de ese cuerpo como una apariencia. Pero el acto de pintar a la mujer de pelo negro como las plumas de un cuervo no pod\u00eda responder a su visi\u00f3n de ella. No pod\u00eda inventar nada nuevo y se qued\u00f3 all\u00ed, desesperado, al borde mismo de las apariencias.\n\n\u00bfY qu\u00e9 pas\u00f3 entonces? Yo imagino a Hals dejando sobre la mesa los pinceles y la paleta, y sent\u00e1ndose en una silla. Hac\u00eda rato que la mujer se hab\u00eda ido, y la cama estaba vac\u00eda. Sentado, Hals cerr\u00f3 los ojos. No los cerr\u00f3 para adormecerse. Con los ojos cerrados, podr\u00eda haber imaginado, como lo har\u00eda un ciego, otras pinturas pintadas en otro tiempo.\n\n## **Diego Vel\u00e1zquez**\n\n## 1599-1660\n\nLa imagen me impresion\u00f3 cuando la vi por primera vez. Me resultaba conocida, como si, de ni\u00f1o, hubiera visto a aquel hombre enmarcado en el umbral de una puerta. Es la de un cuadro pintado por Vel\u00e1zquez en torno a 1640. Se trata de un retrato imaginario de Esopo, de un tama\u00f1o la mitad que el natural.\n\nEst\u00e1 parado, esperando a alguien que lo ha convocado. \u00bfA qui\u00e9n? \u00bfA un tribunal? \u00bfA una cuadrilla de bandidos? \u00bfA una mujer moribunda? \u00bfA unos viajeros que le solicitan otra historia?\n\n\u00bfD\u00f3nde nos encontramos? Hay quienes dicen que el cubo de madera y la gamuza apuntan a una tener\u00eda, y estos mismos recuerdan la f\u00e1bula de Esopo que cuenta la historia del hombre que poco a poco aprendi\u00f3 a ignorar el hedor de las pieles que est\u00e1n siendo curtidas. No me acaban de convencer. Puede que nos encontremos en una posada, entre otros viajeros que est\u00e1n de camino. Las botas, de tan usadas, parecen jamelgos fam\u00e9licos, con el lomo hundido. Sin embargo, en este momento est\u00e1 sorprendentemente limpio, sin una mota de polvo. Se ha lavado y se ha mojado el cabello, que est\u00e1 todav\u00eda un poco h\u00famedo.\n\nSu indumentaria de peregrino hace tiempo que ha tomado la forma de su cuerpo, y cara y traje tienen exactamente la misma expresi\u00f3n. El traje ha reaccionado a la vida como tela que es, de la misma manera que su cara ha reaccionado como piel y hueso. Vestimenta y cara parecen compartir la misma experiencia.\n\nDiego Vel\u00e1zquez, _Esopo_ , 1639-1640.\n\nSu mirada me hace dudar. Le intimida a uno; es arrogante. No, no es arrogante, pero no aguanta a los tontos.\n\n\u00bfQui\u00e9n fue el modelo del pintor para este retrato hist\u00f3rico de un hombre que vivi\u00f3 dos mil a\u00f1os antes que \u00e9l? En mi opini\u00f3n, parece un tanto precipitado asumir que el modelo fuera un escritor o un amigo de Vel\u00e1zquez. Se dice que Esopo fue un esclavo liberto, nacido posiblemente en Cerde\u00f1a. Uno pensar\u00eda lo mismo del hombre que tenemos delante. La fuerza de su presencia es de un tipo que solo se observa en quienes no tienen poder. Un recluso de una c\u00e1rcel de Sicilia le dijo a Danilo Dolci:\n\nHe adquirido la experiencia de saber qu\u00e9 es el universo leyendo el hor\u00f3scopo por casi toda Italia. Toda la cristiandad \u2014pobres, ricos, pr\u00edncipes, barones y condes\u2014 me ha revelado sus deseos y costumbres.1\n\nCuenta la leyenda que al final de su vida Esopo tambi\u00e9n cumpli\u00f3 condena por robo. Puede que el modelo fuera un antiguo recluso, un galeote, con el que, como Don Quijote, Vel\u00e1zquez se hubiera encontrado en alg\u00fan camino. En cualquier caso, alguien que conoce \"sus deseos y costumbres\".\n\nAl igual que los enanos cortesanos que pint\u00f3, Vel\u00e1zquez observa el espect\u00e1culo del poder mundano. Como en la de los enanos, hay iron\u00eda en su mirada, una iron\u00eda que atraviesa toda ret\u00f3rica convencional. Pero ah\u00ed acaba el parecido, pues los enanos eran discapacitados de nacimiento. Cada uno de ellos tiene una expresi\u00f3n que le es propia, pero todos ellos presentan una forma de resignaci\u00f3n que declara: esta vez yo estaba destinado a ser excluido de la vida normal. Esopo no est\u00e1 excluido. Es normal.\n\nSu t\u00fanica lo cubre y, al mismo tiempo, nos recuerda el cuerpo desnudo que est\u00e1 debajo. Su mano izquierda realza este efecto, al tenerla por debajo de la t\u00fanica, a la altura de la panza. Y su cara demuestra algo parecido en relaci\u00f3n con su conciencia. Observa, mira, reconoce, escucha lo que le rodea y est\u00e1 fuera de \u00e9l, y, al mismo tiempo, reflexiona en su interior, ordenando incesantemente lo que ha percibido, intentando encontrar un sentido que vaya m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de los cinco sentidos con los que ha nacido. El sentido que da a lo que ve, por m\u00e1s precario y ambiguo que pueda ser, es lo \u00fanico que posee. Para el alimento y el techo se ve obligado a contar una de sus f\u00e1bulas.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 edad tiene? \u00bfEntre cincuenta y sesenta y cinco? Parece m\u00e1s joven que el Homero de Rembrandt, mayor que el Esopo de Jos\u00e9 de Ribera. Algunos dicen que Esopo, el fabulista verdadero, vivi\u00f3 hasta los setenta y cinco a\u00f1os. Vel\u00e1zquez muri\u00f3 a los sesenta y uno. Los cuerpos de los j\u00f3venes son dones, tanto para ellos como para los dem\u00e1s. Las diosas de la antigua Grecia eran portadoras de este don. Los cuerpos de los poderosos, cuando envejecen, se vuelven insensibles y mudos, se empiezan a parecer a las estatuas que, creen ellos, se merecer\u00e1n que les erijan despu\u00e9s de su muerte.\n\nEsopo no es una estatua. Su f\u00edsico encarna su experiencia. Su presencia solo se refiere a lo que ha sentido y visto. No hace referencia a posesi\u00f3n alguna, a una instituci\u00f3n, a un cargo o a una protecci\u00f3n. Si uno llorara en su hombro, llorar\u00eda en el hombro de su vida. Si le acariciara el cuerpo, este recordar\u00eda la ternura que conoci\u00f3 en la infancia.\n\nJos\u00e9 Ortega y Gasset describe algo de lo que siento yo en presencia de este hombre:\n\nYa un d\u00eda veremos c\u00f3mo mientras la astronom\u00eda, por ejemplo, no forma parte del astro que investiga y conoce, ese extra\u00f1o saber vital que llamamos \"experiencia de la vida\" forma parte esencial de la vida misma, constituye uno de sus principales componentes o factores. Es ese saber causante de que un segundo amor sea, por fuerza, distinto del primero porque _sabe_ ya lo que fue este primero y lo lleva, por tanto, como enrollado dentro de s\u00ed. De modo que si usamos la imagen, como veremos, antiqu\u00edsima y universal, que nos presenta la vida como un camino que hay que correr y recorrer \u2014de ah\u00ed expresiones como \"curso de la vida\", curr\u00edculum vitae, tomar una carrera, etc.\u2014 diremos que, conforme caminamos, el camino que es nuestra vida, ese camino lo conservamos y lo sabemos, esto es, que el camino de la vida ya recorrido se va enroscando, envolviendo o enrollando sobre s\u00ed mismo como un film, y al llegar al t\u00e9rmino de la vida, el hombre se encuentra llevando sobre su espalda, dir\u00edamos pegado a ella, todo el rollo de su vida vivida.2\n\nLleva consigo el rollo de la pel\u00edcula de su vida. Su virilidad tiene muy poco que ver con el dominio o el hero\u00edsmo, y mucho con el ingenio, la astucia, cierto sarcasmo y la negativa a aceptar compromiso alguno. Este rechazo no es una cuesti\u00f3n de terquedad, sino de haber visto lo suficiente para saber que uno no tiene nada que perder. Las mujeres suelen enamorarse de la energ\u00eda y el desenga\u00f1o, y no les falta sabidur\u00eda en esto, pues as\u00ed est\u00e1n doblemente protegidas. Este hombre, ya entrado en a\u00f1os, harapiento, que no lleva nada excepto una vida compuesta de jirones, me parece a m\u00ed que ha debido de ser recordado por muchas mujeres. Conozco muchas viejas campesinas con rostros muy similares.\n\nA estas alturas de su vida ha perdido la vanidad masculina. \u00c9l no es el h\u00e9roe de las historias que narra. Es un testigo convertido en historiador, y en el mundo rural este es un papel que las ancianas cumplen mucho mejor que los hombres. Su reputaci\u00f3n ya no cuenta, ha quedado atr\u00e1s. Adquieren casi la misma escala de la naturaleza. (En la historia del arte hay una teor\u00eda seg\u00fan la cual Vel\u00e1zquez pint\u00f3 este retrato influido por un grabado de Giovanni Battista Porta, quien hizo una comparaci\u00f3n fision\u00f3mica entre los rasgos de un hombre y los de un buey. \u00bfQui\u00e9n sabe? Yo prefiero mis recuerdos de las ancianas campesinas.)\n\nSus ojos son raros, pues est\u00e1n pintados con menos \u00e9nfasis que el resto del cuadro. Casi tiene uno la impresi\u00f3n de que los ojos quedaron _sin_ pintar, que son lo \u00fanico que queda de la base del lienzo.\n\nSin embargo, todo en el cuadro apunta hacia ellos, excepci\u00f3n hecha de las hojas de papel y de la mano que las sujeta. La expresi\u00f3n de sus ojos nos es dada por la forma de mantener la cabeza y por las otras facciones: la boca, la nariz, la frente. Los ojos act\u00faan; es decir, miran, observan y apenas se les escapa nada, pero no reaccionan emitiendo un juicio. Este hombre no es ni un protagonista, ni un juez ni un sat\u00edrico. Es interesante compararlo con su pintura gemela (del mismo tama\u00f1o y con la misma f\u00f3rmula pict\u00f3rica), el retrato de Menipo. Menipo, uno de los primeros c\u00ednicos, adem\u00e1s de gran sat\u00edrico, mira al mundo como a algo que se ha dejado atr\u00e1s, y su marcha le produce cierta diversi\u00f3n. En su postura y en su expresi\u00f3n no hay rastro de la compasi\u00f3n de Esopo.\n\nDe forma indirecta, los ojos de Esopo dicen mucho sobre el arte de la narraci\u00f3n. Su expresi\u00f3n es reflexiva. Todo lo que ha visto contribuye a su idea del enigma de la vida: para este enigma tiene respuestas parciales \u2014cada historia que cuenta es una\u2014, pero, a su vez, cada respuesta, cada historia, cada f\u00e1bula saca a la luz otra pregunta, de tal modo que fracasa continuamente, y es este fracaso lo que mantiene su curiosidad. Sin misterio, sin curiosidad y sin la forma impuesta por esa respuesta parcial no puede haber historias: solo hay confesiones, comunicados, recuerdos y fragmentos de fantas\u00eda autobiogr\u00e1fica que, por el momento, se hacen pasar por novelas.\n\nEn cierta ocasi\u00f3n me refer\u00ed a los narradores denomin\u00e1ndolos \"secretarios de la muerte\". Los llamaba as\u00ed porque todas las historias, antes de ser narradas, empiezan por el final. Esto dec\u00eda Walter Benjamin: \"La muerte es la sanci\u00f3n de todo lo que el narrador puede referir y es ella quien le presta autoridad\".3 Sin embargo, mi frase era demasiado rom\u00e1ntica, no suficientemente contradictoria. No hay hombre que tenga menos que ver con la muerte que este. Observa la vida como la vida podr\u00eda observarse a s\u00ed misma.\n\nUna historia para Esopo. Era un seis de enero, d\u00eda de Reyes. Me hab\u00edan invitado a la cocina de una casa en la que no hab\u00eda estado nunca. Dentro de la casa hab\u00eda algunos ni\u00f1os y una perra bobtail grande y con un \u00e1spero pelo gris que le ca\u00eda enmara\u00f1ado sobre los ojos. Mi llegada la asust\u00f3, y empez\u00f3 a ladrar. No de una forma brutal, pero s\u00ed persistente. Intent\u00e9 hablarle. Luego me agach\u00e9 para ponerme a su altura. No sirvi\u00f3 de nada. Sigui\u00f3 ladrando, inquieta. Nos sentamos alrededor de la mesa; \u00e9ramos ocho o nueve, tomamos caf\u00e9 y galletas. Le ofrec\u00ed una, guardando una distancia prudencial. Por fin, la tom\u00f3. Cuando le ofrec\u00ed otra, poni\u00e9ndosela cerca de mi rodilla, no quiso acercarse. No muerde, me dijo el due\u00f1o. Y este comentario me llev\u00f3 a contar una historia.\n\nHace veinticinco a\u00f1os, yo viv\u00eda en el extrarradio de una ciudad europea. Cerca de nuestro piso hab\u00eda prados y bosques por los que me daba un paseo todas las ma\u00f1anas antes de desayunar. En un punto de mi recorrido, cerca de un cobertizo improvisado donde viv\u00edan unos inmigrantes espa\u00f1oles, siempre me encontraba con la misma perra. Era una perra gris, ya vieja y tuerta; ten\u00eda el tama\u00f1o de un b\u00f3xer pero era un chucho sin m\u00e1s. Todas las ma\u00f1anas, lloviera o luciera el sol, me paraba, le hablaba, le acariciaba la cabeza y segu\u00eda mi camino. Ten\u00edamos ese ritual. Pero un d\u00eda de invierno no estaba donde sol\u00eda. A decir verdad, no le dediqu\u00e9 un segundo en mis pensamientos. Al tercer d\u00eda, sin embargo, cuando me acercaba al sitio donde estaba la chabola, o\u00ed ladrar a un perro y luego como un gemido. Me detuve, mir\u00e9 alrededor. Ni rastro del animal. Igual me lo hab\u00eda imaginado. Pero en cuanto di unos pasos, volvi\u00f3 el gemido, que empez\u00f3 a transformarse en un aullido. Hab\u00eda nevado, y no se ve\u00edan huellas de perro por ning\u00fan lado. Me par\u00e9 de nuevo y me dirig\u00ed entonces hacia la chabola. Y all\u00ed, a mis pies, vi una estrecha zanja por la que corr\u00eda el alcantarillado, cavada, posiblemente, antes de que se helara el suelo. Ten\u00eda como un metro y medio de profundidad y los laterales muy verticales. La perra se hab\u00eda ca\u00eddo en la zanja y no pod\u00eda salir. Vacil\u00e9. \u00bfDeb\u00eda ir e intentar encontrar a su due\u00f1o? \u00bfDeb\u00eda saltar y sacarla de all\u00ed?\n\nAl alejarme del lugar, la voz de la conciencia me susurr\u00f3: \u00a1cobarde!\n\nOye, le contest\u00e9, est\u00e1 ciega, lleva ah\u00ed uno o dos d\u00edas.\n\nY t\u00fa qu\u00e9 sabes, volvi\u00f3 a susurrarme la voz de la conciencia.\n\nPor lo menos toda la noche, dije. No me conoce. Ni siquiera s\u00e9 c\u00f3mo se llama.\n\n\u00a1Cobarde!\n\nAs\u00ed que salt\u00e9 dentro de la zanja. La calm\u00e9. Me sent\u00e9 a su lado hasta que decid\u00ed que hab\u00eda llegado el momento de levantarla hasta la altura de mis hombros y posarla en la tierra, fuera de la zanja. Deb\u00eda de pesar sus buenos treinta kilos. Como cab\u00eda esperar, en cuanto la levant\u00e9, me mordi\u00f3. Un mordisco profundo en el pulpejo del pulgar y en la mu\u00f1eca. Sal\u00ed de la zanja como pude y me fui r\u00e1pidamente a que me viera un m\u00e9dico. M\u00e1s tarde, encontr\u00e9 al due\u00f1o de la perra; era un italiano, que me dio una tarjeta de visita en la que escribi\u00f3 por detr\u00e1s el nombre y la direcci\u00f3n de su compa\u00f1\u00eda aseguradora. Cuando le cont\u00e9 al agente de la compa\u00f1\u00eda lo que me hab\u00eda sucedido, alz\u00f3 las cejas.\n\nEs la historia m\u00e1s improbable que he o\u00eddo en mi vida, me dijo.\n\nLe se\u00f1al\u00e9 mi mano vendada, en cabestrillo.\n\nEntonces \u00a1usted est\u00e1 mal de la cabeza!, dijo\n\nEl due\u00f1o de la perra me dijo que viniera a dar parte del accidente.\n\nPues claro. Est\u00e1n compinchados. \u00bfCu\u00e1nto gana usted?\n\nTuve un momento de inspiraci\u00f3n. Diez mil al mes, le ment\u00ed.\n\nPor favor, tome asiento.\n\nTodos los que estaban sentados alrededor de la mesa se echaron a re\u00edr. Alguien m\u00e1s cont\u00f3 otra historia, y luego nos levantamos, pues era hora de irse. Me dirig\u00ed a la puerta, abroch\u00e1ndome el abrigo. La perra vino derecha hacia m\u00ed, desde el otro extremo de la habitaci\u00f3n. Me agarr\u00f3 la mano con los dientes, suavemente, y retrocedi\u00f3, tirando de m\u00ed.\n\nQuiere ense\u00f1arte el establo, donde duerme, dijo uno de los ni\u00f1os.\n\nPero no, no era al establo adonde me llevaba la perra, era a la silla donde yo hab\u00eda estado sentado. Me volv\u00ed a sentar, y la perra se ech\u00f3 en el suelo, a mis pies, imperturbable ante las risas de todos los presentes y vigilando el menor signo que indicara que me propon\u00eda irme.\n\nUna peque\u00f1a historia para Esopo. Hagan con ella lo que quieran. \u00bfCu\u00e1nto entiende un perro? La historia se convierte en historia porque no estamos muy seguros; porque en cualquier caso mantenemos nuestro escepticismo. La experiencia que tiene la vida de s\u00ed misma (\u00bfy qu\u00e9 otra cosa son las historias si no eso?) siempre es esc\u00e9ptica.\n\nCuenta la leyenda que Pirr\u00f3n, el fundador del escepticismo, fue primero pintor. Luego acompa\u00f1\u00f3 a Alejandro Magno en su viaje por Asia, abandon\u00f3 la pintura y se hizo fil\u00f3sofo; suya es la afirmaci\u00f3n de que las apariencias y todas las percepciones son ilusorias. (Un d\u00eda alguien deber\u00eda escribir un drama sobre el viaje de Pirr\u00f3n.) Desde el siglo IV a. C., y m\u00e1s precisamente durante los dos \u00faltimos siglos, el sentido del t\u00e9rmino \"escepticismo\" ha cambiado radicalmente. Los esc\u00e9pticos originales rechazaban toda explicaci\u00f3n total (o soluci\u00f3n) relativa a la vida, porque daban prioridad a su experiencia de que una vida realmente vivida es un enigma. Cre\u00edan que sus oponentes en el campo de la filosof\u00eda eran unos privilegiados protegidos por la academia. Ellos defend\u00edan la experiencia com\u00fan contra el elitismo. Cre\u00edan que si Dios exist\u00eda, era invisible, irrefutable y ciertamente no se correspond\u00eda con aquellos que ten\u00edan las narices m\u00e1s largas.\n\nHoy, el t\u00e9rmino \"escepticismo\" ha pasado a significar tambi\u00e9n una especie de actitud distante con el mundo, la negativa a comprometerse con nada y, con frecuencia, como en el caso del positivismo l\u00f3gico, esa pedanter\u00eda que suele acompa\u00f1ar al privilegio. Hubo cierta continuidad hist\u00f3rica desde los primeros esc\u00e9pticos hasta los revolucionarios del mundo moderno, pasando por los her\u00e9ticos de la Edad Media. Por el contrario, el escepticismo moderno no desaf\u00eda a nadie y lo \u00fanico que le interesa desmontar son las teor\u00edas del cambio. Dicho esto, el hombre que tenemos frente a nosotros es un esc\u00e9ptico en el sentido original.\n\nSi no supiera que el cuadro era de Vel\u00e1zquez, creo que dir\u00eda igualmente que se trata de pintura espa\u00f1ola. Su intransigencia, su austeridad y su escepticismo son muy espa\u00f1oles. Hist\u00f3ricamente, siempre se ha pensado que Espa\u00f1a es un pa\u00eds donde reina el fervor religioso, el fanatismo incluso. Pero \u00bfc\u00f3mo reconciliarlo con el escepticismo al que me estoy refiriendo con tanta insistencia? Empecemos por la geograf\u00eda.\n\nLas ciudades siempre han dependido del campo para el alimento; \u00bfpodr\u00eda ser posible que fueran igualmente dependientes del campo para gran parte de su ontolog\u00eda, para algunos de los t\u00e9rminos con los que explican el lugar del ser humano en el universo?\n\nEs fuera de las ciudades donde la naturaleza, la geograf\u00eda y el clima obran su m\u00e1ximo impacto. Determinan los horizontes. En una ciudad, no hay horizontes a no ser que uno se suba a una torre.\n\nLa velocidad con la que se han producido los cambios tecnol\u00f3gicos y pol\u00edticos durante nuestro siglo ha hecho que todo el mundo se hiciera consciente de la historia a escala mundial. Nos sentimos criaturas no solo de la historia, sino de la historia universal. Y lo somos. Sin embargo, la supremac\u00eda dada a lo hist\u00f3rico nos ha llevado a no dar la importancia que tiene a lo geogr\u00e1fico.\n\nEn el Sahara, uno entra en el Cor\u00e1n. El islam naci\u00f3, y renace continuamente, de una vida n\u00f3mada en el desierto, una vida cuyas necesidades viene a satisfacer y cuya angustia viene a aliviar. Escribo de una forma demasiado abstracta, y as\u00ed uno olvida el peso del cielo sobre la arena o sobre la roca que todav\u00eda no se ha convertido en arena. Es bajo este peso donde se hace esencial una religi\u00f3n prof\u00e9tica. Como escribi\u00f3 Edmond Jab\u00e8s:\n\nEn la monta\u00f1a, las alturas y los abismos y la pura densidad de aquello a lo que se enfrenta uno modera la sensaci\u00f3n de infinitud; as\u00ed, uno mismo se ve limitado, definido como un objeto entre otros objetos. En el mar, siempre hay algo m\u00e1s que el agua y el cielo; est\u00e1 el barco, que define la diferencia de uno con respecto a los otros dos, d\u00e1ndole un lugar humano donde ponerse. En el desierto, sin embargo, la sensaci\u00f3n de infinitud es incondicional y, por consiguiente, la m\u00e1s aut\u00e9ntica. En el desierto uno se queda completamente abandonado a su suerte. Y en esa uniformidad ininterrumpida del cielo y de la arena, uno no es nada, absolutamente nada.\n\nLa hoja (el cuchillo, la espada, la daga, la hoz) ocupa un lugar especial en la poes\u00eda \u00e1rabe. Esto guarda no poca relaci\u00f3n con su utilidad como arma y como herramienta. Pero el filo del cuchillo tiene tambi\u00e9n otro significado. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 se adec\u00faa tan bien el cuchillo a esta tierra? Mucho antes de los comentarios denigrantes y de las medias verdades del Orientalismo europeo (\"la crueldad de la cimitarra\"), el filo del cuchillo, la hoja, recordaban cu\u00e1n leve es la vida. Y esta levedad procede, de una forma muy material, de la cercan\u00eda entre el cielo y la tierra que se da en el desierto. Entre los dos solo hay la altura hasta la que puede crecer una palmera o cabalgar un jinete. La existencia se reduce a la m\u00e1s ce\u00f1ida uni\u00f3n, y si uno habita esa uni\u00f3n, toma conciencia de que la vida es una opci\u00f3n asombrosamente _exterior_ , de la que uno es simult\u00e1neamente testigo y v\u00edctima.\n\nEsta conciencia encierra fatalismo y una emoci\u00f3n intensa. Nunca fatalismo e indiferencia.\n\n\"El islam es, en un sentido, una protesta apasionada contra la posibilidad de llamar sagrada a cualquier cosa que no sea Dios\", escrib\u00eda Hasam Saab.\n\nEn el fino estrato de la vida extendida sobre la arena como la alfombra de un n\u00f3mada, no es posible transacci\u00f3n alguna porque no hay escondites; la confrontaci\u00f3n directa produce emoci\u00f3n; la impotencia, fatalismo.\n\nLa meseta de la Espa\u00f1a interior es, en cierto sentido, m\u00e1s negativa que el desierto. El desierto no promete nada, y en esta negaci\u00f3n se pueden dar milagros. La Voluntad de Dios, el oasis, el alfa, la _ruppe vulgaire,_ por ejemplo. La estepa espa\u00f1ola es un paisaje de promesas _rotas_. Hasta los lomos de sus montes parecen rotos. La forma t\u00edpica de la meseta es la de un hombre truncado, un hombre que ha perdido la cabeza y los hombros, cercenado por un terrible tajo horizontal. Y la repetici\u00f3n geogr\u00e1fica de estos cortes horizontales subraya c\u00f3mo se alza la meseta hacia el cielo para achicharrarse en el verano y congelarse en invierno, cubierta de hielo.\n\nEn algunas zonas de Espa\u00f1a, la meseta produce trigo, ma\u00edz, girasol y vi\u00f1as. Pero estos cultivos, menos duros que los brezos, los cardos y la jara, siempre corren el riesgo de quemarse o helarse. Muy poco ayuda a su supervivencia. Tienen que trabajarse su supervivencia, como hacen los hombres que los plantan, enfrent\u00e1ndose a una hostilidad inherente. En esta tierra, hasta los r\u00edos son mayormente enemigos, m\u00e1s que aliados. Durante nueve meses al a\u00f1o, son rieras secas, obst\u00e1culos; durante dos meses, son unos torrentes salvajes y destructivos.\n\nLas promesas rotas, al igual que las piedras amontonadas y la gravilla sal\u00edfera, parecen asegurar que todo se quemar\u00e1 hasta convertirse en polvo, primero negro y luego blanco. \u00bfY la historia? Aqu\u00ed uno aprende que la historia no es m\u00e1s que el polvo levantado por un reba\u00f1o de ovejas. Toda la arquitectura de la meseta es defensiva, todos los monumentos parecen fortificaciones. Explicarlo solo en funci\u00f3n de la historia militar nacional \u2014la ocupaci\u00f3n \u00e1rabe, la Reconquista\u2014 es, creo yo, demasiado simple. Los \u00e1rabes, de hecho, introdujeron la luz en la arquitectura espa\u00f1ola. El edificio espa\u00f1ol esencial, con sus pesados portones, sus muros defensivos, sus cuatro fachadas y su soledad, es una respuesta al paisaje como representaci\u00f3n, una respuesta a lo que sus signos han revelado de los or\u00edgenes de la vida.\n\nQuienes habitan aqu\u00ed y trabajan esta tierra viven en un mundo carente de promesas visibles. Lo que promete este mundo es invisible y se encuentra m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de lo aparente. La naturaleza, en lugar de acomodaticia, es indiferente. Hace o\u00eddos sordos a la pregunta \"\u00bfpor qu\u00e9 est\u00e1 aqu\u00ed el hombre?\", y ni siquiera su silencio cuenta como respuesta. La naturaleza es finalmente polvo (la expresi\u00f3n espa\u00f1ola \"echar un polvo\" parece venir al caso), frente al cual nada permanece, a excepci\u00f3n de la fe furibunda o el orgullo individuales.\n\nNo se debe confundir esto que digo aqu\u00ed con el car\u00e1cter de los espa\u00f1oles y las espa\u00f1olas. Los espa\u00f1oles son en muchas ocasiones m\u00e1s hospitalarios, m\u00e1s fieles a sus promesas, m\u00e1s generosos y m\u00e1s tiernos que muchos otros pueblos. No hablo de sus vidas, sino del escenario en el que viven.\n\nEn su poema \"Por tierras de Espa\u00f1a\", Antonio Machado dec\u00eda:\n\nVer\u00e9is llanuras b\u00e9licas y p\u00e1ramos de asceta\n\n\u00bfno fue por estos campos el b\u00edblico jard\u00edn?:\n\nson tierras para el \u00e1guila, un trozo de planeta\n\npor donde cruza errante la sombra de Ca\u00edn.4\n\nOtra forma de definir el paisaje de la Espa\u00f1a interior ser\u00eda decir que no se puede pintar. Y pr\u00e1cticamente no hay cuadros de \u00e9l. Sin duda, en el mundo hay muchos m\u00e1s paisajes que no se prestan a ser pintados que paisajes pintables. El que tendamos a olvidarlo (con nuestros caballetes port\u00e1tiles y nuestras diapositivas) se debe a una especie de eurocentrismo. Aquellos lugares donde la naturaleza a gran escala se presta a ser pintada constituyen la excepci\u00f3n de la regla. (Tal vez deber\u00eda a\u00f1adir que yo ser\u00eda el \u00faltimo en olvidar la coyuntura sociohist\u00f3rica espec\u00edfica necesaria para la producci\u00f3n de un paisajismo puro, pero esa es otra historia.) Un paisaje no se presta a ser pintado puramente por razones descriptivas; se debe siempre a que su sentido, su significado, no es _visible_ , o est\u00e1 en otra parte. Por ejemplo, una jungla es pintable como morada de los esp\u00edritus, pero no como selva tropical. Por ejemplo, todos los intentos de pintar el desierto terminan con simples im\u00e1genes de arena. El desierto est\u00e1 en otra parte: en los dibujos hechos con arena de los abor\u00edgenes australianos, por ejemplo.\n\nLos paisajes pintables son aquellos en los que lo visible realza al hombre, en los que las apariencias naturales tienen _sentido_. Vemos esos paisajes alrededor de todas las ciudades en la pintura italiana del Renacimiento. En esos contextos no se marca una distinci\u00f3n entre la apariencia y la esencia: ese es el modelo cl\u00e1sico.\n\nAquellos que se han criado en esa meseta espa\u00f1ola imposible de pintar est\u00e1n convencidos de que la esencia nunca puede ser visible. La esencia est\u00e1 en la oscuridad, detr\u00e1s de los ojos cerrados. En otro poema, \"El Dios ibero\", Machado se pregunta:\n\n\u00bfQui\u00e9n ha visto la faz al Dios hispano?\n\nMi coraz\u00f3n aguarda\n\nal hombre ibero de la recia mano,\n\nque tallar\u00e1 en el roble castellano\n\nel Dios adusto de la tierra parda.5\n\nQue un paisaje no sea pintable no es una cuesti\u00f3n de talante. El talante cambia con la hora del d\u00eda y con la estaci\u00f3n. El p\u00e1ramo castellano a mediod\u00eda en verano \u2014reseco como la mojama\u2014 tiene un talante distinto de la misma estepa al anochecer, cuando las monta\u00f1as rotas en el horizonte toman un tono violeta tan v\u00edvido como el de las an\u00e9monas de mar. En el Arag\u00f3n de Francisco de Goya, el polvo del verano que se extiende hasta el infinito se convierte en el invierno, cuando sopla el cierzo, en una escarcha que ciega. El talante cambia. Lo que no cambia es la escala, y lo que yo quiero denominar la _llamada_ del paisaje.\n\nLa escala del interior de Espa\u00f1a es de un tipo que no ofrece la posibilidad de establecer un centro focal. Eso significa que no se presta a ser contemplado. O, para decirlo con otras palabras, no hay un lugar desde el que mirarlo. Le rodea a uno, pero nunca est\u00e1 frente a uno. Un punto central se asemeja a un comentario. Un paisaje que carece de centro es como un silencio. Un paisaje sin centro constituye una soledad que le da la espalda a uno. Ni siquiera Dios es ah\u00ed testigo, pues Dios no se molesta en mirar ah\u00ed, lo visible no es nada. Esta soledad circundante del paisaje que nos da la espalda se refleja en la m\u00fasica espa\u00f1ola. Es la m\u00fasica de una voz rodeada de vac\u00edo. Es lo opuesto a la m\u00fasica coral. Profundamente humana, se transmite con el grito de un animal. No porque los espa\u00f1oles tengan nada de animales, sino porque el territorio tiene el car\u00e1cter de una inmensidad inexplorable.\n\nCon el t\u00e9rmino \"llamada\" me refiero a lo que un paisaje dado \"habla\" a la imaginaci\u00f3n de los aut\u00f3ctonos: el trasfondo de significado que un paisaje sugiere a quienes lo conocen bien. Comienza con lo que ven los ojos cada amanecer, con el grado en el que los ciega a mediod\u00eda, con hasta qu\u00e9 punto se sienten aliviados al caer el sol. Todo esto tiene una base geogr\u00e1fica o topogr\u00e1fica. Tenemos que entender por geograf\u00eda, sin embargo, algo m\u00e1s amplio que lo que se suele pensar. Tenemos que retornar a una experiencia geogr\u00e1fica anterior, antes de que se definiera la geograf\u00eda puramente como una ciencia natural. La experiencia geogr\u00e1fica de los campesinos, de los n\u00f3madas, de los cazadores, y, tal vez tambi\u00e9n, de los cosmonautas.\n\nTenemos que ver la geograf\u00eda como representaci\u00f3n de un origen invisible: una representaci\u00f3n constante, pero siempre ambigua y poco clara, porque lo que representa es m\u00e1s o menos el principio y el fin de todas las cosas. Lo que vemos realmente (monta\u00f1as, costas, cerros, nubes, vegetaci\u00f3n) son consecuencias temporales de un evento indescriptible, inimaginable. Todav\u00eda vivimos ese evento, y la geograf\u00eda, en el sentido en el que la estoy utilizando, nos ofrece signos para que lo leamos, unos signos relativos a su naturaleza.\n\nMuchas cosas diferentes puede llenar de significado el primer plano: los recuerdos personales, las preocupaciones pr\u00e1cticas de la supervivencia \u2014la suerte de una cosecha, el estado del abastecimiento de agua\u2014, las esperanzas, los miedos, los orgullos y los odios engendrados por los derechos de propiedad; los rastros de sucesos y cr\u00edmenes (por todo el mundo, los cr\u00edmenes son uno de los temas de conversaci\u00f3n favoritos en el medio rural). Todos estos se dan, no obstante, contra un trasfondo que yo denomino la _llamada_ del paisaje, que consiste en la forma en la que el \"car\u00e1cter\" de un paisaje determina la imaginaci\u00f3n de quienes han nacido en \u00e9l.\n\nLa llamada de muchas junglas es f\u00e9rtil, polite\u00edsta, mortal. La llamada de los desiertos es unilineal y severa. La llamada del oeste de Irlanda o de Escocia depende de las mareas, es recurrente y est\u00e1 llena de espectros. (Por eso tiene sentido hablar de un paisaje celta.) La llamada de la Espa\u00f1a interior es atemporal, indiferente y gal\u00e1ctica.\n\nLa escala y la llamada no cambian con el talante. Todas las vidas permanecen abiertas a sus propios accidentes y a su propia meta. Lo que sugiero, sin embargo, es que la geograf\u00eda, aparte de sus efectos obvios en la biolog\u00eda, pude ejercer una influencia cultural en la manera en la que la gente concibe la naturaleza. Esta influencia es visual, y, dado que hasta tiempos muy recientes la naturaleza constitu\u00eda la mayor parte de lo que ve\u00edan, uno podr\u00eda ir a\u00fan m\u00e1s lejos y proponer que ciertas geograf\u00edas fomentan cierto tipo de relaci\u00f3n con lo visible.\n\nLa geograf\u00eda espa\u00f1ola fomenta el escepticismo con respecto a lo visible. No se le encuentra sentido. La esencia est\u00e1 en otra parte. Lo visible es una forma de desolaci\u00f3n, las apariencias proceden de los detritos. Lo esencial es el ser invisible, y lo que puede haber detr\u00e1s de las apariencias. El ser y lo esencial confluyen en la oscuridad o en la luz cegadora.\n\nEl lenguaje de la pintura espa\u00f1ola vino del otro lado de los Pirineos. Esto quiere decir que era un lenguaje nacido de la curiosidad visual cient\u00edfica del Renacimiento italiano y del realismo mercantilista de los Pa\u00edses Bajos. Luego este lenguaje se hace barroco, m\u00e1s tarde, neocl\u00e1sico y, finalmente, rom\u00e1ntico. Pero a lo largo de su evoluci\u00f3n nunca dej\u00f3 de ser \u2014ni siquiera durante la fase de fantas\u00eda manierista\u2014 un lenguaje visual construido en torno a la credibilidad de las apariencias naturales y en torno a un materialismo tridimensional. Basta con pensar en el arte ic\u00f3nico chino, persa o ruso para apreciar con mayor claridad la _sustancialidad_ de la tradici\u00f3n europea principal. En la historia del arte universal, la pintura europea, desde el Renacimiento hasta el final del siglo XIX, es la m\u00e1s corp\u00f3rea; esto no significa que sea la m\u00e1s sensual, sino la m\u00e1s tangiblemente dirigida a quienes viven en sus cuerpos, m\u00e1s que al alma, a Dios o a los muertos.\n\nPodemos denominarlo corporeidad humanista si despojamos la palabra de sus connotaciones morales e ideol\u00f3gicas. Humanista en tanto en cuanto coloca el cuerpo humano vivo en el centro. Este humanismo solo se puede dar, creo yo, en climas templados, en paisajes que, cuando se dispone de medios tecnol\u00f3gicos y las relaciones sociales lo permiten, se prestan a buenas cosechas. El humanismo del lenguaje visual de la pintura europea presupone una naturaleza amable, benigna. Quiz\u00e1 deber\u00eda hacer aqu\u00ed hincapi\u00e9 en que hablo del lenguaje como tal y no de lo que se puede decir con \u00e9l. Nicolas Poussin, en su _Arcadia_ , y Jacques Callot, en sus _Grandes miserias de la guerra_ , utilizaron el mismo lenguaje, como tambi\u00e9n utilizaron el mismo lenguaje Giovanni Bellini en sus V\u00edrgenes y Matthias Gr\u00fcnewald en sus v\u00edctimas de la peste.\n\nA principios del siglo XVI, Espa\u00f1a era el pa\u00eds m\u00e1s rico y m\u00e1s poderoso de Europa: la primera potencia europea de la Contrarreforma. Durante los siglos siguientes, siglos de un r\u00e1pido declive y una pobreza en ascenso, continu\u00f3, no obstante, jugando un papel importante como naci\u00f3n, sobre todo en defensa de la fe cat\u00f3lica. No sorprende, pues, que su arte fuera europeo, que en su pr\u00e1ctica los pintores utilizaran un lenguaje europeo (a menudo trabajaban en Italia). Sin embargo, del mismo modo que el catolicismo espa\u00f1ol era diferente del de cualquier otro pa\u00eds europeo, as\u00ed tambi\u00e9n lo era su arte. Los grandes pintores espa\u00f1oles tomaron la pintura europea y la volvieron contra s\u00ed misma. No se lo propusieron as\u00ed. Sencillamente, su visi\u00f3n, formada conforme a la experiencia espa\u00f1ola, no pod\u00eda soportar el humanismo de esta pintura. Un lenguaje de la abundancia para una tierra de la escasez. El contraste era flagrante y ni siquiera la obscena riqueza de la Iglesia espa\u00f1ola pod\u00eda tender un puente. De nuevo, Machado, el gran poeta del paisaje espa\u00f1ol, nos apunta una respuesta:\n\n\u00a1Oh tierras de Alvargonz\u00e1lez,\n\nen el coraz\u00f3n de Espa\u00f1a,\n\ntierras pobres, tierras tristes,\n\ntan tristes que tienen alma!6\n\nHay un cuadro de El Greco que representa a san Lucas, el patr\u00f3n de los pintores. En una mano tiene un pincel y, en la otra, reclinado contra su torso, un libro abierto hacia el espectador. Vemos la p\u00e1gina del libro, en la cual hay una imagen de la Virgen con el Ni\u00f1o.\n\nFrancisco de Zurbar\u00e1n pint\u00f3 al menos cuatro versiones de la cara de Cristo impresa milagrosamente en el pa\u00f1o de la Ver\u00f3nica. Se trataba de uno de los temas favoritos de la Contrarreforma. El nombre de Ver\u00f3nica, dado a la mujer que, seg\u00fan los textos sagrados, enjug\u00f3 con su pa\u00f1uelo el rostro de Cristo cuando se dirig\u00eda al Calvario, se deriva, sin duda, de las palabras _vera icona_ , imagen verdadera.\n\nEn estas obras de El Greco y de Zurbar\u00e1n se nos recuerda cu\u00e1n leves y cu\u00e1n finas son incluso las im\u00e1genes verdaderas. Tan finas como el papel o la seda.\n\nCuando un torero ejecuta una ver\u00f3nica, alza el capote frente al toro, que lo confunde con el torero. Cuando el toro avanza con la cabeza gacha hacia \u00e9l, el torero retira el capote y lo agita lenta y ostentosamente en el aire, de modo que se convierte en un trozo de tela. El torero repite el pase varias veces, y todas ellas el toro cree en la solidez y la corporeidad de lo que ponen frente a sus ojos, y vuelve a ser enga\u00f1ado.\n\nRibera pint\u00f3 al menos cinco versiones de un fil\u00f3sofo con un espejo en la mano, mirando su propio reflejo y meditando sobre el enigma de las apariencias. El fil\u00f3sofo nos da la espalda, de modo que solo vemos su rostro en el espejo, el cual nos ofrece, de nuevo, una imagen tan fina como su capa de azogue.\n\nOtro cuadro de Ribera nos muestra a Isaac, ya ciego, bendiciendo a su hijo peque\u00f1o, Jacob, al que toma por Esa\u00fa. Con la connivencia de Rebeca, su madre, Jacob enga\u00f1a a su padre cubri\u00e9ndose los brazos con una piel de cordero. El anciano, al tocar un brazo peludo, cree que est\u00e1 dando la bendici\u00f3n a Esa\u00fa, su hijo mayor, el pastor hirsuto. No recuerdo haber visto otro cuadro con este mismo tema. Es una imagen destinada a la demostraci\u00f3n gr\u00e1fica de c\u00f3mo las superficies, al igual que las apariencias, nos enga\u00f1an. No solo porque la superficie sea superficial, sino porque es falsa. La verdad no solo es m\u00e1s profunda, sino que tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1 en otro lado.\n\nLos ejemplos iconogr\u00e1ficos que acabo de dar constituyen una forma de preparar el camino para la generalizaci\u00f3n que me propongo hacer con respecto a la manera de pintar de los maestros espa\u00f1oles, independientemente de los temas o de la iconograf\u00eda. Si conseguimos hacernos con esa manera de pintar, estaremos m\u00e1s cerca de comprender algo intr\u00ednseco a la experiencia espa\u00f1ola de lo transcendental y de lo cotidiano. _Los maestros espa\u00f1oles pintaron todas las apariencias como si fueran una cobertura superficial._\n\n\u00bfUna cobertura como un velo? Los velos son demasiado livianos, demasiado femeninos, demasiado transparentes. La cobertura que los pintores imaginaban era opaca. Y ten\u00eda que serlo, pues de otro modo se filtrar\u00eda la oscuridad que vest\u00edan, y la imagen se har\u00eda negra como la noche.\n\n\u00bfComo una cortina? Una cortina es demasiado pesada, demasiado gruesa, y borra todas las texturas excepto la suya propia. Seg\u00fan los maestros espa\u00f1oles, las apariencias eran una especie de piel. No dejan de obsesionarme los dos cuadros de Goya de _La maja vestida_ y _La maja desnuda_. No deja de ser significativo que este juego pict\u00f3rico de vestida y desnuda se le haya ocurrido a un espa\u00f1ol, y sigue siendo algo \u00fanico en la historia del arte: la piel blanca de la maja desnuda es tambi\u00e9n una cobertura, tanto como lo era el vestido. Lo que _es_ ella permanece oculto, invisible.\n\nLa apariencia de todas las cosas \u2014hasta la de una roca o la de una armadura\u2014 es igualmente una piel, una membrana. C\u00e1lida, fr\u00eda, arrugada, fresca, seca, h\u00fameda, suave, \u00e1spera, irregular, abultada, la membrana de lo visible cubre todo lo que vemos con los ojos abiertos, y nos enga\u00f1a de la misma manera que el capote enga\u00f1a al toro.\n\nEn la pintura espa\u00f1ola hay muy pocos ojos pintados que est\u00e9n _mirando_ abiertamente. Los ojos sugieren el esp\u00edritu interior e invisible de la persona pintada.\n\nEn el caso de El Greco, se alzan al cielo. En Vel\u00e1zquez \u2014volvamos a pensar en los retratos de los enanos cortesanos\u2014, los ojos est\u00e1n ocultos de la visi\u00f3n, como si tuvieran unas terribles cataratas; los ojos de sus retratos reales son unas esferas maravillosamente pintadas, gelatinas, pero no escudri\u00f1an, como lo hacen aquellos pintados por Frans Hals, que fue contempor\u00e1neo suyo, mil kil\u00f3metros m\u00e1s al norte.\n\nEn Ribera y en Zurbar\u00e1n, los ojos miran adentro, est\u00e1n en otro mundo. En Murillo, las ventanas del alma est\u00e1n decoradas con guirnaldas. Solo Goya podr\u00eda parecer una excepci\u00f3n, particularmente en los retratos de sus amigos. Pero cuando se ponen estos retratos juntos, uno al lado del otro, se hace evidente algo muy curioso: sus ojos tienen la misma expresi\u00f3n, una expresi\u00f3n de resignaci\u00f3n l\u00facida e inquebrantable, como si ya hubieran visto lo indecible, como si lo existente no pudiera sorprenderlos y no mereciera ya la pena observarlo.\n\nSe suele definir el arte espa\u00f1ol como realista. En un sentido, lo es. Las superficies de los objetos pintados se estudian y se reproducen con gran intensidad y franqueza. Lo existente es expuesto, y nunca simplemente evocado. No tiene sentido ver a trav\u00e9s de las apariencias, porque detr\u00e1s no hay nada que ver. Dejemos que lo visible sea visible sin hacernos ilusiones. La verdad est\u00e1 en otra parte.\n\nEn _El entierro del conde de Orgaz_ , El Greco pinta la armadura del conde muerto y, reflejada en el metal, la imagen del san Esteban que est\u00e1 alzando el cad\u00e1ver por los pies. En _El expolio_ , utiliza el mismo virtuosismo. En la armadura del caballero situado al lado del Cristo se refleja, en forma de una llamarada similar a un gladiolo, el rojo de la t\u00fanica del Salvador. En el mundo \"transcendental\" de El Greco, el sentido del tacto, y, por consiguiente, de la realidad tangible de las superficies, est\u00e1 en todas partes. Ten\u00eda un guardarropa magn\u00edfico para vestir a sus santos. No hay otro pintor que pinte como \u00e9l los ropajes.\n\nEn la obra, m\u00e1s austera, de Ribera y de Zurbar\u00e1n, la capa cubre el cuerpo, la carne cubre los huesos, y el cr\u00e1neo cubre la conciencia. \u00bfY qu\u00e9 es la conciencia? Oscuridad y fe invisible. Detr\u00e1s de la \u00faltima superficie est\u00e1 lo que no se puede pintar. Detr\u00e1s del pigmento sobre el lienzo est\u00e1 lo que cuenta, y eso se corresponde con lo que est\u00e1 detr\u00e1s de los p\u00e1rpados de unos ojos cerrados.\n\nLa herida en la pintura espa\u00f1ola es tan importante porque penetra las apariencias, llega detr\u00e1s de ellas. Del mismo modo, en el caso de los jirones y los harapos de la pobreza... claro est\u00e1, reflejan tanto la realidad como el culto de la pobreza, pero visualmente lo que hacen es rasgar, revelar la siguiente superficie, y llevarnos m\u00e1s cerca de la \u00faltima, tras la cual empieza la verdad.\n\nLos pintores espa\u00f1oles pusieron toda su maestr\u00eda en demostrar que lo visible es una ilusi\u00f3n, solo \u00fatil como recuerdo del terror y de la esperanza que habita en lo invisible. Pensemos, en comparaci\u00f3n, en un Piero della Francesca, en un Rafael, en un Johannes Vermeer, en cuyas obras todo es visibilidad, y Dios, por encima de todos, es el que todo lo ve.\n\nGoya \u2014pasados los cincuenta y ya sordo\u2014 rompi\u00f3 el espejo, quit\u00f3 las ropas y vio los cuerpos mutilados. Frente a la primera guerra moderna, se encontr\u00f3 en la oscuridad, al otro lado de lo visible, y, desde all\u00ed, volvi\u00f3 la vista a los despojos de las apariencias (si esto suena a met\u00e1fora, m\u00edrense los \u00faltimos dibujos realizados con pincel), recogi\u00f3 los trozos y los volvi\u00f3 a juntar. Humor negro, pinturas negras, las llamaradas en la noche de _Los desastres de la guerra_ y de _Los disparates_. (Disparate significa algo fuera de la raz\u00f3n y la regla, pero su ra\u00edz latina significa \"dividir\", \"separar\".) Goya trabaj\u00f3 con los fragmentos dispersos, desfigurados, hechos trizas, de lo visible. Y precisamente porque son fragmentos rotos, vemos lo que hay detr\u00e1s: la misma oscuridad que Francisco de Zurbar\u00e1n, Francisco Ribalta, Juan Bautista Ma\u00edno, Bartolom\u00e9 Esteban Murillo y Jos\u00e9 de Ribera siempre dieron por supuesta.\n\nPuede que uno de _Los disparates_ sea un comentario sobre esta inversi\u00f3n, por la cual la oscuridad supuesta detr\u00e1s de las apariencias se transforma en la oscuridad evidente entre sus fragmentos mutilados. Muestra un caballo que vuelve la cabeza para tomar entre sus dientes al jinete, una mujer vestida de blanco. Aquello que en alg\u00fan momento dominaste te aniquila.\n\nSin embargo, la realidad de lo que Goya experiment\u00f3 y expres\u00f3 no se encontrar\u00e1, a fin de cuentas, en ning\u00fan s\u00edmbolo, sino sencillamente en su manera de dibujar. Une las partes sin tomar en consideraci\u00f3n el conjunto. La anatom\u00eda es para \u00e9l un ejercicio vano, racionalista, que no tiene nada que ver con la brutalidad y el sufrimiento de los cuerpos. Frente a un dibujo de Goya, nuestra mirada se mueve de una parte a otra, de una mano a un pie, de una rodilla a un hombro, como si estuvi\u00e9ramos mirando la acci\u00f3n de una pel\u00edcula, como si las partes, los miembros, no estuvieran separados por cent\u00edmetros, sino por segundos.\n\nEn 1819, a los setenta y tres a\u00f1os, Goya pint\u00f3 _La \u00faltima comuni\u00f3n de san Jos\u00e9 de Calasanz_ , el fundador de una orden religiosa, consagrada a la educaci\u00f3n de los pobres, en uno de cuyos colegios el pintor hab\u00eda estudiado de ni\u00f1o en Zaragoza. Ese mismo a\u00f1o, Goya pint\u00f3 el peque\u00f1o cuadro de _Cristo en el monte de los Olivos_.\n\nEn el primer cuadro, el anciano de rostro gris\u00e1ceo est\u00e1 arrodillado con la boca abierta delante del sacerdote que deposita la hostia en su boca. Detr\u00e1s de estas dos figuras en primer plano, en la oscura iglesia, est\u00e1 la congregaci\u00f3n: ni\u00f1os, varios hombres de edades diversas y, tal vez, en el extremo izquierdo, un retrato del pintor. Todo en esta pintura resulta mermado ante los cuatro pares de manos orantes que nos ofrece: las del santo, las de otro anciano, las del pintor y las de un hombre m\u00e1s joven, entre el santo y el sacerdote. Est\u00e1n pintadas con una concentraci\u00f3n fren\u00e9tica, por un pintor que, de joven, era famoso por la astucia con la que evitaba las manos en los retratos, a fin de ahorrar tiempo. Las puntas de los dedos de cada par de manos se unen levemente, y el hueco que forman muestra una ternura que solo poseen las de las j\u00f3venes madres y las de los muy ancianos; lo que alojan, como si protegieran la cosa m\u00e1s preciosa del mundo, es nada.\n\nSan Lucas (22, 39-44) cuenta la historia de Cristo en el monte de los Olivos con estas palabras:\n\nSali\u00f3 y, como era de costumbre, fue al monte de los Olivos, y los disc\u00edpulos le siguieron. Llegado al lugar les dijo:\n\n\u2014Pedid que no caig\u00e1is en la tentaci\u00f3n.\n\nY se apart\u00f3 de ellos como un tiro de piedra, y puesto de rodillas oraba diciendo:\n\n\u2014Padre, si quieres, aparta de m\u00ed este c\u00e1liz; pero no se haga mi voluntad, sino la tuya.\n\nEntonces se le apareci\u00f3 un \u00e1ngel venido del cielo que le confortaba.\n\nY sumido en su angustia, insist\u00eda m\u00e1s en su oraci\u00f3n. Su sudor se hizo como gotas espesas de sangre que ca\u00edan en tierra.\n\nCristo est\u00e1 de rodillas, con los brazos en cruz, como el prisionero que, aquel 3 de mayo de 1808, esperaba, todav\u00eda unos segundos, a ser fusilado.\n\nSe dice que aquel mismo a\u00f1o de 1808, cuando Goya empez\u00f3 a dibujar _Los desastres de la guerra_ , su sirviente le pregunt\u00f3 por qu\u00e9 representaba la barbarie de los franceses. \"Para decirles a los hombres, para siempre, que no sean b\u00e1rbaros\", respondi\u00f3 el pintor.\n\nLa figura solitaria de Cristo est\u00e1 pintada sobre un fondo negro con unas p\u00e1lidas marcas blancas y grises rascadas con el pincel. No tiene sustancia alguna. Parece un trapo hecho jirones cuya silueta contra la oscuridad compone el gesto m\u00e1s humanamente expresivo que uno se pueda imaginar. Detr\u00e1s del trapo est\u00e1 lo invisible.\n\nLo que hace espa\u00f1ola la pintura espa\u00f1ola es que en ella se descubre la misma angustia que la que suelen provocar entre quienes viven y trabajan en ellos los paisajes de la gran meseta del interior del pa\u00eds. En las salas de pintura espa\u00f1ola del Museo del Prado, en el centro de Madrid, est\u00e1 presente por todas partes, insistente e impl\u00edcita, una tierra espa\u00f1ola, medida no en metros, sino en un \"tiro de piedra\", sobre la que cae el sudor como gotas de sangre. El fil\u00f3sofo espa\u00f1ol Miguel de Unamuno lo defini\u00f3 con gran exactitud:\n\nEs el dolor, en efecto, la barrera que la inconciencia, o sea la materia, pone a la conciencia, al esp\u00edritu; es la resistencia a la voluntad, el l\u00edmite que el Universo visible pone a Dios.7\n\nLo que ten\u00eda Goya de obsesivo lo ten\u00eda Vel\u00e1zquez de sosegado. Ni tampoco hay en su obra signos de fervor religioso o de pasi\u00f3n. Su arte es lo m\u00e1s imparcial que se pueda uno imaginar, carece de prejuicios: todo lo que ve recibe su reconocimiento; no hay jerarqu\u00eda de valores. Frente a sus lienzos no somos conscientes de la levedad de las superficies, pues su pincel es demasiado elegante para separar la superficie del espacio. Sus pinturas parecen llegar a nuestros ojos como la naturaleza misma, sin esfuerzo. Y, sin embargo, aun cuando las admiremos, no dejan de perturbarnos. Las im\u00e1genes, tan magistrales, confiadas, ponderadas, han sido concebidas sobre la base de un escepticismo total.\n\nPonderadas, esc\u00e9pticas, fluidas; repito los adjetivos que he empleado y producen un sentido: una imagen en un espejo. El uso deliberado de espejos en su obra ha sido el tema de varios tratados sobre Vel\u00e1zquez. Lo que quiero sugerir aqu\u00ed, no obstante, es algo m\u00e1s radical. Vel\u00e1zquez trataba todas las apariencias como si fueran el equivalente de reflejos en un espejo. Ese era el esp\u00edritu con el que examinaba las apariencias, y por eso descubri\u00f3, mucho antes que ning\u00fan otro, una verosimilitud milagrosa, puramente \u00f3ptica (diferenciada de la conceptual).\n\nPero si todas las apariencias son semejantes a reflejos en un espejo, \u00bfqu\u00e9 hay detr\u00e1s del espejo? El escepticismo de Vel\u00e1zquez estaba fundado en su fe, en un dualismo que afirmaba: dar a lo visible lo que es visto, y a Dios lo que es de Dios. Por eso pod\u00eda pintar con tanto escepticismo y con tanta certeza.\n\nPensemos en el lienzo de Vel\u00e1zquez anta\u00f1o titulado _Las hilanderas,_ y hoy _La f\u00e1bula de Aracne_. Siempre se pens\u00f3 que era una de las \u00faltimas obras del pintor, pero recientemente algunos historiadores del arte lo han datado unos diez a\u00f1os antes (por razones que a m\u00ed no me parecen del todo convincentes). En cualquier caso, todos parecen estar de acuerdo en que es lo m\u00e1s cercano a un testamento que nos haya dejado Vel\u00e1zquez. En este cuadro reflexiona sobre la pr\u00e1ctica de crear im\u00e1genes.\n\nLa historia de Aracne, tal como nos la relata Ovidio, cuenta c\u00f3mo una muchacha lidia (la vemos a la derecha, devanando una madeja de lana) hac\u00eda unos tapices tan famosos y tan hermosos que desafi\u00f3 a Pallas Atenea, la diosa de las artes y de los oficios. Cada una de ellas ten\u00eda que tejer seis tapices. Inevitablemente, Pallas Atenea gan\u00f3 el concurso y, como castigo, convirti\u00f3 a Aracne en ara\u00f1a. (La historia ya est\u00e1 contenida en su nombre.) En el cuadro de Vel\u00e1zquez, aparecen las dos trabajando (la mujer a la izquierda, sentada a la rueca, es Pallas), y en la alcoba iluminada al fondo hay un tapiz de Aracne que recuerda vagamente al cuadro de _El rapto de Europa_ , de Tiziano. Tiziano era el pintor que m\u00e1s admiraba Vel\u00e1zquez.\n\nEl lienzo de Vel\u00e1zquez era originariamente un poco m\u00e1s peque\u00f1o. En el siglo XVIII se le a\u00f1adieron unas tiras en la parte superior y a derecha e izquierda. El significado global de la escena, sin embargo, no se modific\u00f3. La acci\u00f3n que vemos est\u00e1 toda ella relacionada con lo que podemos llamar las apariencias del pa\u00f1o o de la ropa. Vemos c\u00f3mo es creado lo visible a partir de hilo tejido. El resto es oscuridad.\n\nMov\u00e1monos de izquierda a derecha del primer plano. Una mujer sostiene una pesada cortina roja, como para recordarle al espectador que lo que est\u00e1 viendo no es m\u00e1s que una revelaci\u00f3n temporal. Gritemos \"tel\u00f3n\", y todo desaparece como de un escenario.\n\nDetr\u00e1s de esta mujer hay una mont\u00f3n de telas de color sin utilizar (un almac\u00e9n de apariencias todav\u00eda no expuestas) y, detr\u00e1s, una escalera de mano que sube a la oscuridad.\n\nSentada a la rueca, Pallas Atenea hila unos restos de lana esquilada. Esas hebras, una vez tejidas, se pueden transformar en un pa\u00f1uelo parecido al que ella lleva a la cabeza. Del mismo modo, los hilos dorados, cuando se tejen, se pueden convertir en carne. Contemplemos la hebra que sostiene entre el \u00edndice y el pulgar y consideremos su relaci\u00f3n con su pierna estirada, desnuda.\n\nA la derecha, sentada en el suelo, otra mujer carda la lana, prepar\u00e1ndola para la vida que va a cobrar. En Aracne devanando la madeja de espaldas a nosotros tenemos una alusi\u00f3n todav\u00eda m\u00e1s clara a c\u00f3mo el hilo puede transformarse ya sea en pa\u00f1o, ya sea en carne. La madeja, su brazo estirado, la espalda de la blusa, sus hombros, todo est\u00e1 hecho con el mismo material dorado, comparte la misma vida; mientras que a un lado, colgado de la pared, vemos el material muerto, inerte, de la lana de oveja antes de que adquiera vida o forma. Finalmente, a la derecha del todo, una quinta mujer trasporta un cesto del que se derraman unos pa\u00f1os dorados transparentes, como una especie de excedente.\n\nPara realzar a\u00fan m\u00e1s la equivalencia de la carne y la ropa, de la apariencia y la imagen, Vel\u00e1zquez ha hecho que no podamos estar seguros de cu\u00e1les figuras en la alcoba del fondo est\u00e1n tejidas en el tapiz y cu\u00e1les son exentas y \"reales\". \u00bfForma parte del tapiz la figura que representa a Pallas Atenea con casco o es alguien que est\u00e1 de pie delante de \u00e9l? No podemos estar seguros.\n\nLa ambig\u00fcedad con la que Vel\u00e1zquez juega aqu\u00ed es muy antigua, claro. En la teolog\u00eda isl\u00e1mica, griega e india, el telar representa el universo, y el hilo, el hilo de la vida. Pero lo que es espec\u00edfico y original de este cuadro del Museo del Prado es que todo en \u00e9l se revela contra un fondo de oscuridad, haci\u00e9ndonos as\u00ed plenamente conscientes de la _levedad_ del tapiz y, por consiguiente, de la _levedad_ de lo visible. Volvemos, pese a todos los signos de abundancia, al harapo.\n\nFrente a este cuadro de Vel\u00e1zquez se nos viene al pensamiento la recurrente comparaci\u00f3n en William Shakespeare de la vida y el drama.\n\nLos actores,\n\ncomo ya os dije, eran esp\u00edritus y se desvanecieron\n\nen el aire, en la levedad del aire.\n\nY de igual manera, la ef\u00edmera obra de esta visi\u00f3n,\n\nlas altas torres que las nubes tocan, los palacios espl\u00e9ndidos,\n\nlos templos solemnes, el inmenso globo,\n\ny todo lo que en \u00e9l habita, se disolver\u00e1;\n\ny tal como ocurre en esta vana ficci\u00f3n\n\ndesaparecer\u00e1n sin dejar humo ni estela.8\n\nEsta famosa cita (Shakespeare muri\u00f3 a la edad de cincuenta y dos a\u00f1os, cuando Vel\u00e1zquez ten\u00eda diecisiete) nos devuelve al escepticismo del que hemos venido hablando. La pintura espa\u00f1ola es \u00fanica tanto en su fidelidad como en su escepticismo para con lo visible. Ese escepticismo se encarna en el narrador que tenemos delante.\n\nMir\u00e1ndolo, recuerdo que no soy el primero que se plantea preguntas sin respuesta, y empiezo a compartir algo de su calma, de su compostura: una compostura curiosa, pues coexiste con las heridas, con el dolor y con la compasi\u00f3n. Esta \u00faltima, esencial para el arte de la narraci\u00f3n, es el complemento del escepticismo original: la ternura por la experiencia, porque es humana. Los moralistas, los pol\u00edticos, los mercaderes ignoran la experiencia, y solo les interesan la acci\u00f3n y los productos. La mayor parte de la literatura procede de los despose\u00eddos o de los exilados. Ambos estados concentran su atenci\u00f3n en la experiencia y, as\u00ed, en la necesidad de redimirla del olvido, de aferrarse a ella en la oscuridad.\n\nHa dejado de ser un desconocido. Perdiendo toda modestia, empiezo a identificarme con \u00e9l. \u00bfEs lo que yo quer\u00eda ser? \u00bfEra el umbral en el que aparec\u00eda durante mi infancia sencillamente el futuro que deseaba? \u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1 exactamente?\n\n\u00a1Uno podr\u00eda suponerlo en Vel\u00e1zquez! Creo que est\u00e1 delante de un espejo. Creo que todo el cuadro es un reflejo. Esopo se est\u00e1 mirando. Con iron\u00eda, pues su imaginaci\u00f3n ya est\u00e1 en otra parte. Dentro de un instante, se volver\u00e1 y se reunir\u00e1 con su p\u00fablico. Dentro de un minuto, el espejo reflejar\u00e1 un cuarto vac\u00edo, y de vez en cuando se oir\u00e1n risas al otro lado de la pared.\n\n***\n\nEl Museo del Prado de Madrid es un lugar de encuentro \u00fanico. Las salas parecen calles abarrotadas por los vivos (los visitantes) y los muertos (los retratados).\n\nPero los muertos no se han ido; el \"presente\" en el que fueron pintados, el presente inventado por quienes los pintaron, es tan v\u00edvido y habitado como el presente vivo del momento. A veces m\u00e1s v\u00edvido. Los habitantes de esos momentos pintados se mezclan con los visitantes vespertinos y juntos, los muertos y los vivos, transforman las salas en algo parecido a Las Ramblas.\n\nVoy a \u00faltima hora de la tarde al museo a ver los bufones de Vel\u00e1zquez. Encierran un secreto que me ha llevado a\u00f1os comprender y que, tal vez, todav\u00eda se me escapa. Vel\u00e1zquez pint\u00f3 a estos hombres con la misma t\u00e9cnica y la misma mirada esc\u00e9ptica y carente de cr\u00edtica con las que pint\u00f3 a las infantas, los reyes, los cortesanos, las doncellas, los cocineros y los embajadores. Sin embargo, entre \u00e9l y los bufones hab\u00eda algo diferente, algo c\u00f3mplice. Y su discreta y t\u00e1cita complicidad ten\u00eda que ver, creo yo, con las apariencias; es decir, en este contexto, con la pinta, la facha de la gente. Ni ellos ni el pintor eran unos inocentones o unos esclavos de las apariencias, m\u00e1s bien jugaban con ellas: Vel\u00e1zquez como un maestro ilusionista; ellos como bufones.\n\nDe los siete bufones de corte que retrat\u00f3 Vel\u00e1zquez, tres son enanos, uno es bizco y otros dos est\u00e1n ataviados con unos ropajes rid\u00edculos. Solo uno parece relativamente normal: Pablo de Valladolid.\n\nSu ocupaci\u00f3n era distraer de vez en cuando a los miembros de la corte y a quienes llevaban el peso del gobierno. Para ello, los bufones desarrollaban y empleaban sus dotes de payaso. Pero su aspecto anormal tambi\u00e9n jugaba un papel importante en la diversi\u00f3n que ofrec\u00edan. Eran una especie de bichos raros grotescos que demostraban por contraste la finura y la nobleza de quienes los contemplaban. Sus deformidades confirmaban la elegancia y la talla de sus amos. Sus amos y los hijos de sus amos eran prodigios de la naturaleza; ellos eran los c\u00f3micos errores de la naturaleza.\n\nLos bufones eran completamente conscientes de esto. Eran una broma de la naturaleza, y ellos eran los due\u00f1os de las risas. Los chistes, las bromas, pueden re\u00edrse, a su vez, de la risa que provocan, y entonces quienes se r\u00eden pasan a ser los graciosos: los mejores payasos circenses aprovechan y juegan con este vaiv\u00e9n.\n\nLa broma privada de los bufones espa\u00f1oles era que el aspecto de cada cual es algo pasajero. No se trata de una ilusi\u00f3n, sino de algo temporal, tanto en el caso de los prodigios como en el de los errores. (La fugacidad tambi\u00e9n es una broma: basta con fijarse en c\u00f3mo hacen mutis los grandes c\u00f3micos.)\n\nEl buf\u00f3n que m\u00e1s me gusta es Juan Calabazas, Calabacillas. No es uno de los enanos, sino el bizco. Hay dos retratos de \u00e9l. En uno est\u00e1 de pie y sostiene burlonamente en una mano un medall\u00f3n con un retrato en miniatura, mientras que en la otra tiene un objeto misterioso, que ning\u00fan cr\u00edtico ha llegado a identificar con exactitud: se cree que es una pieza de una maquinaria de moler y quiz\u00e1 (por aquello de \"le falta un tornillo\") haga alusi\u00f3n al hecho de que es un simpl\u00f3n. En este lienzo, Vel\u00e1zquez, el maestro ilusionista y retratista, act\u00faa en connivencia con la broma del Calabacillas: \u00bfcu\u00e1nto tiempo de verdad crees que dura una apariencia?\n\nEn el segundo retrato, que es posterior, Juan Calabazas est\u00e1 sentado en el suelo, de modo que parece tener la estatura de un enano, y parece estar ri\u00e9ndose y hablando; sus manos son muy elocuentes. Lo miro a los ojos.\n\nEst\u00e1n inesperadamente quietos. Toda su cara es un gui\u00f1o de risa, ya sea la suya o la que est\u00e1 provocando en otros, pero sus ojos no gui\u00f1an; est\u00e1n impasibles, quietos. Sin embargo, esto no es una consecuencia de su bizquera, pues la mirada de los otros bufones, me doy cuenta de pronto, es muy similar. Las diferentes expresiones de sus ojos contienen todas una quietud semejante, que es exterior a la duraci\u00f3n del resto.\n\nEsta quietud podr\u00eda sugerir una soledad profunda, pero en el caso de los bufones no sucede as\u00ed. Los dementes pueden tener una mirada inerte porque est\u00e1n perdidos en el tiempo y no son capaces de reconocer ning\u00fan punto de referencia. Jean-Louis-Andr\u00e9-Th\u00e9odore G\u00e9ricault, en su compasivo retrato de una perturbada del manicomio parisino de La Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re (pintado en 1819 o 1820), mostraba esa mirada trasojada de la ausencia, la de alguien expulsado del tiempo.\n\nLos bufones de Vel\u00e1zquez est\u00e1n tan lejos como la mujer de La Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re de los retratos cl\u00e1sicos que realzan el rango y la excelencia del retratado, pero son diferentes en cuanto a que no parecen ni perdidos ni desterrados. Sencillamente se encuentran, tras la risa, m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de lo ef\u00edmero.\n\nLos ojos inertes de Juan Calabazas miran pasar la vida y nos miran a nosotros a trav\u00e9s de un agujerito desde la eternidad. Este es el secreto que me sugiri\u00f3 un encuentro en Las Ramblas.\n\n______________\n\n1 Dolci, Danilo, _Racconti siciliani_ , Giulio Einaudi, Tur\u00edn, 1963.\n\n2 Ortega y Gasset, Jos\u00e9, _La raz\u00f3n hist\u00f3rica_ , en _Obras completas_ , vol. 2, Alianza, Madrid, 1988, p\u00e1gs. 298-299.\n\n3 Benjamin, Walter, \"Der Erz\u00e4hler\", _Bl\u00e4tter f\u00fcr Theologie und Soziologie, Neue Folge_ , n\u00fam. 3, octubre de 1936 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"El narrador\", en _Para una cr\u00edtica de la violencia y otros ensayos. Iluminaciones IV_ , Taurus, Madrid, 1998, p\u00e1g. 121) [N. del Ed.].\n\n4 Machado, Antonio, \"Por tierras de Espa\u00f1a\", en _Campos de Castilla_ [1912], Alianza, Madrid, 2006 [N. del Ed.].\n\n5 Machado, Antonio, \"El Dios ibero\", en ib\u00edd. [N. del Ed.].\n\n6 Machado, Antonio, \"La tierra de Alvargonz\u00e1lez\", en ib\u00edd. [N. del Ed.].\n\n7 Unamuno, Miguel de, _Del sentimiento tr\u00e1gico de la vida_ [1913], Planeta DeAgostini, Barcelona, 2010 [N. del Ed.].\n\n8 Shakespeare, William, _The Tempest_ [1610-1611] (versi\u00f3n castellana: _La tempestad_ , acto IV, escena I, C\u00e1tedra, Madrid, p\u00e1gs. 148-156) [N. del Ed.].\n\n## **Rembrandt**\n\n## 1606-1669\n\nA las afueras de \u00c1msterdam vive un pintor holand\u00e9s, ya mayor, muy conocido y respetado en su pa\u00eds. Ha trabajado mucho en su vida, pero solo ha producido, que se sepa, unos cuantos dibujos y un lienzo de gran formato que est\u00e1 en el Museo Nacional. Fui a ver su segunda gran obra, un tr\u00edptico de la guerra. Hablamos de la guerra, de la vejez, de la vocaci\u00f3n de pintor. Abri\u00f3 la puerta del estudio y me invit\u00f3 a entrar. Los grandes lienzos estaban en blanco. Tras a\u00f1os de trabajo, los hab\u00eda destruido, tranquilamente, aquel mismo d\u00eda. La segunda gran obra de su vida estaba inacabada.\n\nEl objetivo de este relato es mostrar hasta qu\u00e9 punto algo muy parecido al calvinismo sigue influyendo todav\u00eda hoy en el arte holand\u00e9s. La religi\u00f3n calvinista no ha fomentado el arte, y todos los artistas holandeses importantes tuvieron que enfrentarse a ella. Sin embargo, eso no ha impedido que les influyera igualmente. Los ha hecho moralistas y extremistas. Su lucha primordial, como en el caso de mi amigo, ha sido con su propia conciencia.\n\nEl ensayo sobre Rembrandt y Baruch Spinoza de W. R. Valentiner,1 un ensayo de lo m\u00e1s interesante, describe c\u00f3mo estos dos hombres, quienes, seg\u00fan \u00e9l, seguramente se conocieron, tuvieron que enfrentarse a la Iglesia estatal, cada cual a su manera. El mismo mes en que se declara la bancarrota de Rembrandt, los rabinos expulsan de la sinagoga a Spinoza, por entonces un estudiante, en castigo por sus opiniones heterodoxas. A\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde, el Consejo de la Iglesia Calvinista de La Haya emiti\u00f3 una condena contra \u00e9l. Once a\u00f1os antes, Hendrickje Stoffels, el gran amor de Rembrandt, con la que no se pudo casar debido a una cl\u00e1usula en el testamento de su esposa, Saskia, hab\u00eda sido citada ante el Consejo de la Ciudad de \u00c1msterdam a fin de que confesara \"que viv\u00eda con Rembrandt en concubinato\".\n\nLa otra cosa que ten\u00edan en com\u00fan el fil\u00f3sofo y el pintor, por otro lado, tan diferentes de temperamento, era su inter\u00e9s por los problemas \u00e9ticos. Para Spinoza, este inter\u00e9s era consciente y directo, incluso dio t\u00edtulo a su obra principal. En el caso de Rembrandt, solo era consciente en parte \u2014en su elecci\u00f3n tem\u00e1tica de las par\u00e1bolas de la Biblia\u2014; fundamentalmente, y esto es m\u00e1s importante, era intuitiva.\n\nEn cuanto dejamos de lado la costumbre de contemplar las pinturas exclusivamente desde el punto de vista de la forma, queda claro que Rembrandt fue el primer pintor moderno. Fue el primer artista que tom\u00f3 como tema recurrente en su obra el tr\u00e1gico aislamiento del sujeto, del mismo modo que fue el primer gran artista que experiment\u00f3 un distanciamiento comparable de la sociedad en la que vivi\u00f3. Fue este tema el que le plante\u00f3 su problema \u00e9tico, un problema que \u00e9l resolvi\u00f3 \u2014para decirlo simplemente\u2014 con la ayuda de la compasi\u00f3n.\n\nEn un art\u00edculo de estas dimensiones, no se puede demostrar en detalle la conexi\u00f3n entre el calvinismo, el pante\u00edsmo de Spinoza y la caridad de Rembrandt. Solo se puede se\u00f1alar que los tres surgen de la necesidad de explicar la nuevas relaciones comerciales y competitivas entre los hombres. El calvinismo zanja el problema con la declaraci\u00f3n de que Dios ya ha escogido las almas que se van a condenar. Spinoza se afana por crear una nueva unidad de pura l\u00f3gica filos\u00f3fica en torno a la naturaleza. Rembrandt apela: \"A cualquiera le podr\u00eda pasar\".\n\nRembrandt, _Buey degollado_ , 1655.\n\nEn su ensayo sobre Piet Mondrian,2 David Lewis explica l\u00facida y elogiosamente c\u00f3mo y por qu\u00e9 este pintor lleg\u00f3 a la doctrina oculta tras un arte rigurosamente abstracto. Pero no relaciona este arte o las ideas del pintor con la tradici\u00f3n holandesa, lo cual, creo yo, es una pena. Mondrian fue un fervoroso moralista. Cre\u00eda que sus abstracciones geom\u00e9tricas anunciaban un nuevo orden social, en el que \"lo tr\u00e1gico\", el resultado del conflicto con la naturaleza y del individualismo excesivo, terminar\u00eda desapareciendo. La austeridad de sus obras tard\u00edas (acentuada por la ternura, una ternura muy pr\u00f3xima al sentimentalismo, de sus primeras pinturas figurativas) deb\u00eda algo, sin duda, a su origen calvinista, aunque \u00e9l lo negara. La amplitud y la unidad de su sistema de pensamiento y su m\u00e9todo de razonamiento est\u00e1n muy relacionados con los de Spinoza. Mientras que su determinaci\u00f3n \u2014por m\u00e1s que valoremos sus resultados art\u00edsticos\u2014 recuerda a la de Rembrandt o la de Vincent van Gogh. Y esto tampoco es hoy una cuesti\u00f3n meramente acad\u00e9mica. En cuanto uno reconoce la disciplina, la l\u00f3gica, la preocupaci\u00f3n \u00e9tica subyacente a la obra de Mondrian, se da cuenta de que su arte, aunque se le llame abstracto, no tiene nada que ver con el nihilismo de la forma de pintura abstracta m\u00e1s de moda en la actualidad, el tachismo.\n\n***\n\nEl car\u00e1cter esencial de la pintura al \u00f3leo ha sido ocultado por una interpretaci\u00f3n err\u00f3nea, y casi universal, de la relaci\u00f3n existente entre su \"tradici\u00f3n\" y sus \"maestros\". En circunstancias excepcionales, ciertos artistas excepcionales se liberaron de las normas de la tradici\u00f3n y produjeron obras diametralmente opuestas a sus valores; sin embargo, se ha aclamado a estos artistas como a los supremos representantes de la tradici\u00f3n, pretensi\u00f3n que siempre ha venido facilitada por el hecho de que, despu\u00e9s de su muerte, la tradici\u00f3n se ha cerrado alrededor de su obra, ha asimilado algunas innovaciones t\u00e9cnicas menores y ha continuado su camino como si ninguno de sus principios hubiese sufrido perturbaci\u00f3n alguna. Esto explica que Rembrandt, Johannes Vermeer, Nicolas Poussin, Pierre Chardin, Francisco de Goya o William Turner no tuvieran seguidores, solo imitadores superficiales.\n\nDe la tradici\u00f3n ha surgido una especie de estereotipo del \"gran artista\". Este gran artista es alguien que se pasa la vida luchando, en parte contra las circunstancias materiales, y en parte contra la incomprensi\u00f3n y contra s\u00ed mismo. Se le imagina como un Jacob que lucha contra un \u00e1ngel. (Los ejemplos van desde Miguel \u00c1ngel a Van Gogh.) En ninguna otra cultura ha prevalecido semejante idea del artista. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 s\u00ed en esta? Ya hemos hablado de las exigencias del mercado libre del arte. Pero la lucha no era solamente por vivir. Cada vez que un pintor se percataba de su insatisfacci\u00f3n ante el limitado papel de la pintura como medio para celebrar la propiedad material y el rango que la acompa\u00f1aba, se encontraba luchando con el lenguaje de su propio arte, tal como lo entend\u00eda la tradici\u00f3n.\n\nLas dos categor\u00edas que hemos empleado \u2014obras excepcionales y obras medias (o t\u00edpicas)\u2014 son esenciales para nuestro argumento, pero no pueden aplicarse de manera mec\u00e1nica como criterios para la cr\u00edtica. El cr\u00edtico debe comprender los t\u00e9rminos de este antagonismo. Toda obra excepcional era el resultado de una lucha prolongada y victoriosa. Innumerables obras no comportaban lucha alguna, y hubo tambi\u00e9n luchas prolongadas que acabaron en derrota.\n\nPara ser una excepci\u00f3n, un pintor cuya visi\u00f3n se hab\u00eda formado en la tradici\u00f3n y que probablemente hab\u00eda empezado su aprendizaje y sus estudios a los diecis\u00e9is a\u00f1os, necesitaba reconocer la verdadera finalidad de su visi\u00f3n, y despu\u00e9s separarla de los usos para los que se hab\u00eda desarrollado. Sin ayuda, ten\u00eda que refutar las normas del arte que le hab\u00edan formado. Ten\u00eda que verse a s\u00ed mismo como un pintor, de modo que se negara a verse como tal. Ello significaba verse a s\u00ed mismo haciendo algo que nadie pod\u00eda imaginar. Dos autorretratos de Rembrandt ilustran el tremendo esfuerzo que esto requer\u00eda.\n\nRembrandt, _Rembrandt y Saskia en la escena del Hijo Pr\u00f3digo en la taberna_ , 1635-1636.\n\nRembrandt, _Autorretrato_ , 1658.\n\nEl primero fue pintado en 1634, cuando ten\u00eda veintiocho a\u00f1os; el segundo, treinta a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde. Pero la diferencia entre ambos no se refiere a algo m\u00e1s que a los cambios de aspecto y car\u00e1cter provocados en el pintor por el paso del tiempo.\n\nEl primer cuadro ocupa un lugar especial, como si dij\u00e9ramos, en la \"pel\u00edcula\" de la vida de Rembrandt. Lo pint\u00f3 el a\u00f1o en que se cas\u00f3 por primera vez. Aparece junto a su novia Saskia, quien morir\u00eda seis a\u00f1os m\u00e1s tarde. Se dice que este cuadro resume el llamado \"per\u00edodo feliz\" de la vida del artista. Pero si nos acercamos a \u00e9l sin sentimentalismo, vemos que esa felicidad es tan formal como falsa. Rembrandt utiliz\u00f3 los m\u00e9todos tradicionales para unos fines tradicionales. Quiz\u00e1 su estilo individual est\u00e9 empezando a ser reconocible, pero no es m\u00e1s que el estilo de un nuevo artista que representa un papel tradicional. El cuadro en conjunto sigue siendo un anuncio de la buena fortuna, el prestigio y la riqueza de su modelo (en este caso, el propio Rembrandt). Y como todos los anuncios de este tipo, es desalmado.\n\nEn el segundo cuadro, Rembrandt vuelve la tradici\u00f3n contra s\u00ed misma. Le ha arrebatado su lenguaje. \u00c9l es un anciano. Todo se ha perdido salvo un sentido de la cuesti\u00f3n de la existencia, de la existencia como cuesti\u00f3n. Y el pintor \u2014que es algo m\u00e1s y algo menos que ese anciano\u2014 ha encontrado la manera de expresarlo utilizando un medio tradicionalmente desarrollado para excluir cualquier cuesti\u00f3n de esa \u00edndole.\n\n***\n\nCuando muri\u00f3, a los sesenta y tres a\u00f1os, parec\u00eda mucho m\u00e1s viejo, incluso para su \u00e9poca. La bebida, las deudas, la muerte de muchos de sus seres queridos a causa de la peste podr\u00edan explicar los estragos sufridos en su persona. Pero los autorretratos apuntan algo m\u00e1s. En su madurez le toc\u00f3 vivir un clima de fanatismo econ\u00f3mico y de indiferencia, un clima, por otro lado, no muy distinto del que se vive hoy. Ya no era posible limitarse a copiar lo humano, como en el Renacimiento; lo humano ya no era evidente: hab\u00eda que buscarlo en la oscuridad. Rembrandt era un hombre obstinado, dogm\u00e1tico, astuto, capaz de cierta crueldad. No hagamos de \u00e9l un santo. Pero buscaba una manera de salir de esa oscuridad.\n\nDibujaba porque le gustaba. Era una forma de recordarse diariamente lo que le rodeaba. La pintura \u2014sobre todo en la segunda mitad de su vida\u2014 era para \u00e9l algo distinto: pintando intentaba encontrar una salida de la oscuridad. Tal vez la extraordinaria lucidez de los dibujos nos ha impedido ver la manera en que pintaba realmente.\n\nRara vez hac\u00eda dibujos preliminares; empezaba pintando directamente en el lienzo. En sus pinturas apenas hay una l\u00f3gica lineal o una continuidad espacial. Si sus cuadros convencen, se debe a que los detalles, las partes, emergen y salen al encuentro del ojo. No hay nada dispuesto, ordenado, ante nosotros, como en las obras de sus contempor\u00e1neos Jacob van Ruysdael o Johannes Vermeer.\n\nMientras que en los dibujos dominaba completamente el espacio y la proporci\u00f3n, el mundo f\u00edsico que presenta en sus lienzos est\u00e1 muy distorsionado. Esto nunca se ha recalcado lo suficiente en los estudios sobre su obra, posiblemente porque para darse cuenta de ello hay que ser pintor, m\u00e1s que historiador del arte.\n\nEn una obra temprana de un hombre (\u00e9l mismo) delante de un caballete en un estudio de pintor, el hombre en cuesti\u00f3n tiene un tama\u00f1o que apenas sobrepasa la mitad del que deber\u00eda tener. En un maravilloso cuadro tard\u00edo, _Mujer junto a una puerta abierta_ (Berl\u00edn), la mano y el brazo derechos de Hendrickje podr\u00edan ser los de un H\u00e9rcules. En _El sacrificio de Abraham_ (San Petersburgo), Isaac tiene los rasgos f\u00edsicos de un joven, pero en relaci\u00f3n con su padre, su tama\u00f1o es el de un ni\u00f1o de ocho a\u00f1os.\n\nEl Barroco gustaba de los escorzos y de las yuxtaposiciones improbables, pero aunque Rembrandt aprovechara las libertades que acompa\u00f1aban al estilo, las distorsiones de sus cuadros no tienen mucho que ver con ellas, pues no son expresivas, sino, por el contrario, casi furtivas.\n\nEn el sublime _San Mateo y el \u00e1ngel_ (El Louvre), ese imposible espacio en el que se acomoda la cabeza del \u00e1ngel sobre el hombro del evangelista est\u00e1 furtivamente insinuado, susurrado como le susurra al o\u00eddo el \u00e1ngel al santo. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 olvid\u00f3 o ignor\u00f3 en los cuadros lo que era capaz de hacer con tanta maestr\u00eda en los dibujos? Deb\u00eda de interesarle otra cosa, algo que era antit\u00e9tico con respecto al espacio \"real\".\n\nSalgamos del museo y vayamos a las urgencias de un hospital, probablemente ubicadas en los s\u00f3tanos del edificio, pues es donde suelen estar las unidades de rayos X. Los heridos y los enfermos son transportados en las camas o esperan horas, codo con codo, en sillas de ruedas, hasta que pueda atenderles el primer especialista que quede libre. Con frecuencia, los ricos pasan antes que los que est\u00e1n m\u00e1s enfermos. Pero, en cualquier caso, para los pacientes que esperan en el s\u00f3tano es demasiado tarde para cambiar nada.\n\nCada cual vive en su propio espacio corporal, cuyos hitos son el dolor o la incapacidad, una sensaci\u00f3n o un malestar desconocidos. Los cirujanos no pueden obedecer las leyes de este espacio cuando operan, no es algo que se aprenda en las _Lecciones de anatom\u00eda del doctor Tulip._ Una buena enfermera, sin embargo, lo reconoce al tacto, y sabe que en cada colch\u00f3n, en cada paciente, toma una forma distinta.\n\nEs el espacio en el que habita la conciencia de s\u00ed mismo del cuerpo que siente. No es ilimitado como el espacio subjetivo: finalmente lo enmarcan siempre las leyes del cuerpo. Pero sus hitos, sus \u00e9nfasis, sus proporciones internas no paran de cambiar. El dolor agudiza nuestra conciencia de este espacio. Es el espacio de nuestra vulnerabilidad fundamental y nuestra soledad. Y tambi\u00e9n el de la enfermedad. Pero, potencialmente, es tambi\u00e9n el espacio del placer, del bienestar y de la sensaci\u00f3n de ser querido. Robert Kramer, el director de cine, lo define as\u00ed: \"Detr\u00e1s de los ojos y extendido por todo el cuerpo. Un universo de circuitos y sinapsis. Los trillados caminos por donde suele fluir la energ\u00eda\". Se percibe mejor al tacto de lo que se ve con los ojos. Y Rembrandt fue el gran maestro que llevo este espacio a la pintura.\n\nPensemos en las cuatro manos de la pareja de _La novia jud\u00eda_. Son sus manos, mucho m\u00e1s que sus caras, las que indican: matrimonio. Pero \u00bfc\u00f3mo lleg\u00f3 \u00e9l hasta all\u00ed, hasta este espacio corporal?\n\n_Betsab\u00e9 con la carta de David_ (Museo del Louvre). La figura, en tama\u00f1o natural, est\u00e1 sentada, desnuda. Reflexiona sobre su destino. El rey la ha visto y la desea. Su marido est\u00e1 lejos, en la guerra. (\u00bfCu\u00e1ntos millones de veces ha sucedido algo similar?) Arrodillada delante de ella, su criada le seca los pies. No tiene otra opci\u00f3n que presentarse al rey. Se quedar\u00e1 encinta. El rey David dispondr\u00e1 que maten a su querido marido. Ella lo llorar\u00e1. Se casar\u00e1 con el rey David y le dar\u00e1 un hijo que llegar\u00e1 a ser el rey Salom\u00f3n. Ya ha empezado una fatalidad, y en el centro de esta fatalidad se halla el que Betsab\u00e9 sea deseable como esposa.\n\nY as\u00ed, todo el cuadro est\u00e1 centrado en su n\u00fabil vientre y en su ombligo, que situ\u00f3 a la altura de los ojos de la sirvienta. Y los pint\u00f3 con amor y compasi\u00f3n, como si fueran un rostro. No hay otra barriga en el arte europeo pintada con una mil\u00e9sima parte de este cari\u00f1o. Pas\u00f3 a ser el centro de su propia historia.\n\nCuadro tras cuadro fue confiriendo a una parte del cuerpo o a ciertas partes del cuerpo una fuerza narrativa especial. El cuadro habla entonces con voces distintas, como un cuento contado por diferentes personas desde puntos de vistas distintos. Pero estos \"puntos de vista\" solo pueden existir en un espacio corp\u00f3reo que es incompatible con el espacio territorial o el arquitect\u00f3nico. El espacio corp\u00f3reo cambia sus medidas y sus centros focales continuamente, de acuerdo con las circunstancias. Se mide en ondas, no en metros. De ah\u00ed que sea necesario distorsionar el espacio \"real\".\n\n_La Sagrada Familia_ (M\u00fanich). La Virgen est\u00e1 sentada en el taller de san Jos\u00e9. Jes\u00fas duerme en su regazo. La relaci\u00f3n entre la mano de la Virgen, su pecho descubierto, la cabeza de Jes\u00fas y su bracito extendido es absurda en los t\u00e9rminos de cualquier espacio pict\u00f3rico convencional: nada encaja, nada permanece en el lugar que le corresponde, nada tiene el tama\u00f1o adecuado. Pero el pecho y la gota de leche que mana de \u00e9l hablan a la cara del peque\u00f1o. Y la mano del peque\u00f1o habla al amorfo continente que es su madre, al tiempo que la de esta escucha al ni\u00f1o que sostiene.\n\nSus mejores cuadros apenas ofrecen nada coherente al punto de vista del espectador. Lo que hace este es interceptar (espiar) los di\u00e1logos que se producen entre las partes dispersas, y estos di\u00e1logos son tan fieles a la experiencia corp\u00f3rea que le hablan a algo que todos llevamos dentro. Frente a sus obras, el cuerpo del espectador recuerda su propia experiencia interior.\n\nLos historiadores han se\u00f1alado con frecuencia la \"interioridad\" de las im\u00e1genes de Rembrandt. Sin embargo, son lo opuesto a los iconos. Son im\u00e1genes carnales. La carne del _Buey desollado_ no es una excepci\u00f3n, sino algo caracter\u00edstico en \u00e9l. De revelar una interioridad, ser\u00e1 la del cuerpo, aquello a lo que tratan de llegar los amantes cuando se acarician y en el momento del coito. En este contexto, esta \u00faltima palabra toma un significado m\u00e1s literal y m\u00e1s po\u00e9tico: del lat\u00edn _coire_ , \"ir juntos\".\n\nAproximadamente la mitad de sus grandes obras (los retratos aparte) describen el acto de abrazarse o el instante preliminar al mismo; el gesto de abrir y extender los brazos. _El hijo pr\u00f3digo, Jacob y el \u00e1ngel, Dana\u00eb, David y Absal\u00f3n, La novia jud\u00eda..._\n\nNo se puede encontrar nada parecido en la obra de ning\u00fan otro pintor. En Rubens, por ejemplo, hay muchas figuras que se tocan, se transportan, se conducen, pero muy pocas, si es que hay alguna, que se abracen. En la obra de ning\u00fan otro pintor ocupa el abrazo esta posici\u00f3n suprema, central. Unas veces, el abrazo que pinta es sexual, otras no. En la fusi\u00f3n entre dos cuerpos no solo entra el deseo, sino tambi\u00e9n el perd\u00f3n o la fe. En su _Jacob y el \u00e1ngel_ (Berl\u00edn) vemos las tres cosas, y no es f\u00e1cil separarlas.\n\nLos hospitales p\u00fablicos, que como instituci\u00f3n se originaron en la Edad Media, se llamaban en Francia _h\u00f4tels-dieu._ Eran lugares donde se daba techo y asistencia en nombre de Dios a los enfermos o a los moribundos. Pero cuidado con idealizar. Durante la peste, el _h\u00f4tel-dieu_ de Par\u00eds estaba tan atestado que cada cama la \"ocupaban tres personas: una enferma, una agonizante y otra muerta\".\n\nPero el t\u00e9rmino _h\u00f4tel-dieu,_ interpretado de otra forma, puede ayudarnos a explicar su pintura. La clave de esa visi\u00f3n suya que distorsionaba por necesidad el espacio cl\u00e1sico era el Nuevo Testamento.\n\nY el que permanece en el amor, en Dios permanece, y Dios en \u00e9l [...]. En esto conocemos que vivimos en \u00e9l, y \u00e9l en nosotros, porque nos ha comunicado su esp\u00edritu.3\n\nRembrandt, _Joven ba\u00f1\u00e1ndose en un arroyo_ , 1654.\n\n\"Y \u00e9l en nosotros\". Lo que encontraban los cirujanos en las disecciones de los cuerpos era una cosa. Otra muy distinta lo que \u00e9l buscaba. _H\u00f4tel-dieu_ tambi\u00e9n puede significar en franc\u00e9s un cuerpo en el que reside Dios. En sus \u00faltimos autorretratos, tan inefables y terribles, parece que mientras contemplaba su propia cara estuviera esperando a Dios, pese a saber perfectamente que Dios es invisible.\n\nCuando pintaba libremente a aquellos que amaba o imaginaba o a aquellos de quienes se sent\u00eda pr\u00f3ximo, intentaba entrar en su espacio corp\u00f3reo en ese preciso momento; intentaba entrar en su _h\u00f4tel-dieu,_ y encontrar as\u00ed la salida de la oscuridad.\n\nFrente al peque\u00f1o cuadro de la _Joven ba\u00f1\u00e1ndose en un arroyo_ (Londres) nos parece estar ah\u00ed, entre los pliegues de la camisa que ella se levanta. No como mirones. No con lujuria, como los viejos que esp\u00edan a Susana. Sencillamente, el tierno amor con el que \u00e9l la pint\u00f3 nos conduce a habitar el espacio de su cuerpo.\n\nPara Rembrandt, el abrazo era sin\u00f3nimo del acto de pintar, y las dos cosas rozaban casi la oraci\u00f3n.\n\n***\n\nSorprende que, a la hora de fechar ciertos cuadros, los historiadores del arte presten a veces tanta atenci\u00f3n al \"estilo\", las facturas, las listas de subastas, y tan poca a la evidencia pintada en relaci\u00f3n con la edad del modelo o la modelo. Parece que no creyeran al pintor en este punto. Un ejemplo claro de ello lo tenemos cuando tratan de fechar y ordenar cronol\u00f3gicamente los cuadros de Rembrandt con Hendrickje Stoffels como modelo. No ha habido un pintor m\u00e1s experto en el proceso del envejecimiento; tampoco ning\u00fan pintor nos ha dejado unos detalles tan \u00edntimos del gran amor de su vida. Independientemente de las conjeturas documentales, los cuadros dejan claro que el amor entre Hendrickje y el pintor dur\u00f3 casi veinte a\u00f1os, hasta la muerte de ella, seis a\u00f1os antes que la de Rembrandt.\n\nElla era diez o doce a\u00f1os m\u00e1s joven que \u00e9l. Si nos fiamos de los datos que nos brindan los propios cuadros, Hendrickje ten\u00eda al morir unos cuarenta y cinco a\u00f1os, como m\u00ednimo, y seguramente no pasaba de los veintisiete cuando \u00e9l la pint\u00f3 por primera vez. La hija de ambos, Cornelia, fue bautizada en 1654. Esto significa que cuando Hendrickje dio a luz a su hija ten\u00eda ya m\u00e1s de treinta a\u00f1os.\n\nLa _Mujer en la cama_ (Edimburgo) fue pintado, seg\u00fan mis cuentas, un poco antes o un poco despu\u00e9s del nacimiento de Cornelia. Los historiadores sugieren que podr\u00eda tratarse de un fragmento tomado de una obra mayor que representaba la noche de bodas de Sara y Tob\u00edas. Para Rembrandt, el tema b\u00edblico no hab\u00eda perdido actualidad. De ser un fragmento, no cabe duda de que Rembrandt lo acab\u00f3 y finalmente lo leg\u00f3 al espectador como el retrato m\u00e1s \u00edntimo de la mujer que amaba.\n\nExisten otros dos cuadros con Hendrickje como modelo. Ante la _Betsab\u00e9_ del Museo del Louvre o la _Mujer ba\u00f1\u00e1ndose_ de la National Gallery de Londres me quedo sin palabras. No porque su genialidad me inhiba, sino porque la experiencia de la que se derivan y expresan \u2014la experiencia del deseo, tan antigua como el mundo, de la ternura que se siente como si fuera el fin del mundo, de los ojos que descubren incansablemente, siempre como si fuera la primera vez, el familiar cuerpo del ser querido\u2014 antecede y se escapa a las palabras. No hay otros cuadros que arrastren al silencio con mayor fuerza y maestr\u00eda que estos. No obstante, Hendrickje est\u00e1 en los dos absorta en sus propias acciones. La visi\u00f3n que de ella nos ofrece el pintor no puede ser m\u00e1s \u00edntima, pero la intimidad no es mutua. Estos dos cuadros expresan solamente el amor del pintor por ella.\n\nEn la _Mujer en la cama_ s\u00ed que hay complicidad entre la mujer y el pintor. Una complicidad que encierra ambas cosas, reticencia y abandono: el d\u00eda y la noche. La cortina que Hendrickje levanta con la mano marca el umbral entre el d\u00eda y la noche.\n\nDos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, de d\u00eda, Rembrandt se declarar\u00eda en bancarrota. Diez a\u00f1os antes, tambi\u00e9n de d\u00eda, Hendrickje hab\u00eda entrado a trabajar en la casa de Rembrandt como ni\u00f1era del hijo de este. A la luz del calvinismo holand\u00e9s del siglo XVII, el ama de llaves y el pintor tienen obligaciones distintas, claramente definidas. De ah\u00ed la reticencia de ambos.\n\nPor la noche abandonan su siglo.\n\nUn collar ci\u00f1e levemente sus pechos\n\ny entre ellos persiste\n\n\u2014\u00bfpor qu\u00e9 una persistencia\n\ny no, tal vez, una incesante llegada?\u2014\n\nel aroma de siempre.\n\nUn aroma tan viejo como el sue\u00f1o\n\ntan familiar para los vivos como para los muertos.\n\nIncorpor\u00e1ndose sobre la almohada, ella alza la cortina con el dorso de la mano, pues con la palma, con la faz de esta, ya est\u00e1 recibiendo, ya est\u00e1 haciendo ese gesto preparatorio al acto de tocar la cabeza de su amado.\n\nA\u00fan no se hab\u00eda quedado dormida. Lo sigue con la mirada, ve c\u00f3mo se acerca. En el rostro de ella est\u00e1n reunidos los dos. Imposible separar ahora ambas im\u00e1genes: la imagen que \u00e9l tiene de ella en la cama, tal como \u00e9l la recuerda; la imagen que ella tiene de \u00e9l aproxim\u00e1ndose a la cama que comparten. Es de noche.\n\n***\n\nLos \u00faltimos autorretratos de Rembrandt contienen o encarnan una paradoja: son una clara meditaci\u00f3n sobre la vejez y, sin embargo, hablan del futuro.\n\nHace veinte a\u00f1os escrib\u00ed este poema frente a uno de ellos, el de la Frick Collection de Nueva York:\n\nDesde la cara los ojos\n\ndos noches que miran al d\u00eda\n\nla compasi\u00f3n duplica\n\nel universo de su mente\n\nque nada m\u00e1s necesita.\n\nAnte un espejo\n\ncallado como un camino sin caballos\n\nnos imaginaba\n\nsordomudos\n\nvolviendo por tierra\n\npara mirarlo en la oscuridad.\n\nAl mismo tiempo, hay en estas obras un descaro, una insolencia, que me hace recordar un retrato verbal incluido en mi relato favorito de Andrea Dworkin, la pol\u00e9mica pensadora y escritora estadounidense. Escuchen:\n\nNo tengo paciencia con los invulnerables, con aquellos que no han quedado tocados por alg\u00fan temporal, aquellos que nunca se han derrumbado, que nunca se han hecho pedazos y se han vuelto a recomponer: grandes puntadas, desgarrones mal cosidos, nada muy lindo. Es entonces cuando algo sale y reluce. Pero a los lustrosos, a los que se las dan de algo, a esos, sinceramente, no los soporto.\n\nGrandes puntadas, desgarrones mal cosidos. As\u00ed est\u00e1 extendida la pintura.\n\nPero si queremos llegar a saber algo m\u00e1s sobre qu\u00e9 es lo que hace tan excepcionales estos autorretratos tard\u00edos, hemos de ponerlos en relaci\u00f3n con otras obras del g\u00e9nero. \u00bfC\u00f3mo y por qu\u00e9 son diferentes de la mayor\u00eda de los autorretratos?\n\nEl primer autorretrato del que se tiene noticia data del segundo milenio antes de Cristo. Se trata de un bajorrelieve egipcio que muestra al artista de perfil, bebiendo de la jarra que le ofrece el criado de su patr\u00f3n en un fest\u00edn con muchos m\u00e1s invitados. Este tipo de autorretrato \u2014pues la tradici\u00f3n continu\u00f3 hasta la Baja Edad Media\u2014 era como la firma del artista en las abarrotadas escenas representadas. Era un comentario marginal que dec\u00eda: _yo tambi\u00e9n estaba all\u00ed_.\n\nPosteriormente, cuando se populariz\u00f3 el tema de san Lucas pintando a la Virgen Mar\u00eda, los artistas empezaron a pintarse a s\u00ed mismos en una posici\u00f3n m\u00e1s central. Pero su raz\u00f3n de estar all\u00ed era que estaban pintando a la Virgen; no estaban all\u00ed para observarse ellos.\n\nUno de los primeros autorretratos que hace precisamente esto es el de Antonello da Messina (hacia 1430-1479), que forma parte de la colecci\u00f3n permanente de la National Gallery. Este artista fue el primer pintor meridional que utiliz\u00f3 el \u00f3leo, y su claridad y su humanidad son extraordinarias, semejantes a las que se encontrar\u00e1n m\u00e1s tarde en otros artistas como Varga, Pirandello o Lampedusa. En su autorretrato, Antonello da Messina se mira como si \u00e9l fuera su propio juez. No hay rastro de discrepancia.\n\nLa representaci\u00f3n y la discrepancia fueron end\u00e9micas en la mayor\u00eda de los autorretratos que le seguir\u00edan. Esto responde a una raz\u00f3n fenomenol\u00f3gica. El pintor puede pintar su mano izquierda como si fuera la de otra persona. Con la ayuda de dos espejos puede dibujar su perfil como si estuviera observando a un extra\u00f1o. Pero cuando se mira de frente al espejo, se ve atrapado en un dilema: su reacci\u00f3n frente a la cara que est\u00e1 viendo la transforma. O, para decirlo con otras palabras, la cara se ofrece a s\u00ed misma algo que le gusta o quiere tener. La cara se compone a s\u00ed misma. El _Narciso_ de Caravaggio es una demostraci\u00f3n perfecta.\n\nNos sucede a todos. Todos representamos cuando nos miramos en el espejo del cuarto de ba\u00f1o, todos adecuamos inmediatamente nuestra expresi\u00f3n y nuestra cara. Salvo por la inversi\u00f3n especular de la derecha y la izquierda, nadie nos ve nunca como nos vemos a nosotros mismos sobre el lavabo. Y esta discrepancia es espont\u00e1nea y directa. Es tan vieja como la invenci\u00f3n del espejo.\n\nUna \"mirada\" similar es recurrente en la historia del autorretrato. Si la cara no est\u00e1 escondida en medio de un grupo, se reconoce a un kil\u00f3metro que es un autorretrato porque muestra un tipo caracter\u00edstico de teatralidad. Vemos a Durero en el papel de Cristo, a Gauguin en el de marginado, a Delacroix en el de dandi, al joven Rembrandt en el de pr\u00f3spero comerciante de \u00c1msterdam. Nos conmueve como una confesi\u00f3n o\u00edda por casualidad, o nos divierte como una fanfarronada. Sin embargo, debido a la complicidad excluyente entre el ojo que observa y la mirada que este se devuelve a s\u00ed mismo, la mayor\u00eda de los autorretratos nos dan la sensaci\u00f3n de que nos encontramos ante algo opaco, la sensaci\u00f3n de estar viendo la representaci\u00f3n de un dilema que nos excluye.\n\nCierto es que se dan excepciones; algunos autorretratos s\u00ed que nos miran: un Chardin, un Tintoretto, una copia de un autorretrato de Hals despu\u00e9s de arruinarse, Turner de joven, el viejo Goya exilado en Burdeos. Son pocos, no obstante, y est\u00e1n muy espaciados. \u00bfC\u00f3mo pudo entonces Rembrandt pintar durante los diez \u00faltimos a\u00f1os de su vida casi veinte retratos que se dirigen directamente a nosotros?\n\nCuando haces un retrato de otra persona, la miras atentamente para intentar encontrar lo que hay en su cara, para intentar averiguar qu\u00e9 le ha sucedido. El resultado (a veces) es una especie de semejanza, pero una semejanza, por lo general, ex\u00e1nime, porque la presencia del retratado y la observaci\u00f3n rigurosa de sus facciones inhiben tus respuestas. La persona se va. Y entonces puede suceder que vuelvas a empezar el retrato, pero la referencia ya no es una cara que tienes enfrente, sino una cara reconstruida en tu interior. Ya no tienes que mirar intensamente; al contrario, cierras los ojos. _Empiezas entonces a hacer un retrato de lo que la persona retratada ha dejado olvidado en tu cabeza_. Entonces existe la posibilidad de que la semejanza sea viva.\n\nRembrandt, _Autorretrato_ , 1669.\n\n\u00bfPodr\u00eda ser que Rembrandt hiciera algo parecido con \u00e9l mismo? Yo creo que Rembrandt solo utilizaba el espejo al principio de cada autorretrato. Luego lo cubr\u00eda con un pa\u00f1o y trabajaba y retocaba el lienzo hasta que la pintura empezaba a corresponder a una imagen de s\u00ed mismo que hab\u00eda olvidado despu\u00e9s de toda una vida. Esta imagen no era general, era muy espec\u00edfica. Cada vez que pintaba un autorretrato escog\u00eda sus ropas. Cada vez era plenamente consciente de c\u00f3mo hab\u00eda cambiado su cara, su aspecto, su forma de estar. Estudiaba estoicamente los da\u00f1os sufridos entre una vez y la siguiente. Pero llegado a cierto momento, tapaba el espejo a fin de no tener que adecuar su mirada a su propia mirada, y entonces continuaba pintando bas\u00e1ndose en lo que hab\u00eda quedado olvidado dentro de \u00e9l. Libre del dilema, le animaba una vaga esperanza, una intuici\u00f3n, de que posteriormente ser\u00edan otros quienes lo mirar\u00edan con una compasi\u00f3n que \u00e9l no pod\u00eda permitirse.\n\n***\n\nLas carreteras son rectas, las distancias entre los pueblos, largas. El cielo propone algo nuevo a la tierra. Me imagino viajando solo entre Kalizs y Kielce hace unos ciento cincuenta a\u00f1os. Entre esos dos nombres habr\u00eda siempre un tercero, el del caballo. El nombre del caballo era una constante entre los nombres de las ciudades a las que se acercaba uno y los de aquellas que dejaba atr\u00e1s.\n\nVeo una se\u00f1al que indica la direcci\u00f3n de Tarn\u00f3w, hacia el sur. A finales del siglo XIX, Abraham Bredius, el compilador del primer cat\u00e1logo moderno de las obras de Rembrandt, descubri\u00f3 un lienzo de este en el castillo de Tarn\u00f3w.\n\nCuando vi pasar por delante de mi hotel un magn\u00edfico carruaje tirado por cuatro caballos y supe por el portero que era del conde Tarnowski, quien se hab\u00eda prometido hac\u00eda tan solo unos d\u00edas con la condesa Potocka, la cual aportar\u00eda al matrimonio una dote considerable, no pod\u00eda saber que aquel hombre era adem\u00e1s el afortunado propietario de una de las obras m\u00e1s sublimes del gran maestro.\n\nBredius dej\u00f3 el hotel e hizo en tren el largo y dif\u00edcil camino hasta el castillo del conde; se quejaba de que el tren avanzaba a paso humano durante una gran parte del trayecto. All\u00ed descubri\u00f3 un lienzo de un caballo con jinete, que atribuy\u00f3 a Rembrandt sin dudarlo un instante, consider\u00e1ndolo una obra maestra que hab\u00eda pasado un siglo perdida en el olvido. Se le dio el t\u00edtulo de _El jinete polaco._\n\nRembrandt, _El jinete polaco_ , 1655.\n\nNadie sabe hoy con exactitud qui\u00e9n est\u00e1 representado en el cuadro o qu\u00e9 representaba este para el pintor. La levita del jinete es t\u00edpicamente polaca, una _kontusz_ , al igual que el tocado. Probablemente por eso le interesar\u00eda al noble polaco que lo adquiri\u00f3 en \u00c1msterdam y lo trajo a Polonia a finales del siglo XVIII.\n\nCuando lo vi por primera vez en la Frick Collection de Nueva York, donde ir\u00eda a parar el cuadro muchos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, me pareci\u00f3 que podr\u00eda ser un retrato de Titus, el amado hijo de Rembrandt. Me pareci\u00f3, y me sigue pareciendo, que era una pintura sobre el adi\u00f3s al hogar, sobre la entrada en el mundo.\n\nUna teor\u00eda m\u00e1s erudita sugiere que la pintura podr\u00eda haber sido inspirada por un polaco, Jonaz Szlichtyng, quien fue algo parecido a un h\u00e9roe rebelde en los c\u00edrculos disidentes del \u00c1msterdam de la \u00e9poca de Rembrandt. Szlichtyng pertenec\u00eda a una secta de seguidores del te\u00f3logo sien\u00e9s Lebo Sozznisi, que en el siglo XVI neg\u00f3 la divinidad de Cristo como hijo de Dios, pues si lo fuera, la religi\u00f3n dejar\u00eda de ser monote\u00edsta. Si el cuadro est\u00e1 inspirado por Jonaz Szlichtyng, la imagen que ofrece es la figura de un Cristo que ser\u00eda un hombre, solo un hombre que, montado a caballo, se dispone a enfrentarse a su destino.\n\n\u00bfCrees que yendo as\u00ed de r\u00e1pido me puedes dejar atr\u00e1s?, me pregunta al ponerse a mi lado en el primer sem\u00e1foro de Kielce.\n\nAdvierto que conduce sin zapatos, los pies descalzos en los pedales.\n\nImposible dejarte atr\u00e1s, digo, enderezando la espalda y poniendo los pies en el suelo.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 corres tanto, entonces?\n\nNo respondo porque ella sabe la respuesta.\n\nEn la velocidad hay una ternura olvidada. Ten\u00eda una forma especial de levantar la mano del volante para poder ver los indicadores sin tener que mover la cabeza un mil\u00edmetro. Y este peque\u00f1o movimiento de la mano era tan preciso, tan claro, como el de un gran director de orquesta. Adoraba su seguridad.\n\nEn vida, la llamaba Liz, y ella me llamaba Met. Le gustaba el apodo porque hasta ese momento le habr\u00eda parecido inconcebible responder a un diminutivo as\u00ed de vulgar. En \"Liz\" se violaba una ley, y le encantaba violar las leyes.\n\nMet es el nombre de un copiloto en una novela de Antoine de Saint-Exup\u00e9ry. _Vuelo nocturno_ , tal vez _._ Hab\u00eda le\u00eddo mucho m\u00e1s que yo, pero yo era m\u00e1s astuto; puede que me pusiera el nombre de un copiloto por eso. Se le ocurri\u00f3 llamarme Met viajando por Calabria. Siempre que nos baj\u00e1bamos del coche se pon\u00eda un sombrero de ala ancha. Detestaba broncearse. Ten\u00eda la piel tan blanca como la familia real espa\u00f1ola en la \u00e9poca de Vel\u00e1zquez.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 nos uni\u00f3? Superficialmente, fue la curiosidad; \u00e9ramos manifiestamente diferentes en todo, incluida la edad. Tuvimos muchos principios. Sin embargo, en el fondo, lo que nos un\u00eda era un reconocimiento t\u00e1cito de la misma tristeza. No hab\u00eda autocompasi\u00f3n en esa tristeza. Al menor signo, ella me lo habr\u00eda cauterizado. Y, como digo, yo amaba su seguridad, que es incompatible con la autocompasi\u00f3n. Era una tristeza semejante al enloquecido aullido de un perro en luna llena.\n\nPor diferentes razones, los dos cre\u00edamos que el estilo era indispensable para vivir con un poco de esperanza; y la elecci\u00f3n era vivir esperanzado o desesperado. No hab\u00eda t\u00e9rmino medio.\n\n\u00bfEstilo? Cierta levedad. Una sensaci\u00f3n de verg\u00fcenza que excluye ciertas acciones y ciertas reacciones. Cierta manera de sugerir elegancia. La suposici\u00f3n de que, pese a todo, se puede buscar, e incluso encontrar, a veces, una melod\u00eda. El estilo es algo muy tenue, sin embargo. Viene de dentro. No es posible encontrarlo fuera. Puede que el estilo y la moda compartan un mismo sue\u00f1o, pero se crean de forma distinta. El estilo entra\u00f1a una promesa invisible. Por eso requiere y fomenta cierta capacidad para la entereza y una manera especial de acomodarse en el tiempo. El estilo est\u00e1 muy cercano a la m\u00fasica.\n\nPas\u00e1bamos muchas noches escuchando en silencio discos de Bela Bart\u00f3k, de William Walton, de Benjamin Britten, de Shostak\u00f3vich, de Chopin, de Beethoven. Cientos de noches. Era la \u00e9poca de los discos de 33 revoluciones, a los que hab\u00eda que darles la vuelta manualmente. Y esos momentos de dar la vuelta al disco y de bajar lentamente la aguja del tocadiscos eran momentos de una plenitud alucinatoria, agradecida y expectante, solo comparables con otros momentos, tambi\u00e9n silenciosos, cuando uno de los dos estaba sobre el otro, haciendo el amor.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 el aullido, entonces? El estilo sale de dentro, pero su convicci\u00f3n es prestada; tiene que tomarla de otra \u00e9poca para depositarla en el presente, y a cambio del pr\u00e9stamo dejarle algo en prenda a esa otra \u00e9poca. El apasionado presente es invariablemente demasiado corto para el estilo. La aristocr\u00e1tica Liz la tomaba del pasado; y yo, de un futuro revolucionario.\n\nNuestros dos estilos eran extraordinariamente pr\u00f3ximos. No estoy hablando de marcas comerciales o de ciertos accesorios. Recuerdo c\u00f3mo \u00e9ramos cuando camin\u00e1bamos por un bosque empapados por la lluvia o cuando lleg\u00e1bamos de madrugada a la estaci\u00f3n central de Mil\u00e1n. Muy pr\u00f3ximos.\n\nNo obstante, cuando nos mir\u00e1bamos a los ojos, desafiando el riesgo que corr\u00edamos al hacerlo, un riesgo del que \u00e9ramos plenamente conscientes, los dos sab\u00edamos que los tiempos prestados eran una quimera. De ah\u00ed la tristeza. Aquello era lo que hac\u00eda aullar al perro.\n\nSe abre el sem\u00e1foro. La adelanto, y ella me sigue. Cuando dejamos atr\u00e1s Kielce, hago una se\u00f1al para indicarle que voy a parar. Los dos nos echamos a la cuneta, al borde de otro bosque, m\u00e1s oscuro que el anterior. Ya ha bajado la ventanilla. El fino cabello, que le cubre la mejilla y se ondula detr\u00e1s de la oreja, est\u00e1 delicadamente enredado. Delicadamente porque desenredarlo con mis dedos requerir\u00eda mucha delicadeza. Ha puesto plumas de diferentes colores sobre la guantera.\n\nMet, me dice, hab\u00eda d\u00edas y d\u00edas, \u00bfrecuerdas?, en los que consegu\u00edamos librarnos de la vulgaridad de la historia. Pero pasado un tiempo, tu volv\u00edas a ella, abandon\u00e1ndome a m\u00ed; una y otra vez. Eras adicto.\n\n\u00bfA qu\u00e9?\n\nEras adicto \u2014acaricia las plumas con el dedo\u2014, eras adicto a querer hacer la historia; eleg\u00edas ignorar que quienes creen que est\u00e1n haciendo la historia ya han metido la mano en el poder, o imaginan que la han metido, y que este poder, tan cierto como que la noche es larga, Met, los terminar\u00e1 confundiendo. Pasado un a\u00f1o ya no sabr\u00e1n qu\u00e9 est\u00e1n haciendo. Deja caer la mano en el muslo.\n\nLa historia hay que sufrirla, contin\u00faa, sufrirla con orgullo, un orgullo absurdo y \u2014sabe Dios por qu\u00e9\u2014 tambi\u00e9n invencible. En Europa, los polacos han sido durante siglos los especialistas en esta forma de sufrir la historia. Por eso los amo. Los am\u00e9 desde que conoc\u00ed a algunos pilotos del Escuadr\u00f3n 303 durante la guerra. Nunca les hice preguntas; me limitaba a escucharlos. Y cuando me lo ped\u00edan, bailaba con ellos.\n\nUn carro cargado con madera reci\u00e9n cortada emerge del bosque. Los dos caballos est\u00e1n cubiertos de sudor porque las ruedas se hunden en la tierra reblandecida del camino forestal.\n\nEl alma de este lugar tiene mucho que ver con los caballos, dice, ri\u00e9ndose. Y t\u00fa, con tus famosas leyes de la historia, no sabes cepillar un caballo, como tampoco sab\u00eda Trotski. Tal vez alg\u00fan d\u00eda \u2014\u00bfqui\u00e9n sabe?\u2014 vuelvas a mis brazos sin esas famosas leyes de la historia.\n\nHace un gesto que no s\u00e9 describir. Sencillamente coloca la cabeza de tal forma que lo que veo es su cabello y la nuca.\n\nSupongamos que tuvieras que elegir un epitafio, \u00bfcu\u00e1l escoger\u00edas?, pregunta.\n\nSi tuviera que elegir un epitafio, elegir\u00eda _El jinete polaco,_ le digo.\n\n\u00a1No puedes utilizar un cuadro de epitafio!\n\n\u00bfAh, no?\n\nEs maravilloso tener a alguien que te quite las botas. \"Es una mujer que sabe quitarle las botas a un hombre\", dice un conocido piropo ruso. Esta noche me las quito yo solo. Y siendo como son botas de motorista, una vez fuera, cobran una apariencia propia. No son diferentes porque lleven protectores de metal, ni porque est\u00e9n reforzadas con una pieza de cuero adicional en la punta para protegerlas del continuo desgaste del cambio de marcha, ni porque tengan una banda fosforescente alrededor para hacer m\u00e1s visible al conductor por la noche, sino porque al quit\u00e1rmelas tengo la sensaci\u00f3n de apartarme, de salir, de los muchos miles de kil\u00f3metros que hemos hecho juntos, ellas y yo. Podr\u00edan ser las botas de siete leguas que tanto me fascinaban de ni\u00f1o. Las botas que me quer\u00eda llevar a todas partes, pues ya entonces so\u00f1aba con la carretera, aunque me cagara de miedo.\n\nMe gusta el cuadro de _El jinete polaco_ como podr\u00eda gustarle a un ni\u00f1o: porque es el comienzo de una historia contada por un anciano que ha visto muchas cosas y nunca ve el momento de irse a dormir.\n\nMe gusta el jinete como podr\u00eda gustarle a una mujer: por su coraje, su insolencia, su vulnerabilidad, sus fuertes muslos. Liz tiene raz\u00f3n. Muchos caballos atraviesan aqu\u00ed nuestros sue\u00f1os.\n\nEn 1939, varias unidades de caballer\u00eda del ej\u00e9rcito polaco armadas con sables cargaron contra los tanques de las divisiones Panzer del ej\u00e9rcito invasor. En el siglo XVII, los llamados \"jinetes alados\" eran temidos cual \u00e1ngeles vengadores en las llanuras orientales. Sin embargo, el caballo significa algo m\u00e1s que proeza militar. Durante siglos, los polacos se han visto continuamente obligados a viajar o a emigrar. Las carreteras, que cruzan un pa\u00eds sin fronteras naturales, no tienen fin.\n\nLos h\u00e1bitos ecuestres permanecen todav\u00eda visibles en los cuerpos y en la forma de moverse de los polacos. El gesto caracter\u00edstico de poner el pie derecho en el estribo levantando en un golpe simult\u00e1neo la otra pierna se me viene a la cabeza en una pizzer\u00eda de Varsovia, al observar a unos hombres y mujeres que posiblemente nunca se han aproximado y mucho menos subido a un caballo y que est\u00e1n bebiendo Pepsi-Cola.\n\nMe gusta el caballo de _El jinete polaco_ como podr\u00eda gustarle a un jinete que ha perdido su montura y le han dado otra. El caballo ofrecido a cambio est\u00e1 un poco entrado en a\u00f1os \u2014los polacos llaman a esos jamelgos _szkapa_ \u2014, pero es un animal de probada lealtad.\n\nFinalmente, me gusta la invitaci\u00f3n del paisaje, all\u00ed a donde lleve.\n\n______________\n\n1 Valentiner, W. R., _Rembrandt and Spinoza: A Study of the Spiritual Conflicts in Seventeenth Century Holland_ , Phaidon, Londres, 1957.\n\n2 Lewis, David, _Mondrian, 1872-1944_ , Faber & Faber, Londres, 1957.\n\n3 Primera ep\u00edstola de san Juan, 4, 16 y 13.\n\n## **Willem Drost**\n\n## 1633-1659\n\nLa casa ocupa uno de los lados de una plaza, en la que hay unos \u00e1lamos muy altos. Construida poco antes de la Revoluci\u00f3n francesa, la casa es m\u00e1s antigua que los \u00e1rboles. Aloja una colecci\u00f3n compuesta de muebles, cuadros, porcelanas y armaduras que lleva abierta al p\u00fablico, como museo, m\u00e1s de un siglo. La entrada es gratuita; cualquiera puede pasar.\n\nLas salas, que ocupan la planta baja y el primer piso, al que se accede por una gran escalera, est\u00e1n igual que cuando el famoso coleccionista abri\u00f3 su casa a la naci\u00f3n. Cuando las atraviesas, algo del siglo XVIII se te posa, suavemente, como el polvo, en la piel. Unos polvos de talco del siglo XVIII.\n\nMuchos de los cuadros expuestos representan mujeres j\u00f3venes y piezas de caza abatidas, dos temas que brindan testimonio de una pasi\u00f3n por un tipo u otro de persecuci\u00f3n. Todas las paredes est\u00e1n cubiertas de \u00f3leos colgados muy juntos. Los muros exteriores son muy espesos, y no entra ning\u00fan sonido de la ciudad.\n\nEn una peque\u00f1a sala de la planta baja, que en su d\u00eda fue caballeriza y hoy est\u00e1 llena de armaduras y mosquetes, cre\u00ed o\u00edr a un caballo resoplando. Entonces intent\u00e9 imaginar c\u00f3mo se escoge y se compra un caballo. Poseer un caballo debe de ser distinto a poseer cualquier otra cosa. Mejor que poseer un cuadro. Tambi\u00e9n me imagin\u00e9 robando uno. \u00bfHabr\u00eda sido tal vez m\u00e1s complicado poseer un caballo robado que cometer adulterio? Preguntas banales, cuyas respuestas, sin embargo, jam\u00e1s sabremos. Mientras tanto, segu\u00ed mi recorrido, de sala en sala.\n\nUna l\u00e1mpara de techo de porcelana pintada, cuyo candelero semeja una trompa de elefante, un elefante verde. La porcelana procede de la real f\u00e1brica de S\u00e8vres, y madame de Pompadour fue su primera due\u00f1a. La monarqu\u00eda absoluta significaba que todas las criaturas eran sirvientes potenciales, y uno de los servicios m\u00e1s demandados era el de la decoraci\u00f3n.\n\nEn el extremo opuesto de la misma sala hab\u00eda una c\u00f3moda que perteneci\u00f3 a Luis XV. La taracea es de palisandro y los adornos rococ\u00f3 son de bronce pulido.\n\nLa mayor\u00eda de los visitantes, al igual que yo, eran extranjeros, personas de edad, m\u00e1s que j\u00f3venes, y todos se mov\u00edan casi de puntillas, como si esperaran toparse con algo indiscreto. Este tipo de museo convierte a los visitantes en fisgones de largas narices. Si nos atrevi\u00e9ramos, y pudi\u00e9ramos, abrir\u00edamos todos los cajones.\n\nEn la parte holandesa de la colecci\u00f3n, pasamos ante campesinos borrachos, una mujer leyendo una carta, una escena festiva, una escena de burdel, un Rembrandt, y un lienzo de uno de sus disc\u00edpulos. Este \u00faltimo me intrig\u00f3 de inmediato. Segu\u00ed avanzando, pero enseguida volv\u00ed a mirarlo. Y as\u00ed varias veces.\n\nEl disc\u00edpulo de Rembrandt se llamaba Willem Drost. Naci\u00f3 probablemente en Leiden. En el Museo del Louvre, hay una Betsab\u00e9 suya que recuerda a la de Rembrandt, pintada ese mismo a\u00f1o. Drost debi\u00f3 de ser contempor\u00e1neo exacto de Baruch Spinoza. No sabemos ni la fecha ni el lugar de su muerte.\n\nLa mujer no mira al espectador. Mira fijamente al hombre que desea, imaginando que es su amante. Ese hombre solo pudo ser Drost. Lo \u00fanico que sabemos de \u00e9l es que fue deseado precisamente por esta mujer.\n\nMe hizo recordar algo que por lo general no suelen recordar los museos. Que te deseen \u2014si el deseo es adem\u00e1s rec\u00edproco\u2014 te hace audaz. Ninguna armadura de las salas de la planta baja ofreci\u00f3 nunca a quien la llevara puesta una sensaci\u00f3n de protecci\u00f3n comparable. Ser deseado es tal vez lo m\u00e1s parecido que se pueda alcanzar en esta vida a sentirse inmortal.\n\nWillem Drost, _Joven con un vestido de brocado_ , hacia 1654.\n\nFue entonces cuando o\u00ed una voz. No era una voz de \u00c1msterdam, sino una voz que llegaba desde la gran escalinata de la casa. Era una voz chillona, pero melodiosa; precisa, pero susurrante, como si estuviera a punto de echarse a re\u00edr. La risa brillaba en ella como brilla en un tejido de sat\u00e9n la luz que entra por una ventana. Y lo m\u00e1s sorprendente de todo es que aquella voz se dirig\u00eda sin duda a un grupo numeroso; cuando hac\u00eda una pausa se produc\u00eda un silencio. No distingu\u00eda las palabras, as\u00ed que, sin vacilar un momento, volv\u00ed a la escalera, tal era la curiosidad que me hab\u00eda despertado. Unas veinte personas, puede que algunas m\u00e1s, sub\u00edan lentamente desde la planta baja. Todav\u00eda no pude saber de qui\u00e9n era la voz. Todos estaban esperando a que volviera a hablar.\n\n\"En lo alto de la escalera, a la izquierda, ver\u00e1n un costurero de tres pisos, donde se dejaban, al acabar de bordar, las tijeras y la labor, y esta quedaba expuesta, lo que era, \u00bfno es verdad?, mucho mejor que meterla en un caj\u00f3n. Lo que se guardaba en cajones, bajo llave, eran las cartas. Esta pieza perteneci\u00f3 a la emperatriz Josefina. Los peque\u00f1os medallones ovalados en color azul, que parece que nos est\u00e1n gui\u00f1ando el ojo, son de porcelana de Wedgwood\".\n\nPor fin la vi. Sub\u00eda sola las escaleras. Iba completamente vestida de negro. Zapatos planos negros, medias negras, falda negra, jersey negro y una cinta negra sujet\u00e1ndole el cabello. Ten\u00eda el tama\u00f1o de una marioneta grande, no medir\u00eda m\u00e1s de 1,20 m. Al hablar gesticulaba con las manos, que revoloteaban o se quedaban suspendidas en el aire. Estaba entrada en a\u00f1os, y me dio la impresi\u00f3n de que su delgadez ten\u00eda algo que ver con una forma de escabullirse del tiempo. No estaba esquel\u00e9tica, sin embargo. De parecerse a alg\u00fan ser del pasado, ser\u00eda a una ninfa. Llevaba al cuello un cord\u00f3n negro del que colgaba una tarjeta. En la tarjeta estaba impreso el famoso nombre de la colecci\u00f3n y, en letras m\u00e1s peque\u00f1as, su propio nombre. Su nombre de pila era Amanda. Era tan menuda que la tarjeta parec\u00eda desmesuradamente grande, como un cartel pinchado en un vestido expuesto en un escaparate anunciando una \u00faltima rebaja.\n\n\"En aquella vitrina de all\u00ed pueden ver una cajita de rap\u00e9 hecha de cornalina y oro. En aquellos tiempos, las mujeres tomaban rap\u00e9 igual que los hombres. Despejaba la cabeza y aguzaba los sentidos; alz\u00f3 la barbilla, ech\u00f3 la cabeza atr\u00e1s y fingi\u00f3 que inhalaba rap\u00e9. Esta caja en particular tiene un cajoncito secreto donde el propietario guardaba un retrato min\u00fasculo de su amante; est\u00e1 pintado al gouache y no es m\u00e1s grande que un sello de correos. Miren su sonrisa. Yo dir\u00eda que fue ella quien le regal\u00f3 la cajita de rap\u00e9. La cornalina es un tipo de \u00e1gata de color rojo procedente de Sicilia. Puede que el color le recordara a \u00e9l. Ya saben, la mayor\u00eda de las mujeres ven a los hombres o rojos o azules \u2014encogi\u00f3 sus delicados hombros\u2014. Los rojos son m\u00e1s f\u00e1ciles de llevar\".\n\nCuando se call\u00f3, no mir\u00f3 al p\u00fablico, sino que se volvi\u00f3 de espaldas y avanz\u00f3 por la sala. Pese a su corta estatura, caminaba mucho m\u00e1s deprisa que el grupo que la segu\u00eda. Llevaba un anillo en el pulgar izquierdo. Sospecho que el pelo negro era una peluca, pues ten\u00eda pinta de preferir llevar pelucas a lavarse la cabeza.\n\nNuestro recorrido por las salas empez\u00f3 a parecerse a un paseo por el bosque. Todo era cuesti\u00f3n de d\u00f3nde nos pon\u00eda, d\u00f3nde se pon\u00eda ella y d\u00f3nde aquello de lo que hablaba. Nos imped\u00eda agruparnos alrededor de lo que estuviera explicando. Se\u00f1alaba hacia un objeto u otro como si se tratara de un ciervo que acabara de cruzarse en nuestro camino, entre dos \u00e1rboles distantes. Y siempre que dirig\u00eda nuestra atenci\u00f3n hacia algo, se manten\u00eda a un lado, como si ella misma acabara de aparecer detr\u00e1s de otro \u00e1rbol. Llegamos junto a una estatua cuyo m\u00e1rmol estaba tomando un tono verduzco por causa de la humedad y la poca luz.\n\n\"Esta estatua representa a la Amistad consolando al Amor \u2014musit\u00f3\u2014, pues por entonces la relaci\u00f3n de madame de Pompadour con Luis XV ya solo era plat\u00f3nica, lo que no impide que ella lleve un traje precioso, \u00bfverdad?\"\n\nAbajo un reloj dorado tras otro dieron las cuatro.\n\n\"Ahora nos dirigimos \u2014dijo irguiendo la cabeza\u2014 hacia otra parte del bosque. Aqu\u00ed todo es fresco, y todos est\u00e1n vestidos m\u00e1s ligeros de ropa, incluida la joven sentada en el columpio. Nada de estatuas de la Amistad por aqu\u00ed; aqu\u00ed todas las estatuas son de Cupido. El columpio lo colgaron en primavera. Ya se ha quitado, \u00bfse han fijado?, un zapato. \u00bfAdrede? \u00bfSin darse cuenta? \u00bfQui\u00e9n sabe? En cuanto una joven se sienta, ligera de ropa, en el columpio, esas preguntas pasan a ser muy dif\u00edciles de contestar, no tiene los pies en el suelo. El marido la empuja desde atr\u00e1s. El columpio sube, el columpio baja. El amante est\u00e1 oculto enfrente, entre unos arbustos, donde ella le dijo que se escondiera. Su vestido, de sat\u00e9n con volantes de encaje, es menos elaborado, m\u00e1s informal que el de madame de Pompadour, y, para ser sincera, yo lo prefiero. \u00bfSaben c\u00f3mo llamaban al rojo de su vestido? Lo llamaban rojo melocot\u00f3n, aunque, personalmente, nunca he visto un melocot\u00f3n de ese color, como tampoco he visto nunca ruborizarse a un melocot\u00f3n. Las medias son de algod\u00f3n blanco, un poco toscas comparadas con la piel de las rodillas que cubren. Las ligas, rosas, a juego con los zapatos, son demasiado peque\u00f1as para subirlas m\u00e1s arriba sin que aprieten. F\u00edjense en su amante escondido. En el pie descalzo de ella, que mantiene subidas su falda y sus enaguas: el sat\u00e9n y los encajes susurran suavemente al rebufo del aire... \u00a1Y nadie, se lo puedo asegurar, nadie, en aquellos tiempos, llevaba ropa interior! A \u00e9l se le salen los ojos de las \u00f3rbitas. Eso es lo que ella quer\u00eda, que \u00e9l se lo viera todo\".\n\nJean-Honor\u00e9 Fragonard, _El columpio_ , 1767.\n\nSus palabras se detuvieron de pronto, y ella hizo un ruidito con la lengua detr\u00e1s de los dientes, como si estuviera pronunciando solo las consonantes de las palabras \"encaje\" y \"sat\u00e9n\" sin sus vocales. Ten\u00eda los ojos cerrados. Cuando los abri\u00f3, continu\u00f3: \"El encaje es un tipo de escritura en blanco, que solo se puede leer cuando hay carne detr\u00e1s\".\n\nEntonces se hizo a un lado y dejamos de verla. La visita guiada hab\u00eda terminado.\n\nAntes de que nadie pudiera hacerle alguna pregunta o darle las gracias, desapareci\u00f3 en una oficina que se abr\u00eda detr\u00e1s del mostrador de la librer\u00eda. Cuando sali\u00f3, una media hora m\u00e1s tarde, se hab\u00eda quitado la cinta que llevaba colgada al cuello con la tarjeta de identificaci\u00f3n y se hab\u00eda puesto un abrigo negro. Si se hubiera colocado a mi lado, no me llegar\u00eda m\u00e1s arriba del codo.\n\nBaj\u00f3 ligera los escalones de la entrada hasta la plaza de los \u00e1lamos. En la mano llevaba una endeble bolsa de pl\u00e1stico de Marks & Spencer, que de tan usada parec\u00eda que se iba a romper.\n\nEste esfuerzo, cuando se refiere al alma sola, se llama voluntad, pero cuando se refiere a la vez al alma y al cuerpo, se llama apetito; por ende, este no es otra cosa que la esencia misma del hombre, de cuya naturaleza se siguen necesariamente aquellas cosas que sirven para su conservaci\u00f3n, cosas que, por tanto, el hombre est\u00e1 determinado a realizar. Adem\u00e1s entre \"apetito\" y \"deseo\" no hay diferencia alguna, si no es la de que el \"deseo\" se refiere generalmente a los hombres, en cuanto que son conscientes de su apetito, y por ello puede definirse as\u00ed: el deseo es el apetito acompa\u00f1ado de la conciencia del mismo. As\u00ed pues, queda claro, en virtud de todo esto, que nosotros no intentamos, queremos, apetecemos ni deseamos algo porque lo juzguemos bueno, sino que, al contrario, juzgamos que algo es bueno porque lo intentamos, queremos, apetecemos y deseamos.1\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 llevaba en la bolsa de Mark & Spencer? Me imagino que una coliflor, un par de zapatos a los que hab\u00eda puestos medias suelas y siete regalitos empaquetados. Estos son todos para la misma persona y cada uno lleva un n\u00famero y est\u00e1 atado con el mismo cordoncillo dorado. En el primero hay una concha marina, una caracola del tama\u00f1o de la mano cerrada de un ni\u00f1o, o tal vez de la suya. La caracola tiene un color de fieltro plateado con irisaciones anaranjadas. Las espirales que forman sus quebradizas incrustaciones se parecen a los volantes del vestido de la joven del columpio, y su pulido interior es tan p\u00e1lido como la piel que normalmente est\u00e1 al resguardo del sol.\n\nEl segundo regalo: una pastilla de jab\u00f3n de la marca Arcadia, comprada en un Boots. Huele a una espalda que puedes acariciar, pero que no ves porque est\u00e1s mirando al frente.\n\nEl tercer paquete contiene una vela. La etiqueta del precio marca 8,5 \u20ac. En el cuarto, hay otra vela. Esta vez no es una vela de cera sin m\u00e1s, sino una vela dentro de un vasito que parece contener agua de mar, con arena y unas conchas min\u00fasculas en el fondo. La mecha parece flotar en la superficie. Una etiqueta impresa en el cristal dice: No dejar arder sin vigilancia.\n\nEl quinto regalo: una bolsa de gominolas. Son de una marca que existe desde siempre. Puede que sean las golosinas m\u00e1s baratas del mundo. Pese a sus variados y \u00e1cidos colores, saben todas parecidas.\n\nEl sexto regalo es un casete de un coro de monjas agustinas que cantan _O filii et filiae_ , una canci\u00f3n de canto gregoriano del siglo XIII escrita por Jean Tisserand.\n\nEl s\u00e9ptimo es una caja de l\u00e1pices. Blando. Medio. Duro. Los trazos del grafito blando son negros como una espesa mata de pelo negro, y los del duro se parecen al cabello que empieza a canear. El grafito, al igual que la piel, tiene sus propios aceites. Es una sustancia muy distinta de las cenizas del carb\u00f3n. Su brillo, cuando se aplica al papel, se parece al brillo de labios. Con uno de los l\u00e1pices ha escrito una nota en un papel y la ha metido dentro de la caja: \"En la \u00faltima hora del \u00faltimo d\u00eda, habr\u00e1s de recordarlo\".\n\nLuego volv\u00ed a mirar a la mujer enamorada del pintor holand\u00e9s.\n\nJohn Berger, dibujo a partir de _Joven con un vestido de brocado_ de Willem Drost.\n\n______________\n\n1 Spinoza, Baruch, _\u00c9tica_ [1661-1675], Alianza, Madrid, 1987\/2011, parte tercera, proposici\u00f3n IX, escolio.\n\n## **Jean-Antoine Watteau**\n\n## 1684-1721\n\nLa delicadeza en el arte no es necesariamente lo opuesto a la fuerza. Una acuarela sobre seda puede ejercer un efecto m\u00e1s potente en el espectador que una figura en bronce de tres metros de altura. La mayor parte de los dibujos de Watteau son tan delicados, tan vacilantes, que casi da la impresi\u00f3n de que los hizo en secreto; o como si estuviera dibujando la mariposa que se ha posado en una hoja delante de \u00e9l y teme que el movimiento o el ruido del carboncillo sobre el papel la espanten. Esto no quita que, al mismo tiempo, revelen un poder enorme de observaci\u00f3n y sensibilidad.\n\nEste contraste nos da una pista sobre el temperamento de Watteau y sobre el tema subyacente de su arte. Aunque pint\u00f3 mayormente payasos, arlequines, _f\u00eates_ y lo que hoy llamar\u00edamos bailes de disfraces, su tema fundamental era tr\u00e1gico: la mortalidad. Watteau enferm\u00f3 joven de tuberculosis y probablemente intuy\u00f3 su temprana muerte, a la edad de treinta y siete a\u00f1os. Posiblemente presinti\u00f3 tambi\u00e9n que el mundo de elegancia aristocr\u00e1tica que le ped\u00eda que pintara estaba tambi\u00e9n condenado a desaparecer. Los cortesanos se re\u00fanen en el _Embarque para Citerea_ (uno de sus cuadros m\u00e1s famosos), pero lo conmovedor del acontecimiento reside en sus consecuencias, en que cuando lleguen no ser\u00e1 el lugar legendario que esperaban: las guillotinas estar\u00e1n a punto de caer. (Algunos cr\u00edticos sugieren que los cortesanos est\u00e1n _volviendo_ de Citerea; pero en cualquiera de los dos casos existe un contraste pat\u00e9tico entre lo legendario y lo real.) No quiero decir con esto que Watteau previera realmente la Revoluci\u00f3n francesa o que pintara profec\u00edas. De haber sido as\u00ed, sus obras ser\u00edan hoy menos importantes de lo que son, porque hoy esas profec\u00edas estar\u00edan obsoletas. El tema de su arte era simplemente el cambio, la fugacidad, la brevedad de cada momento suspendido en el aire como una mariposa.\n\nEste tema podr\u00eda haberle llevado al sentimentalismo, a una tenue nostalgia. Pero es en ese punto donde su implacable observaci\u00f3n de la realidad lo convierte en un gran artista. Digo implacable porque la observaci\u00f3n de un artista no consiste solo en poner sus ojos a trabajar; es el resultado de su honradez, de su lucha personal por entender lo que ve. Miremos su autorretrato. Tiene una cara ligeramente femenina: los ojos amables, como los de una mujer pintada por Rubens, los labios carnosos, sensuales, la delicada oreja afinada para o\u00edr canciones rom\u00e1nticas o el rom\u00e1ntico eco del mar en la caracola, el tema de otro de sus dibujos. Pero volvamos a mirarlo m\u00e1s a fondo, pues bajo el cutis delicado y el aspecto coqueto, est\u00e1 la calavera. Lo que implica est\u00e1 solo susurrado por el oscuro \u00e9nfasis bajo la mejilla derecha, las sombras alrededor de los ojos, la manera de dibujar la oreja, que pone de relieve la sien que est\u00e1 delante. Y, sin embargo, ese susurro, como los apartes en el escenario, es a\u00fan m\u00e1s sorprendente, precisamente, por no ser un grito. \"Pero cualquier dibujo de una cabeza \u2014puede objetarse\u2014 revela un cr\u00e1neo, porque la forma de la cabeza depende de este\". Por supuesto, pero entre el cr\u00e1neo como estructura y el cr\u00e1neo como presencia hay un mundo de diferencia. De la misma manera que los ojos pueden mirar a trav\u00e9s de una m\u00e1scara, reduciendo as\u00ed el efecto del disfraz, as\u00ed tambi\u00e9n en este dibujo el hueso parece mirar a trav\u00e9s de la carne, tan fina en algunos puntos como la seda.\n\nEn un dibujo de una mujer que lleva la cabeza cubierta con un manto, Watteau hace la misma observaci\u00f3n, pero sirvi\u00e9ndose de unos medios completamente distintos, opuestos. Aqu\u00ed, en lugar de comparar la carne con el hueso bajo ella, la pone en contraste con el pa\u00f1o que la cubre. No cuesta trabajo imaginarse ese manto custodiado en un museo, y la persona que lo lleva muerta. El contraste entre la cara y el pa\u00f1o es semejante al contraste entre las nubes en el cielo y el acantilado, y las casas bajo \u00e9l en un paisaje dibujado. La l\u00ednea de la boca de la mujer es tan ef\u00edmera como la silueta de un p\u00e1jaro en vuelo.\n\nHay una p\u00e1gina de un cuaderno de dibujo de Watteau que tiene dos dibujos de la cabeza de un ni\u00f1o y un estudio maravilloso de un par de manos haciendo un lazo. Y aqu\u00ed todo an\u00e1lisis fracasa. Es imposible explicar por qu\u00e9 esa cinta con un nudo flojo puede convertirse con tanta facilidad en un s\u00edmbolo del flojo nudo que ata la vida humana; pero esta transformaci\u00f3n no es tan improbable y sin duda coincide con el esp\u00edritu de toda la p\u00e1gina.\n\nNo quiero sugerir que la preocupaci\u00f3n de Watteau por la mortalidad fuera constante y consciente, que tuviera un inter\u00e9s morboso por la muerte. En absoluto. Probablemente sus mecenas no percib\u00edan este aspecto de su obra. Watteau nunca lleg\u00f3 a tener mucho \u00e9xito en vida, pero su t\u00e9cnica \u2014impresionante, por ejemplo, en su retrato de un diplom\u00e1tico persa\u2014 fue muy apreciada, al igual que su elegancia y lo que en la \u00e9poca se habr\u00eda considerado su languidez rom\u00e1ntica. Y hoy podemos considerar tambi\u00e9n otros aspectos de su obra como, por ejemplo, su t\u00e9cnica magistral para el dibujo.\n\nPor lo general dibujaba con carboncillo o sanguina. La blandura del medio le permiti\u00f3 alcanzar esa impresi\u00f3n de movimiento suave, ondulante, que es t\u00edpica de sus dibujos. Describi\u00f3 como no lo ha hecho ning\u00fan otro artista la ca\u00edda de la seda y c\u00f3mo la luz se desparrama por ella. Sus barcos surcan las olas, y la luz rebota en los cascos con el mismo ritmo ondulante. Sus estudios de animales tienen toda la fluidez del movimiento animal. Todo tiene un movimiento sinuoso, lento o pausado: observemos el pelo del gato, el cabello del ni\u00f1o, las circunvoluciones de la caracola, la ca\u00edda en cascada del manto, el remolino de los tres rostros grotescos, el suave meandro del desnudo que se desliza hacia el suelo, los pliegues similares al delta de un r\u00edo de la t\u00fanica persa. Todo fluye, pero es en ese fluir donde Watteau pone el acento, donde deja la impronta de una certidumbre resistente a toda corriente. Estas marcas hacen que una mejilla gire, que un pulgar se articule con la mu\u00f1eca, que un pecho se apriete contra un brazo, que un ojo se amolde a su cuenca, que un umbral tenga profundidad o que un manto rodee una cabeza. Atraviesa los dibujos, como una raja en la seda, para revelar la anatom\u00eda bajo el brillo.\n\nEl manto sobrevivir\u00e1 a la mujer cuya cabeza cubre. La l\u00ednea de su boca es tan esquiva como un p\u00e1jaro. Pero los negros a cada lado del cuello dan solidez y precisi\u00f3n a su cabeza, le posibilitan el giro y la hacen en\u00e9rgica, y, por consiguiente, viva. Son las l\u00edneas oscuras, resaltadas, las que dan vida a la figura o a la forma, por el procedimiento de frenar moment\u00e1neamente el fluir del dibujo en su conjunto. En otro nivel, la conciencia humana constituye un freno moment\u00e1neo al ritmo natural de la vida y de la muerte. Y del mismo modo, lejos de ser algo m\u00f3rbido, esa conciencia de la mortalidad que ten\u00eda Watteau incrementa la nuestra con respecto a la vida.\n\n## **Francisco de Goya**\n\n## 1746-1828\n\nFrancisco de Goya, _Retrato de Isabel de Porcel_ , 1805.\n\nConoc\u00ed a Janos unos dos a\u00f1os antes de que empezara este diario. Fue en la National Gallery (es curioso cu\u00e1ntas cosas empiezan y acaban en la National Gallery para quienes tienen anhelos art\u00edsticos). Est\u00e1bamos los dos frente al _Retrato de Isabel de Porcel_ de Goya, cuando una chica, probablemente estudiante de arte, se acerc\u00f3 tambi\u00e9n a mirarlo. Ten\u00eda una melena oscura, que se apartaba de la cara moviendo la cabeza, y llevaba una falda negra ce\u00f1ida que se enrollaba en la cintura como una toalla \u2014era antes de que se pusieran de moda los vaqueros\u2014 que daba la impresi\u00f3n de que se le pod\u00eda caer en cualquier momento, pero esto no parec\u00eda desconcertarla en lo m\u00e1s m\u00ednimo. Se par\u00f3 frente al cuadro, con una mano en la cadera y ligeramente inclinada hacia atr\u00e1s, repitiendo as\u00ed inconscientemente la pose de Isabel de Porcel. Repar\u00e9 en Janos, un hombre alto con un inmenso abrigo negro, que miraba alternativamente a la chica y al cuadro, obviamente divertido. Me observ\u00f3, sin dejar de sonre\u00edr. Sus ojos, aunque rodeados de arrugas, eran muy brillantes. Tendr\u00eda unos sesenta a\u00f1os y parec\u00eda lleno de energ\u00eda. Le devolv\u00ed la sonrisa. Cuando la chica continu\u00f3 su camino hacia la siguiente sala, ambos nos aproximamos al cuadro de Goya. \"Los vivos y los imperecederos\", dijo con una voz profunda y un acento claramente extranjero. \"\u00a1Menuda elecci\u00f3n!\"\n\nAl aproximarme, pude estudiar con m\u00e1s detalle la expresi\u00f3n de su cara. Era una cara urbana, experimentada, tensa, viajada, pero todav\u00eda capaz de registrar la sorpresa. Era lo opuesto a lo pulido. Dado el contexto, parec\u00eda obvio que era pintor, y sus manos, adem\u00e1s, estaban manchadas de tinta de imprimir; pero en cualquier otro contexto, uno hubiera supuesto que era jardinero o vigilante de aparcamiento. Se ve\u00eda claramente que era una persona solitaria y que nunca hab\u00eda tenido secretaria. Ten\u00eda una nariz grande, de la que le asomaban unos pelillos; una boca tambi\u00e9n grande, pero bien dibujada; unas buenas entradas con un principio de calvicie en la coronilla, y una barbilla curvada y prominente. Andaba muy erguido.\n\nCuando le pregunt\u00e9 c\u00f3mo se llamaba, lo reconoc\u00ed. Recordaba vagamente haber visto un libro suyo de dibujos de guerra antinazis, publicado unos siete u ocho a\u00f1os antes. Me hab\u00edan sorprendido porque, a diferencia de la mayor\u00eda de los dibujos de este tipo, no eran expresionistas; no obstante, en el caso de haber pensado algo m\u00e1s sobre el artista, lo m\u00e1s seguro es que hubiera supuesto inmediatamente que hab\u00eda vuelto al continente. Despu\u00e9s de conocerlo, cuando mencionaba su nombre a otras personas del mundo del arte, no le sonaba a nadie. Era conocido por algunos grupos aislados: uno o dos intelectuales de izquierdas, unos cuantos _\u00e9migr\u00e9s_ berlineses, la Embajada de Hungr\u00eda, cierto n\u00famero de j\u00f3venes pintores que lo conoc\u00edan personalmente y, es de suponer, el M15.\n\n***\n\nComo artista gr\u00e1fico, Goya era una comentarista genial. No quiero decir con esto que su obra fuera un reportaje sin m\u00e1s, lejos de ello, sino que le interesaban m\u00e1s los acontecimientos que los estados de \u00e1nimo. Cada obra es \u00fanica, pero no por su estilo, sino por el incidente que comenta. Al mismo tiempo, estos incidentes llevan de uno a otro, de modo que su efecto es un _crescendo_ , casi como en un plano de pel\u00edcula.\n\nEn verdad, otra manera de describir la visi\u00f3n de Goya, ser\u00eda decir que fue esencialmente teatral. No en el sentido despectivo que puede encerrar la palabra, sino porque lo que le interesaba constantemente era la manera en la que se pod\u00eda utilizar la acci\u00f3n para encarnar una personalidad o resumir una situaci\u00f3n. Su manera de componer era teatral. Sus obras siempre entra\u00f1an un encuentro o una reuni\u00f3n. Sus figuras no est\u00e1n reunidas en torno a un centro natural, sino que m\u00e1s bien se agrupan desde los extremos. Y el efecto de su obra es tambi\u00e9n dram\u00e1tico. Uno no analiza el proceso visual que se oculta tras un grabado de Goya; uno se somete a su cl\u00edmax.\n\nEl m\u00e9todo de dibujo de Goya sigue siendo un enigma. Resulta casi imposible decir _c\u00f3mo_ dibujaba: por d\u00f3nde empezaba, qu\u00e9 m\u00e9todo de an\u00e1lisis de la forma segu\u00eda, c\u00f3mo hab\u00eda resuelto el uso del tono. Su obra no ofrece ninguna clave que ayude a responder a estas preguntas porque lo \u00fanico que le interesaba era _lo que_ dibujaba. Sus dotes t\u00e9cnicas e imaginativas eran prodigiosas. Su control del pincel, comparable con el de Hokusai. Su capacidad para visualizar el tema era tan precisa que muchas veces apenas hay una l\u00ednea modificada entre el boceto preparatorio y la plancha acabada. Todos sus dibujos portan el sello indiscutible de su personalidad. Pero, a pesar de todo esto, los dibujos de Goya son, en cierto sentido, tan impersonales, autom\u00e1ticos y faltos de car\u00e1cter como las huellas, cuyo \u00fanico inter\u00e9s no reside en las marcas mismas, sino en lo que revelan del incidente que las causaron.\n\n\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 naturaleza era el comentario de Goya? Pues pese a la variedad de los incidentes representados, hay un tema subyacente constante. Su tema era el de las consecuencias del desinter\u00e9s del ser humano \u2014que a veces se convierte en odio hist\u00e9rico\u2014 por su facultad m\u00e1s valiosa, la raz\u00f3n. Pero la raz\u00f3n en el sentido materialista del siglo XVIII: la raz\u00f3n que proporciona un placer que se deriva de los sentidos. En la obra de Goya, la carne es un campo de batalla en el que luchan, en un bando, la ignorancia, la pasi\u00f3n descontrolada y la superstici\u00f3n y, en el otro, la dignidad, la elegancia y el placer. Esa fuerza \u00fanica de su obra se debe al hecho de que participaba de una forma sumamente _sensual_ del terror y del horror que supon\u00eda traicionar a la raz\u00f3n.\n\nEn todas las obras de Goya, a excepci\u00f3n, tal vez, de las m\u00e1s tempranas, se percibe una fuerte ambivalencia sensual y sexual. Es bien conocida la denuncia que hace en los retratos reales de la corrupci\u00f3n f\u00edsica. Pero la sugerencia de corrupci\u00f3n aparece igualmente en su retrato de Isabel de Porcel. Su Maja, tan hermosa, est\u00e1, sin embargo, _aterradoramente_ desnuda. Admiramos en un dibujo la delicadeza de las flores bordadas en las medias de una hermosa cortesana, y luego, de pronto, inmediatamente, vislumbramos en el siguiente el monstruo con cabeza de pantomima que ha engendrado, como resultado de la pasi\u00f3n que ha levantado su delicadeza. Un monje se desnuda en un burdel, y Goya lo dibuja, odi\u00e1ndolo, pero no por puritanismo, \u00e9l no es en absoluto un puritano, sino porque siente que los impulsos que est\u00e1n detr\u00e1s de este incidente son los mismos que llevan a los soldados a castrar a un campesino y a violar a su mujer en _Los desastres de la guerra_. Las cabezas inmensas, brutales, que pone en cuerpos jorobados, los animales ataviados de funcionarios, la manera en la que daba a los finos trazos con los que sombrea el cuerpo humano la sugerencia de pelo animal sucio, la rabia con la que pint\u00f3 las brujas, todo ello era una forma de protesta contra el mal uso de las posibilidades humanas. Y lo que hace la protesta de Goya tan desesperadamente relevante para nosotros hoy, despu\u00e9s de Buchenwald e Hiroshima, es que sabemos que cuando la corrupci\u00f3n llega demasiado lejos, cuando se confiscan despiadadamente las posibilidades humanas, tanto el destructor como la v\u00edctima de la destrucci\u00f3n se transforman en bestias.\n\nY luego tenemos la pol\u00e9mica sobre si Goya era un artista objetivo o subjetivo; si lo que le obsesionaba era producto de su imaginaci\u00f3n o, por el contrario, estaba obsesionado por la decadencia de la corte espa\u00f1ola, por la crueldad de la Inquisici\u00f3n y el horror de la Guerra de la Independencia espa\u00f1ola. En realidad, la pol\u00e9mica no est\u00e1 bien planteada. Est\u00e1 claro que en ocasiones Goya utilizaba sus propios conflictos personales, sus propios temores, como punto de partida de su trabajo, pero lo hac\u00eda porque era consciente de que \u00e9l era una emanaci\u00f3n caracter\u00edstica de su \u00e9poca. La intenci\u00f3n de su obra era mayormente objetiva y social. Su tema era el de lo que son capaces de hacerse unos a otros los seres humanos. La mayor\u00eda de sus temas entra\u00f1an acci\u00f3n entre las figuras. Pero incluso cuando solo hay una figura \u2014una chica encarcelada, el disoluto de siempre, un mendigo que alguna vez fue \"alguien\"\u2014 la implicaci\u00f3n, muchas veces enunciada en el t\u00edtulo, es la de _Miren lo que les han hecho_.\n\nS\u00e9 que otros escritores modernos tienen otro punto de vista. Andr\u00e9 Malraux, por ejemplo, dice que el de Goya es \"el tono religioso milenario del sufrimiento in\u00fatil, encontrado, quiz\u00e1 por primera vez, por un ser humano que piensa que Dios le es indiferente\". Y luego contin\u00faa diciendo que Goya pinta \"el absurdo de ser humano\" y que es \"el mejor int\u00e9rprete de la angustia que se haya conocido en Occidente\". El problema de esta visi\u00f3n, basada en la experiencia que da el tiempo, es que produce un sentimiento de sometimiento todav\u00eda m\u00e1s fuerte que el que destilan las propias obras de Goya: basta un escalofr\u00edo m\u00e1s para transformarlo en un sentimiento de absurda derrota. Si acontecimientos ulteriores vienen a demostrar que el profeta del desastre estaba en lo cierto (y Goya no solo estaba documentando la Guerra de la Independencia sino tambi\u00e9n profetizando sus consecuencias), entonces esa profec\u00eda no incrementa el desastre; hasta cierto punto, lo aten\u00faa, pues demuestra que los seres humanos pueden prever las consecuencias, lo cual, despu\u00e9s de todo, constituye un primer paso hacia el control de la causas.\n\nLa desesperaci\u00f3n de los artistas se suele malinterpretar. Nunca es absoluta. Nunca alcanza a su obra. En su obra, por pobre que sea la opini\u00f3n que tiene de ella, siempre hay una esperanza de alivio. Si no la hubiera, no podr\u00eda reunir la energ\u00eda y la concentraci\u00f3n necesarias para crearla. Y la obra del artista constituye su forma de relaci\u00f3n con sus semejantes. As\u00ed que la desesperaci\u00f3n expresada por una obra determinada puede ser enga\u00f1osa para al espectador. El espectador siempre debe permitir que sus relaciones con sus semejantes corrijan o ajusten su comprensi\u00f3n de esa desesperaci\u00f3n, de la misma manera que lo hace el artista impl\u00edcitamente en el propio acto de la creaci\u00f3n. En mi opini\u00f3n, Malraux \u2014y en esto representa a un gran n\u00famero de intelectuales desilusionados\u2014 no deja que se produzca ese ajuste, esa matizaci\u00f3n; o, si deja que suceda, su actitud hacia sus semejantes es tan descorazonadora que no sirve en absoluto para aliviar el peso de la desesperaci\u00f3n.\n\nUna de las confirmaciones m\u00e1s interesantes de que la obra de Goya fue objetiva y extrovertida la encontramos en su empleo de la luz. En su obra, como en el caso de esos rom\u00e1nticos que disfrutan con el espanto, no es la oscuridad la que transmite el horror y el miedo. Es la luz la que los revela. Goya vivi\u00f3 y observ\u00f3 el mundo a trav\u00e9s de algo muy pr\u00f3ximo a la guerra total y sab\u00eda que la noche significa seguridad y que es el alba lo que hay que temer. La luz en su obra es despiadada por la sencilla raz\u00f3n de que muestra la crueldad. Algunos de los dibujos de la carnicer\u00eda descrita en _Los desastres de la guerra_ parecen fotogramas cinematogr\u00e1ficos de un objetivo militar iluminado por las llamas despu\u00e9s de un bombardeo; la luz inunda los huecos de la misma manera.\n\nFinalmente, uno intenta valorar la obra de Goya teniendo todo lo dicho en mente. Hay artistas, como Leonardo da Vinci o Eug\u00e8ne Delacroix, que, desde un punto de vista anal\u00edtico, son m\u00e1s interesantes que Goya. Rembrandt mostr\u00f3 en su manera de entender la pintura una mayor compasi\u00f3n. Pero ning\u00fan artista ha conseguido mayor sinceridad que Goya: sinceridad en todo el sentido de la palabra, en el sentido de enfrentarse a los hechos y conservar los ideales. Con paciencia, con mucho oficio, Goya grab\u00f3 al aguafuerte el aspecto de los muertos y de los torturados, pero bajo el grabado garabate\u00f3, impaciente, desesperado, furioso: _Por qu\u00e9?_ , _Amarga presencia_ , _Para eso habeis nacido_ , _Qu\u00e9 hai que hacer mas?_ y _Esto es lo peor!_ La importancia inestimable de Goya para nosotros es que su sinceridad le forz\u00f3 a enfrentarse y a juzgar cuestiones con las que todav\u00eda seguimos lidiando.\n\n***\n\nPrimero reposa sobre el div\u00e1n vestida con el disfraz que le ha dado el nombre por el que la conocemos: la Maja. Luego, con la misma pose y reclinada en el mismo div\u00e1n, est\u00e1 desnuda.\n\nDesde el mismo momento en que estas dos pinturas fueron colgadas por vez primera en el Museo del Prado, a principios de siglo XX, el p\u00fablico no ha dejado de preguntarse qui\u00e9n es esta mujer. \u00bfSer\u00e1 la duquesa de Alba? Hace unos a\u00f1os se desenterraron los restos de la duquesa y se midi\u00f3 su esqueleto con la esperanza de poder demostrar que no era ella quien hab\u00eda posado para el pintor. Pero de no ser ella, \u00bfqui\u00e9n podr\u00eda ser entonces?\n\nUno tiende a quitar importancia a esta cuesti\u00f3n reduci\u00e9ndola al campo de los triviales cuchicheos cortesanos. Pero esto no quita para que las pinturas encierren realmente un misterio que fascina al que las contempla. El planteamiento de la cuesti\u00f3n, sin embargo, es equivocado. No se trata de _qui\u00e9n_. Eso nunca lo sabremos, y aunque lo supi\u00e9ramos, seguir\u00edamos sin entender el misterio. Lo que se trata de descubrir es el porqu\u00e9. Si pudi\u00e9ramos responder a este interrogante, sabr\u00edamos un poco m\u00e1s sobre Goya.\n\nFrancisco de Goya, _La Maja desnuda_ , antes de 1800.\n\nFrancisco de Goya, _La Maja vestida_ , 1800-1808.\n\nMi propia explicaci\u00f3n es que _nadie_ pos\u00f3 para la versi\u00f3n desnuda de la Maja. Goya construy\u00f3 la segunda pintura a partir de la primera. Con la versi\u00f3n de _La Maja vestida_ ante \u00e9l, la desnud\u00f3 en su imaginaci\u00f3n y traspas\u00f3 al lienzo el fruto de su fantas\u00eda. Ateng\u00e1monos a las pruebas.\n\nSe da una misteriosa identidad entre las dos poses (a excepci\u00f3n de la pierna en segundo plano). Esto solo puede haber sido el resultado de una _idea_ : \"Ahora me voy a imaginar que est\u00e1 sin ropa\". Si hubiera habido de verdad dos poses, tomadas en diferentes momentos, las diferencias tendr\u00edan que haber sido necesariamente mucho mayores.\n\nY lo que es m\u00e1s importante, existe el dibujo de la versi\u00f3n desnuda, una prueba de la manera en que las formas del cuerpo han sido visualizadas. Pensemos en los pechos, tan redondeados, tan altos, apuntando ambos hacia fuera. Cuando una figura est\u00e1 reclinada, no hay pechos que puedan tener esta forma. En la versi\u00f3n vestida encontramos una explicaci\u00f3n. Envueltos, encorsetados, adoptan exactamente esa disposici\u00f3n, y al estar sujetos, la retendr\u00e1n incluso cuando la figura est\u00e9 tumbada. Goya ha levantado la seda para revelar la piel, pero se ha olvidado de tener en cuenta el cambio de forma.\n\nLo mismo puede decirse de la parte superior de los brazos, especialmente el que est\u00e1 en primer plano. En el desnudo, su gordura es grotesca, si no imposible; es tan grueso como el muslo, justo encima de la rodilla. De nuevo, la versi\u00f3n vestida nos ofrece una explicaci\u00f3n. Para encontrar el perfil del brazo desnudo, Goya tuvo que adivinarlo bajo los anchos pliegues de las mangas y las hombreras de la chaqueta, pero cometi\u00f3 un error de c\u00e1lculo al limitarse a simplificar la forma, en lugar de rehacerla.\n\nComparada con la versi\u00f3n vestida, la pierna en segundo plano ha sido ligeramente girada en direcci\u00f3n del espectador. De no haber hecho esto, habr\u00eda quedado un espacio visible entre las piernas, y se hubiera perdido esa forma de barca que ofrece el conjunto del cuerpo. Y, parad\u00f3jicamente, el desnudo hubiera sido menos parecido a la figura vestida. No obstante, si gir\u00e1ramos de verdad la pierna en este sentido, cambiar\u00eda tambi\u00e9n la posici\u00f3n de las caderas. Y lo que hace que las caderas, el est\u00f3mago y los muslos del desnudo parezcan flotar en el espacio (de modo que no podemos estar seguros del \u00e1ngulo que forman en relaci\u00f3n con el div\u00e1n) es que, aunque la pierna en segundo plano haya sido movida, la forma de la cadera y del muslo en primer t\u00e9rmino ha sido tomada directamente del cuerpo vestido, como si la seda fuera una neblina que se hubiera disipado de repente.\n\nEn realidad, toda la l\u00ednea del cuerpo en contacto con los almohadones y la s\u00e1bana, desde la axila a los dedos del pie, es tan poco convincente en el desnudo como convincente en la primera pintura. En esta, las almohadas y el div\u00e1n a veces ceden a la forma del cuerpo, y a veces lo comprimen: la l\u00ednea de uni\u00f3n es una costura en la que el hilo desaparece y vuelve a aparecer. En el desnudo, sin embargo, esta l\u00ednea es como el borde deshilachado de un retal; no hay en ella nada de esa relaci\u00f3n que una figura y su entorno establecen siempre en la realidad.\n\nEl rostro del desnudo sobresale con respecto al cuerpo, no porque haya sido cambiado o pintado con posterioridad (como algunos cr\u00edticos sugieren), sino porque ha sido visto, en lugar de imaginado. Cuanto m\u00e1s lo miras, m\u00e1s te convences de lo extraordinariamente vago e insustancial que es el cuerpo de la versi\u00f3n desnuda. Al principio, su luminosidad te enga\u00f1a haci\u00e9ndote pensar que es la piel la que brilla. \u00bfPero no est\u00e1 m\u00e1s cercana realmente a la luz de una aparici\u00f3n? Su rostro es tangible. Su cuerpo no.\n\nGoya era un dibujante muy dotado y ten\u00eda una gran inventiva. Dibujaba figuras y animales en movimiento con tal rapidez que est\u00e1 claro que ten\u00eda que hacerlo sin la referencia de modelo alguno. Al igual que Hokusai, sab\u00eda c\u00f3mo eran las cosas casi instant\u00e1neamente. Su conocimiento de las apariencias estaba contenido mientras dibujaba en cada uno de los movimientos de sus dedos y su mu\u00f1eca. \u00bfC\u00f3mo es pues posible que la falta de modelo en este desnudo haya dado lugar a una pintura tan artificial e inveros\u00edmil?\n\nLa respuesta, creo yo, hay que buscarla en sus motivos para pintar estos dos cuadros. Es posible que ambos le fueran encargados como una nueva modalidad de trampantojo, en el cual las ropas de una mujer desaparecen en un abrir y cerrar de ojos. Pero, a esas alturas de su vida, Goya ya no era un hombre que aceptara, sin m\u00e1s, encargos para satisfacer los fr\u00edvolos gustos de otros. De modo que, de haberle sido encargadas, Goya deb\u00eda de tener sus propias razones subjetivas para acceder.\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1l fue entonces el motivo? \u00bfLo hizo acaso, como parec\u00eda obvio al principio, con el fin de confesar o celebrar un asunto amoroso? Esto ser\u00eda m\u00e1s cre\u00edble si pudi\u00e9ramos estar seguros de que el desnudo fue verdaderamente pintado del natural. \u00bfFue tal vez para jactarse de algo que en realidad no hab\u00eda sucedido? Esto va en contra del car\u00e1cter de Goya; su arte suele estar libre de toda presunci\u00f3n. Yo sugiero que Goya pint\u00f3 la primera versi\u00f3n como un retrato informal de una amiga (o tal vez amante), pero al hacerlo, con ella all\u00ed disfrazada mir\u00e1ndolo desde el div\u00e1n, se fue obsesionando con la idea de que de repente ella podr\u00eda estar sin ropas.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 \"obsesionado\"? Los hombres siempre est\u00e1n desnudando a las mujeres con los ojos como una forma intrascendente de fingir. \u00bfPodr\u00eda tratarse de que Goya se obsesionara porque le asustaba su propia sexualidad?\n\nEn la obra de Goya hay una corriente oculta, pero constante, que conecta el sexo con la violencia. Sus brujas son producto de ella. Y tambi\u00e9n, en parte, sus protestas contra los horrores de la guerra. Generalmente se supone que condenaba lo que \u00e9l mismo hab\u00eda presenciado durante el infierno de la Guerra de la Independencia. Esto es cierto. En conciencia, se identificaba con las v\u00edctimas. Pero para su horror y desesperaci\u00f3n, tambi\u00e9n se reconoc\u00eda potencialmente en la personalidad de los torturadores.\n\nLa misma tendencia oculta arde en forma de orgullo cruel en los ojos de las mujeres que \u00e9l encuentra atractivas. Palpita, provocativa y burlona, en las bocas sensuales y disolutas de decenas de rostros, incluido el suyo. Est\u00e1 ah\u00ed, en el acusado fastidio con que pinta a los hombres desnudos, equiparando siempre su desnudez con la bestialidad, como en el caso de los locos en el manicomio, los can\u00edbales, los sacerdotes en el prost\u00edbulo. Est\u00e1 presente en las llamadas \"pinturas negras\", que describen org\u00edas de violencia. Pero, sobre todo, es evidente y constante en su manera de pintar la carne.\n\nEs dif\u00edcil describir esto con palabras, y, sin embargo, es lo que hace inconfundibles casi todos los retratos de Goya. La carne tiene una expresi\u00f3n propia, como las facciones en los retratos realizados por otros pintores. Esta expresi\u00f3n var\u00eda seg\u00fan el retratado, pero siempre es una variaci\u00f3n de la misma demanda: la demanda de la carne, como si se tratara de un alimento que ha de saciar el apetito. Tampoco se trata de una met\u00e1fora ret\u00f3rica. Es casi literalmente cierto. A veces, la carne es lozana, fresca, como una fruta. A veces est\u00e1 arrebolada y con aspecto de tener hambre, presta a devorar. Por lo general \u2014y esto constituye el punto de apoyo de su gran sutileza psicol\u00f3gica\u2014, sugiere ambas cosas al mismo tiempo: al devorador y a la v\u00edctima. Todos los temores monstruosos de Goya se resumen en este. Su visi\u00f3n m\u00e1s horrible es la de Sat\u00e1n devorando hombres.\n\nUno puede reconocer esta misma agon\u00eda en su pintura, aparentemente mundana, de la mesa del carnicero. No creo que haya otra naturaleza muerta en el mundo que haga mayor hincapi\u00e9 en el hecho de que el trozo de carne all\u00ed expuesto era hasta no hac\u00eda mucho carne viva, sensible, y que combine de tal modo los sentidos literal y emotivo de la palabra \"carnicer\u00eda\". Lo aterrador de esta pintura, realizada por un hombre que ha disfrutado comiendo carne durante toda su vida, es que no es una naturaleza muerta.\n\nSi estoy acertado en lo que digo, si Goya pint\u00f3 _La Maja desnuda_ porque estaba obsesionado con el hecho de que imaginaba a la modelo sin ropas; es decir, imaginaba su carne con coda su provocaci\u00f3n, podemos empezar a explicar la raz\u00f3n de que esta pintura resulte tan artificial. Goya la pint\u00f3 para exorcizar a un fantasma. Al igual que los murci\u00e9lagos, los perros y las brujas, esta mujer es otro de los monstruos revelados por el \"sue\u00f1o de la raz\u00f3n\", pero, a diferencia de aquellos, es hermosa porque es deseable. Sin embargo, para exorcizar el fantasma, para poder llamarlo por su nombre, ten\u00eda que hacerla lo m\u00e1s id\u00e9ntica posible a la pintura de ella misma vestida. Goya no estaba pintando un desnudo. Estaba pintando la aparici\u00f3n de un desnudo en una mujer vestida. Por eso se empe\u00f1\u00f3 en seguir fielmente la versi\u00f3n vestida, y por eso su inventiva habitual se vio tan inusualmente inhibida.\n\nNo estoy sugiriendo con esto que Goya se propon\u00eda que el espectador interpretara as\u00ed las dos pinturas. Esperaba que el p\u00fablico se creyera a pies juntillas lo que ve\u00eda: una mujer vestida y una mujer desnuda. Lo que yo insin\u00fao es que la segunda versi\u00f3n, el desnudo, fue probablemente una _invenci\u00f3n_ , y que tal vez Goya se vio imaginativa y emocionalmente enredado en la farsa, porque estaba intentando exorcizar sus propios deseos.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 estas dos pinturas parecen tan sorprendentemente modernas? Cuando d\u00e1bamos por supuesto que la modelo hab\u00eda accedido a posar para ambas, supon\u00edamos que era la amante del pintor. Pero la fuerza de las pinturas, tal como la vemos ahora, depende precisamente de la _escasa_ evoluci\u00f3n que existe entre ellas. La diferencia reside \u00fanicamente en que est\u00e1 desnuda. Esto deber\u00eda cambiarlo todo, pero en realidad solo modifica nuestra manera de mirarla. Ella tiene la misma expresi\u00f3n, la misma pose, guarda la misma distancia. Todos los grandes desnudos del pasado ofrecen una invitaci\u00f3n a participar en lo mejor de su edad; las modelos est\u00e1n desnudas a fin de seducirnos y transformarnos. La Maja est\u00e1 desnuda, pero su expresi\u00f3n es indiferente. Es como si no fuera consciente de que la est\u00e1n viendo, como si la estuvi\u00e9ramos observando a escondidas a trav\u00e9s del ojo de la cerradura. O, para ser m\u00e1s exactos, como si no supiera que sus ropas se han vuelto \"invisibles\".\n\nEn esto, como en tantas cosas m\u00e1s, Goya fue prof\u00e9tico. Fue el primer artista que pint\u00f3 un desnudo como si se tratara de un cuerpo desconocido; fue el primero en separar el sexo de la intimidad, en sustituir la energ\u00eda del sexo por una est\u00e9tica del sexo. La energ\u00eda, por su propia naturaleza, rompe las fronteras, y la funci\u00f3n de la est\u00e9tica es construirlas. Como he sugerido, puede que Goya tuviera sus propias razones para temer esa energ\u00eda. En la segunda mitad del siglo XX, el esteticismo del sexo ayuda a estimular, a hacer m\u00e1s competitiva y a mantener siempre insatisfecha a la sociedad consumista.\n\n***\n\nHay telara\u00f1as en las cuatro esquinas. Dentro de una hora, Alec le devolver\u00e1 las violetas a Jackie, dentro de una hora se habr\u00e1 largado de all\u00ed. De verdad no se cree lo de los dos chelines de aumento. Le parece que si alguna vez vuelve a empezar all\u00ed un d\u00eda laborable, Corker y \u00e9l tendr\u00e1n que fingir que el d\u00eda que lo vio a cuatro patas nunca sucedi\u00f3. Y si fingen que nunca sucedi\u00f3, a Alec nunca le habr\u00e1n ofrecido el aumento de sueldo. Se acerca al escurridor desvencijado donde siempre dejan, boca abajo, la vieja tetera color marr\u00f3n. Y ah\u00ed se le ocurre un segundo razonamiento para no creerse lo de los dos chelines. Y empieza as\u00ed: no puedo evitar que me d\u00e9 pena el pobre tipo. Echa un poco de agua caliente dentro de la tetera para calentarla. Le da pena Corker porque desde la hora de comer parece un anciano incapaz. Se imagina a Corker de bat\u00edn haci\u00e9ndose el desayuno all\u00ed mismo ma\u00f1ana por la ma\u00f1ana \u2014en ese momento, \u00e9l mismo est\u00e1 poniendo dos cucharadas de t\u00e9 en la tetera\u2014, y no, el pobre tipo no es que vaya a desayunar mucho. Pero m\u00e1s que nada, le da pena Corker por todo lo que sigue siendo impredecible, lo desconocido, lo no dicho. Alec no est\u00e1 seguro de la raz\u00f3n por la que Corker sali\u00f3 tan precipitadamente de casa de su hermana, o de por qu\u00e9 ella se est\u00e1 muriendo, o por qu\u00e9 dijo Corker lo de \"pesa de cojones\", o por qu\u00e9 tiene una pistola en el caj\u00f3n, o por qu\u00e9 dice que va a contratar a Bandy Brandy de asistenta, o por qu\u00e9 est\u00e1 ah\u00ed arriba comport\u00e1ndose como si estuviera borracho, pero est\u00e1 seguro de que el propio Corker tampoco podr\u00eda darle una explicaci\u00f3n. Le parece a Alec que algo est\u00e1 empujando a Corker, como si le impulsara un viento muy fuerte. Un vendaval provocado por el hombre que lo ha metido en un t\u00fanel y lo arrastra por las catacumbas. La hervidora empieza a pitar, anunciando que el agua hierve. Alec no ha visto nunca una catacumba, pero mientras vierte el agua en la tetera, siente y oye las costras blanquecinas que a lo largo de los a\u00f1os se han ido formando dentro de la hervidora (hacen que pese m\u00e1s y producen un d\u00e9bil cascabeleo), y esto le sugiere el mundo descarnado, contumaz, mineral y subterr\u00e1neo que utiliza como met\u00e1fora para describirse a s\u00ed mismo la naturaleza del sufrimiento de Corker, o lo que \u00e9l imagina que debe de ser ese sufrimiento. Se acerca a un aparador. En un estante hay unas cuantas tazas y platillos y platos. En otro, un paquete de sal, t\u00e9, un paquete de galletas y un peque\u00f1o tarro de pasta Marmite, casi vac\u00edo. En el estante inferior est\u00e1n las s\u00e1banas y las fundas de almohada que mencion\u00f3 Corker. Alec deja las tazas en el estante, junto al tarro de Marmite, y se inclina para examinar las s\u00e1banas. Corker puede negarse a darle una explicaci\u00f3n, pero Alec lo descubrir\u00e1 por \u00e9l mismo. Las s\u00e1banas no parecen nuevas. Seguramente, Corker se las llev\u00f3 de West Winds. \u00bfTen\u00eda all\u00ed tambi\u00e9n una cama ancha? Detr\u00e1s de las s\u00e1banas hay dos cajas. Una es blanca y no tiene nada escrito. La abre. Dentro hay una botella del tama\u00f1o de las de ginebra. Est\u00e1 sin abrir. La etiqueta est\u00e1 en una lengua extranjera, pero Alec lee la palabra \"Kummel\" y reconoce el nombre de la bebida vienesa de la que hablaba Corker. La segunda caja es dorada y tiene la palabra \"atracci\u00f3n\" escrita en relieve con letras negras y sesgadas. Alec comprueba cuidadosamente si est\u00e1 abierta. Lo est\u00e1. Levanta la tapa. Contiene una bandeja de bombones de formas distintas envueltos en papel de plata de diferentes colores, todos oscuros. Faltan algunos, y se ven los huecos de color oscuro que los conten\u00edan. En la parte interior de la tapa hay una estampa, como una postal gigante. Representa a una mujer desnuda tumbada en una cama. Tiene el cabello oscuro y los ojos grandes, pero no tiene vello entre las piernas, as\u00ed que se lo debi\u00f3 de afeitar. Es peque\u00f1a, del tama\u00f1o de Jackie, m\u00e1s o menos. Tiene la piel muy blanca, hasta las plantas de los pies las tiene blancas. Parece una foto, pero est\u00e1 en colores y podr\u00eda ser un cuadro. Al pie dice: _La Maja desnuda_. Alec vuelve a mirar los bombones y, sin saber por qu\u00e9 o para qu\u00e9, empieza a contar los que faltan. Siete. Se imagina a Corker en la cama, comi\u00e9ndoselos. Luego se lo imagina mirando a la mujer desnuda mientras se los come. \u00a1 _Socorro_!, piensa, y cierra la caja y las vuelve a dejar las dos detr\u00e1s de las s\u00e1banas dobladas y bien planchadas. Pone las dos tazas en la mesa que est\u00e1 al lado de la estufa de gas. La leche se guarda en un armario, debajo del fregadero para mantenerla fresca. En el alf\u00e9izar de la ventana, encima del fregadero, est\u00e1n las violetas. La tuber\u00eda de plomo del desag\u00fce forma un codo dentro del armario. La diferencia entre la leche que llena la botella y el agua que corre por el desag\u00fce le sugiere la diferencia entre la historia de su pene y la del de Corker. Suelta un suspiro y cierra la puerta del armario con el pie. Se vuelve a fijar en las violetas y recorre su historia. Se pregunta por qu\u00e9 Corker no puede ser como el resto de los hombres, como los otros, solo mayor que algunos. Recuerda la imagen de Corker de beb\u00e9 tendido en un coj\u00edn azul. Recuerda a Corker diciendo que el Kummel es bastante fuerte. Se le pasa por la cabeza abrir la botella y echar un poco en el t\u00e9 de Corker. Al darle su taza, le dir\u00eda: con cari\u00f1o, de parte de la Maja. Puede que el viejo se quede dormido, completamente borracho, musitando: \u00a1Maja! \u00a1Maja! El cabr\u00f3n, piensa Alec, el borracho cabr\u00f3n que se puso a cuatro patas y lami\u00f3 el suelo. Alec pone leche en las dos tazas. Una est\u00e1 un poco mellada. Tiene unas fuentes gigantescas, pero ni una taza decente. Al echar el t\u00e9 sobre la leche y ver aparecer el conocido tono beis, recuerda a Jackie haciendo el t\u00e9 para el desayuno de aquella ma\u00f1ana. T\u00e9, t\u00e9, t\u00e9, piensa, y cada t\u00e9 representa a alguien deseando una taza de aquel l\u00edquido marr\u00f3n claro, a \u00e9l mismo tom\u00e1ndoselo en la cocina de la casa de la madre de Jackie, a su propia madre, a sus hermanos llev\u00e1ndose los termos con t\u00e9 al trabajo, al club ciclista, cuando llueve y se paran en un bar, a los chicos merodeando por el quiosco de bebidas de la estaci\u00f3n a las dos de la madrugada. Es cierto que a Corker tambi\u00e9n le gusta el t\u00e9, pero \u00e9l es diferente. Cuando Corker se toma el t\u00e9, arrastra con \u00e9l su caja de bombones y sus caballeros de la tabla redonda y sus sentimientos estramb\u00f3ticos, y Alec tiene que quedarse all\u00ed sentado, escuchando. Alec no le echa la culpa de ser como es. Pero ahora ve la conclusi\u00f3n del segundo razonamiento para no creerse lo de los dos chelines de aumento: no puedo evitar que me d\u00e9 pena el pobre tipo, pero no me puedo quedar con \u00e9l para siempre, \u00bfno?\n\n***\n\nACTO PRIMERO \u2014 ESCENA CUARTA\n\n_D\u00eda. Primavera (1794). Residencia de la DUQUESA. A la derecha de la capilla, una cama con un dosel de muselina. La DUQUESA se inclina sobre la cama susurrando algo. El JARDINERO pinta una de las ruedas del carruaje. GOYA abre la portezuela y sale. El JARDINERO deja de pintar. Ambos observan a la DUQUESA, que sigue haciendo como si consolara a un ni\u00f1o enfermo._\n\nDUQUESA.- Ya pas\u00f3, ya pas\u00f3. Enseguida te pondr\u00e1s bueno. Yo te voy a sanar, ya ver\u00e1s. No te asustes, peque\u00f1ito, yo te voy a sanar...\n\nJARDINERO.- Si tuviera hijos... Dicen que el duque no es buen semental.\n\nDUQUESA.- Bebe, \u00e1ngel, bebe; es de los limones de nuestro jard\u00edn.\n\nGOYA.- Deber\u00eda estar prohibido que nadie tuviera esta voz.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfHas so\u00f1ado que el mundo era malo? No, no..., solo el suyo, el nuestro no lo es. Esto te refrescar\u00e1; te lo pondr\u00e9 as\u00ed, ves c\u00f3mo te refresca, c\u00f3mo refresca a mi \u00e1ngel.\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1Qu\u00e9 voz tan hermosa! Es como si te atravesara.\n\nDUQUESA.- Mira, ves, ya no duele... Te voy a sanar. Ver\u00e1s qu\u00e9 bien... lo arreglaremos todo, pluma a pluma. Ven conmigo, dolorcito, deja al ni\u00f1o y ven con Cayetana. Ven conmigo, muertecita.\n\nGOYA.- Mi madre sol\u00eda decir que la muerte era una pluma.\n\nJARDINERO.- Su madre, don Francisco, era una mujer que med\u00eda sus palabras.\n\nDUQUESA.- No os acerqu\u00e9is. Ha cerrado los ojos.\n\nJARDINERO.- \u00bfGarrotillo?\n\nDUQUESA.- D\u00e9jalo tranquilo.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfEscarlatina?\n\nJARDINERO.- \u00bfEl mal de los pantanos?\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfFiebre tifoidea?\n\n_[El ENANO da un brinco, rasga las colgaduras del dosel y se echa fuera de la cama.]_\n\nENANO.- \u00a1Trastornos del crecimiento!\n\n_[ GOYA, encolerizado, increpa al ENANO.]_\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 te enfadas? Ven y si\u00e9ntate a mi lado. Dig\u00e1monos buenos d\u00edas. Buen d\u00eda, Hombre Rana.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfC\u00f3mo soporta tu marido a este bicho?\n\nDUQUESA.- Mi marido no tiene que soportar nada. Toca a Haydn.\n\nGOYA.- Y yo lo soporto todo.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfNo crees que todos tenemos derecho a gastar bromas? \u00bfO acaso todos los caprichos tienen que llevar la firma del maestro impresa en una plancha?\n\nJARDINERO.- \u00a1Jes\u00fas, Mar\u00eda! \u00bfEst\u00e1 oyendo lo que dice? \u00bfA que se los ha ense\u00f1ado? Se los ha ense\u00f1ado. \u00bfCu\u00e1ntas veces le he dicho que no se los ense\u00f1ara a nadie? Es peligroso por diecinueve razones.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00a1Baturros! \u00a1Baturros! No sab\u00e9is vivir. Ninguno de los dos sabe distinguir entre un cochero y un se\u00f1or. \u00a1Mira c\u00f3mo te habla!\n\nGOYA _[al JARDINERO]_.- Solo ha visto uno o dos burros.\n\nJARDINERO.- \u00bfY qui\u00e9n es el burro? Veinte razones. \u00bfConoce a alguien de aqu\u00ed que no se vaya de la lengua? \u00a1Siempre rajando y rajando! Palabras se\u00f1aladas no quieren testigos.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfY en Arag\u00f3n, se\u00f1or m\u00edo?\n\nJARDINERO.- En Arag\u00f3n, se\u00f1ora DUQUESA, los hombres miden sus palabras, son leng\u00fcicortos y reservados.\n\n_[ GOYA hace un gesto amistoso al JARDINERO, que vuelve al carruaje, recoge el bote de pintura, entra y cierra la portezuela.]_\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfEst\u00e1s todav\u00eda enfadado? Te he preparado algo especial.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfM\u00e1s teatro con el enano?\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfSabes por qu\u00e9 lo llamo Amore?\n\nGOYA.- Mat\u00e9 a un hombre en una ocasi\u00f3n.\n\nDUQUESA.- No he conocido hombre que no presuma de haber matado a otro. Incluso mi marido dice que mat\u00f3 a un hombre..., a un flautista, me parece. Ea, no te enfades m\u00e1s. Quiero ense\u00f1arte algo.\n\n_[El JARDINERO baja la cortina de una de las ventanillas del carruaje. La DUQUESA entra en la capilla en ruinas seguida por GOYA. Silencio. No vemos el cuadro que est\u00e1n mirando.]_\n\nDUQUESA.- Lo compr\u00e9 a los trece a\u00f1os, cuando me cas\u00e9.\n\nGOYA.- Era impenetrable. Jam\u00e1s juzgaba. Manten\u00eda siempre esa distancia eterna. Solo su mirada la acaricia.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00a1Su mirada! \u00bfQu\u00e9 importa su mirada? Lo que cuenta es la mujer que est\u00e1 ah\u00ed tendida, desnuda sobre la cama. La miro todas las noches despu\u00e9s de rezar mis oraciones. Ella, ella es la que importa.\n\nGOYA.- Poco, importa muy poco. Observa los terciopelos que enmarcan y reflejan su cuerpo. \u00c9l sab\u00eda exactamente lo que hac\u00eda.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfC\u00f3mo puedes decir que ella no importa? \u00a1Qu\u00e9 desfachatez! Nos observas, te lo pasas en grande clav\u00e1ndonos con tus pinceles a tus s\u00e1banas, a tus lienzos, y luego presumes de saber exactamente lo que hac\u00edas. Pues no sabes nada. Los hombres solo veis lo superficial, las apariencias. \u00a1Sois todos incorregiblemente tensos, incorregiblemente engre\u00eddos! \u00a1Todos, no se salva ni uno! Monumentos masculinos a la erecci\u00f3n interminable.\n\nGOYA.- Yo podr\u00eda hacerlo mejor.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00a1Ya! Eso es lo \u00fanico que importa. Mar\u00eda Teresa Cayetana de Silva y \u00c1lvarez de Toledo le ha ense\u00f1ado a su amante su Vel\u00e1zquez, el \u00fanico cuadro de toda la larga historia del arte espa\u00f1ol en que aparece una mujer desnuda en una cama, y a su amante solo se le ocurre decir que \u00e9l podr\u00eda hacerlo mejor.\n\nGOYA.- Y podr\u00eda hacerlo mejor.\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00bfC\u00f3mo me pintar\u00edas?\n\nGOYA.- Tendida de espaldas con las piernas cruzadas. Clav\u00e1ndome los ojos.\n\nACTRIZ.- \u00bfVestida?\n\nGOYA. - Para los que as\u00ed quisieran verte.\n\nACTRIZ.- \u00a1Desnuda! \u00a1Cobarde!\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1Primero vestida!\n\nDUQUESA.- \u00a1Qu\u00e9 paciencia! \u00a1Qu\u00e9 moderaci\u00f3n!\n\nGOYA.- Y luego, en un abrir y cerrar de ojos, desnuda.\n\nDUQUESA.- Con mi consentimiento, claro.\n\nGOYA.- Con tu consentimiento o sin \u00e9l, Cayetana. Puedo quitarte las ropas. Puedo dejarte en cueros con la misma facilidad con la que puedo pintarte. \u00a1Aqu\u00ed! _[Se se\u00f1ala la cabeza.]_ Aqu\u00ed es donde aventajo a Vel\u00e1zquez. No necesito espejos. Me arrastro. Mezclo mis colores con arrojo.\n\nDUQUESA.- Sus colores, caballero, son asunto suyo. Lo har\u00e1s de memoria. Me pintar\u00e1s cuando te quedes solo. Recordar\u00e1s a todas las mujeres que has conocido, a todas las mujeres que has dejado en cueros \u2014como t\u00fa mismo dices tan gr\u00e1ficamente\u2014, cerrar\u00e1s los ojos y las volver\u00e1s a ver, y entonces pondr\u00e1s toda tu energ\u00eda, toda tu virilidad, toda tu rapidez en recordar lo que distingue cada cent\u00edmetro cuadrado del cuerpo de la decimotercera DUQUESA de Alba del cuerpo de cualquier otra mujer, ahora o en el futuro. De memoria. Ser\u00e1 una prueba solitaria de tu amor... Luego te prometo un mes en el campo juntos... solo t\u00fa y yo.\n\n_[El JARDINERO sale del carruaje, empieza a pintar la rueda. GOYA cruza el escenario.]_\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1M\u00e1s y m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s... descarada!\n\n_[ GOYA entra en el carruaje. La DUQUESA agita un pa\u00f1uelo.]_\n\nDUQUESA.- Trabaja r\u00e1pido, Hombre Rana.\n\n_[Se apagan las luces.]_\n\n[...]\n\nACTO SEGUNDO \u2014 ESCENA OCTAVA\n\n_Noche (1811). El mismo decorado de la escena anterior, salvo que la cuerda de tender donde est\u00e1n puestos a secar los grabados va ahora de un extremo al otro de la habitaci\u00f3n. GOYA los toca, examin\u00e1ndolos, sin descolgarlos. El JARDINERO corta le\u00f1a para el fuego._\n\nJARDINERO.- Esta ma\u00f1ana he entrado las celindas. Nunca hab\u00eda hecho este fr\u00edo tan pronto. Me dio miedo.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfMiedo de qu\u00e9?\n\nJARDINERO.- De que se helaran las celindas.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfY cu\u00e1les son esas?\n\nJARDINERO.- Las matas grandes con flores blancas. Las que tienen las macetas del patio.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfBlancas, has dicho?\n\n_[El JARDINERO asiente con un gesto de cabeza.]_\n\n\u00a1Ciegos! \u00a1Est\u00e1is todos ciegos! Las flores que tanto te preocupan son rosas. No blancas. Blancas, si insistes, pero manchadas de sangre. \u00a1Qu\u00e9date as\u00ed quieto! No muevas los brazos. Mant\u00e9n ah\u00ed el hacha, Juan.\n\n_[El JARDINERO se queda inm\u00f3vil con el hacha alzada por encima de la cabeza. GOYA contin\u00faa examinando los grabados.]_\n\nJARDINERO.- Si va a hacer un dibujo, don Francisco, no se demore mucho.\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1No muevas el hacha! \u00a1Dibujos! \u00a1Los dibujos vienen solos! Basta con abrir el saco, levantarlo e inclinarlo un poco para que salgan todos los escombros. Los dibujos son escombros. No te muevas, Juan.\n\nJARDINERO.- No tengo m\u00e1s remedio.\n\nGOYA.- Cre\u00eda que eras m\u00e1s fuerte. Cre\u00ed que ten\u00edas unas espaldas de toro.\n\nJARDINERO.- Tengo un piojo en el sobaco.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfEn cu\u00e1l? Te lo sacar\u00e9.\n\nJARDINERO.- En el izquierdo.\n\n_[ GOYA le levanta la camisa al JARDINERO y busca el piojo, con las gafas puestas en la punta de la nariz.]_\n\nGOYA.- No veo nada. Necesito una vela.\n\nJARDINERO _[empezando a re\u00edrse]_.- Me hace cosquillas.\n\n_[ GOYA da un paso atr\u00e1s. El JARDINERO baja el hacha y corta el tronco.]_\n\nGOYA.- Quer\u00eda darle un poco m\u00e1s tiempo al tronco que tienes a tus pies.\n\nJARDINERO.- En estas circunstancias es doblemente cruel.\n\n_[ GOYA no ha o\u00eddo nada. El JARDINERO coge un trozo de papel de la mesa y escribe: DOBLEMENTE CRUEL.]_\n\nGOYA.- Si los troncos vieran, si tuvieran ojos, si pudieran contar los minutos, ser\u00eda mejor que el hacha cayera inmediatamente. Pero los troncos no pueden contar.\n\nJARDINERO.- \u00bfNo sabe c\u00f3mo llaman a los hombres en M\u00e1laga?\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfA los hombres?\n\nJARDINERO.- Les dicen troncos con nueve agujeros.\n\n_[ GOYA cuenta los agujeros.]_\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfHas encontrado algo de arroz hoy?\n\nJARDINERO.- No. Los franceses arramblaron con todo antes de irse, y lo que no se llevaron ellos lo han saqueado los brit\u00e1nicos. O eso, o que la gente ya no quiera vendernos. No me gusta la cara que ponen cuando les pregunto. En mi opini\u00f3n, don Francisco, deber\u00edamos prepararnos para desaparecer por alg\u00fan tiempo. Solo la enfermedad de do\u00f1a Josefa me ha disuadido de dec\u00edrselo antes. S\u00e9 de un lugar donde podemos escondernos.\n\n_[ GOYA parece no haber o\u00eddo. El JARDINERO escribe en un papel: \u00bfESCONDERNOS?]_\n\nGOYA.- No tenemos motivo alguno para alarmarnos. Ya he ofrecido mis servicios a los vencedores. Los conquistadores necesitan pintores y escultores. Nunca lo olvides. La victoria es ef\u00edmera... tan ef\u00edmera como la m\u00fasica, cuando se toca. Los retratos de la victoria son como los retratos de boda, salvo que no hay novia. La novia es su triunfo. No s\u00e9 por qu\u00e9, pero siempre ha sido as\u00ed a lo largo de la historia. Por eso quieren esos jodidos retratos de s\u00ed mismos con la novia invisible. Y yo puedo pintarlos mejor que nadie. Tengo una debilidad por los vencedores, sobre todo por sus cuellos, sus botas, sus uniformes. Creo que todos estamos destinados a triunfar. Antes de que tuvi\u00e9ramos ning\u00fan destino, fuimos los hijos de un triunfo. Nacimos de una eyaculaci\u00f3n.\n\n_[Entra el M\u00c9DICO.]_\n\nM\u00c9DICO.- Su mujer quiere verlo. Dice que tiene que decirle algo a su marido.\n\n_[Sale el M\u00c9DICO a toda prisa.]_\n\nGOYA.- Pronto pintar\u00e9 al duque de Wellington. \u00c9l insiste en que lo retrate a caballo.\n\nJARDINERO.- Don Federico ya se ha escondido.\n\nGOYA.- Cuando el Deseado de la Puta vuelva a sentarse en nuestro trono, lo pintar\u00e9 con un sable en la mano y un sombrero de tres picos bajo el brazo. Y si no quiere posar para m\u00ed, lo pintar\u00e9 de memoria. _[Se mira en el espejo.]_ Todos me perdonar\u00e1n.\n\nJARDINERO.- Las lavanderas dicen que no est\u00e1 usted tan sordo que no oiga el tintineo de los reales en las bolsas. Por \u00e9l sabe cu\u00e1ndo tiene que cambiar de camisa. Eso dicen.\n\nGOYA.- Todos me perdonar\u00e1n.\n\n_[Entra el M\u00c9DICO.]_\n\nM\u00c9DICO.- Siento tener que decirle, don Francisco, que ya es demasiado tarde. Su esposa ha muerto.\n\n_[ GOYA se postra de rodillas.]_\n\nGOYA.- Incluso mi mujer me perdonar\u00e1.\n\n_[ GOYA sigue de rodillas con la cabeza gacha. Sonido casi imperceptible del mar. De pronto se pone en pie.]_\n\n\u00a1Y si los hombres no perdonaran!\n\n_[Se agarra con ambas manos a la cuerda de tender y avanza agarrado a ella, como un hombre en una galerna.]_\n\n\u00bfSaben cu\u00e1nto es imperdonable? \u00bfSaben que hay actos que nunca pueden ser perdonados? Nadie los ve. Ni siquiera Dios.\n\n_[Se oye m\u00e1s fuerte el ruido del mar.]_\n\nQuienes los perpetran entierran lo que han hecho con palabras, para no verlo ellos ni que lo vean los otros. Pronuncian el nombre de sus v\u00edctimas, les ponen etiquetas, repiten historias. Todo est\u00e1 preparado con maldiciones e insultos y susurros y discursos y ch\u00e1chara hueca. El diablo act\u00faa con palabras. No necesita nada m\u00e1s. Distribuye palabras y con el inocente trabajo de la lengua y el paladar y las cuerdas vocales, la gente se convence de hacer el mal, y luego con las mismas palabras y los mismos malditos n\u00fameros ocultan lo que han hecho, hasta que queda olvidado, y lo que se olvida se perdona.\n\n_[ GOYA se acerca a un grabado.]_\n\nLo que queda grabado no se perdona.\n\n_[Se postra de rodillas.]_\n\nNo nos perdones, Se\u00f1or. Haz que veamos siempre lo imperdonable, de modo que no pueda ser perdonado.\n\n_[Se pone en pie, avanza hacia la salida por la que entr\u00f3 el M\u00c9DICO.]_\n\nPerd\u00f3name, Josefa, perd\u00f3name...\n\nACTO TERCERO\n\n_Ma\u00f1ana de primavera (1827-1828). Brilla el sol. Jard\u00edn de la residencia de Goya en Burdeos. [El decorado es pr\u00e1cticamente el mismo del cementerio.] El JARDINERO est\u00e1 subido a una escalera podando una enredadera que trepa por una pared. Entra GOYA apoyado en un bast\u00f3n (es ahora un hombre de m\u00e1s de ochenta a\u00f1os), acompa\u00f1ado de FEDERICO, que tiene la misma edad._\n\nGOYA _[se\u00f1alando]_.- Hay un jilguero en el almendro. \u00bfLo ves?\n\nFEDERICO.- Te lo digo todos los d\u00edas, Francisco, mi vista no es la que era.\n\n_[Los dos ancianos se quedan quietos. GOYA imita el canto del jilguero.]_\n\nGOYA.- As\u00ed canta.\n\nFEDERICO.- \u00bfC\u00f3mo lo sabes?\n\nGOYA _[sin o\u00edr lo que le dicen]_.- \u00bfTe gustar\u00eda o\u00edr al trepatroncos? Pepa me est\u00e1 ense\u00f1ando el canto de todos los p\u00e1jaros.\n\nFEDERICO.- \u00bfY tu nueva pintura?\n\nGOYA.- Hace dos siglos, un holand\u00e9s pint\u00f3 un jilguero.\n\nFEDERICO _[gritando]_.- \u00bfQue c\u00f3mo va tu nueva pintura?\n\nGOYA.- Tengo problemas con el cielo, detr\u00e1s de la cabeza. Antes nunca me hab\u00edan dado problema los cielos.\n\nFEDERICO.- Los cielos franceses no son iguales. M\u00edralo. Son lechosos. Las panader\u00edas tambi\u00e9n son diferentes. Tengo que confesar que con la edad me estoy volviendo goloso.\n\n_[ FEDERICO se saca un brioche del bolsillo y le ofrece la mitad a GOYA. Se sientan.]_\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfYa has dicho lo de \"tengo que confesar que con la edad me estoy volviendo goloso\"?\n\n_[ FEDERICO echa miguitas a los p\u00e1jaros.]_\n\nEsta noche he dormido mejor. No he tenido sue\u00f1os. Por eso estaba todav\u00eda acostado cuando llegaste.\n\nFEDERICO.- No me ha importado. Ten\u00eda muchas cosas en que pensar... hay esp\u00edas del Santo Oficio aqu\u00ed en Burdeos. Estoy seguro. Don Tiburcio se ha negado a darnos m\u00e1s dinero para el peri\u00f3dico.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfCu\u00e1l?\n\nFEDERICO.- El que hacemos en espa\u00f1ol, el que yo edito.\n\nGOYA.- Te har\u00e9 una litograf\u00eda.\n\nFEDERICO.- La \u00fanica explicaci\u00f3n que ha dado es que han amenazado con molestar a su familia en Valencia. Mientras tanto, ya debemos trescientos francos al impresor.\n\nGOYA.- Pronto habr\u00e1 en el mundo m\u00e1s peri\u00f3dicos de exilados que estrellas en el cielo.\n\nFEDERICO.- Solo trescientos... para pagar a la imprenta.\n\nGOYA.- Mis litograf\u00edas no se venden bien. La gente no quiere saber nada. Quieren todo en color y estereof\u00f3nico... \u00bfTienes nuevas noticias de all\u00e1?\n\nFEDERICO.- \u00a1Nuevas! Corren tiempos de plomo. La Constituci\u00f3n ha sido anulada, invalidada. Las ideas, cautivas. La gente desaparece en las calles. Se tortura. El electrochoque est\u00e1 a la orden del d\u00eda. Aumentan los arsenales ocultos. Reina la glotoner\u00eda del terror. Lo mismo que te cuento todas las ma\u00f1anas, amigo m\u00edo. \u00bfLlegar\u00e1n alguna vez otra suerte de noticias? La nueva noticia, Paco, es que ya estamos viviendo en el futuro. No en el futuro por el que luchamos y morimos, sino en el futuro que lo ha sustituido, el de los gigantes... Esa es la \u00faltima noticia. \u00bfCambiar\u00e1n las cosas alg\u00fan d\u00eda?\n\nGOYA.- Si te callas un momento, te har\u00e9 el canto del ruise\u00f1or.\n\nFEDERICO.- Si no te conociera como te conozco, Hombre Rana, dir\u00eda que chocheas.\n\nGOYA.- Entonces no hagas preguntas tan est\u00fapidas como esa de si llegar\u00e1n alguna vez otra suerte de noticias.\n\nFEDERICO.- \u00bfMe has o\u00eddo, pues?\n\nGOYA.- Claro que no.\n\nFEDERICO.- En todas partes se alza la restauraci\u00f3n del pasado. Todo el mundo se vanagloria de lo que anta\u00f1o se consideraba una verg\u00fcenza. _[Gritando:]_ Dime, dime, \u00bfqu\u00e9 podemos esperar ya?\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1Esto! _[Imita el canto del jilguero.]_ Lo que le queda a nuestras esperanzas es una larga desesperaci\u00f3n que engendrar\u00e1 nuevas esperanzas. Muchas, muchas esperanzas... Voy a vivir tanto como Tiziano.\n\n_[Entra PEPA.]_\n\nPEPA _[a FEDERICO]_.- Ya est\u00e1 su chocolate.\n\nFEDERICO.- Las cosas claras y el chocolate espeso.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfLo ha vuelto a decir?\n\n_[ PEPA asiente con un gesto y toma a GOYA del brazo. Salen FEDERICO y el JARDINERO, con la escalera a cuestas, y se dirigen hacia la casa. Hablan muy bajo, casi en un susurro. GOYA no tiene dificultad para o\u00edr.]_\n\n\u00bfTe has le\u00eddo las p\u00e1ginas de Quevedo que te marqu\u00e9?\n\nPEPA.- Todas.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfY?\n\nPEPA.- Trataban del Juicio Final.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfY la historia que trata de m\u00ed?\n\nPEPA.- A El Bosco, el pintor, lo estaban interrogando en el infierno. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 pintabas tantos hombres deformes cuando eras pintor all\u00e1 en la tierra?, le preguntaron. Y \u00e9l contest\u00f3: porque no creo en el demonio.\n\nGOYA.- Correcto.\n\n_[ PEPA se sienta en un columpio. GOYA permanece de pie, frente a ella.]_\n\n\u00bfSabes qui\u00e9n es el personaje m\u00e1s popular del manicomio de ah\u00ed abajo? \u00a1Napole\u00f3n! Cont\u00e9 quince hombres que llevaban sombreros imitando al suyo y un letrerito que dec\u00eda: soy Napole\u00f3n. \u00bfSabes por qu\u00e9 les gusta tanto a los locos Napole\u00f3n?\n\nPEPA.- No.\n\nGOYA.- Porque Napole\u00f3n estaba lo bastante loco para presumir de que ten\u00eda una renta anual de trescientos mil hombres.\n\n_[ PEPA coge unas flores y se las ofrece a GOYA.]_\n\nPEPA.- El viernes a las dos de la tarde habr\u00e1 una ejecuci\u00f3n p\u00fablica en la Place d'Aquitaine, al estilo franc\u00e9s, con guillotina.\n\nGOYA.- All\u00ed estar\u00e9\n\nPEPA.- Un pobre desgraciado llamado Jean Bertain asesin\u00f3 a su cu\u00f1ado.\n\nGOYA.- Tal vez el cu\u00f1ado estaba violando a su sobrina. La compasi\u00f3n no es algo habitual entre los hombres.\n\nPEPA.- Usted cierra los ojos cuando siente compasi\u00f3n.\n\nGOYA.- Tengo un par de ojos dentro de la cabeza, y esos no se cierran nunca. \u00bfMe quieres, peque\u00f1a?\n\nPEPA.- \u00bfUn poco, mucho o apasionadamente?\n\nGOYA.- Si pintara una miniatura en marfil te la podr\u00edas colgar en el pecho. \u00bfEstoy loco, Pepa?\n\nPEPA.- Al menos no se cree Napole\u00f3n.\n\n_[ GOYA se sienta en una banqueta y se agarra la cabeza entre las manos.]_\n\nGOYA.- Un hombre se dobla por la mitad entre un par de labios. Intenta entrar en la boca. Cuando lo consigue, no puede salir. Uno debe llamar por su nombre a todo lo que ve. Nunca se deben ignorar las consecuencias. Esa es la \u00fanica posibilidad de enfrentarse a la barbarie. Ver las consecuencias.\n\nPEPA.- No se torture, Francisco. Siempre es as\u00ed al final de la ma\u00f1ana, y luego pasa, se va. Juguemos a algo. He puesto el retrato de un joven en nuestro \u00e1lbum familiar. _[Abre un cuaderno sobre sus rodillas.]_ Lleva un sombrero negro muy grande y tiene unos penetrantes ojos oscuros.\n\nGOYA.- Sin duda era ambicioso.\n\nPEPA.- Y una boca grande... sensual. Era un hombre con fuertes apetitos.\n\nGOYA.- Pues yo he puesto el retrato de un hombre de pie delante de un caballete.\n\nPEPA.- Tiene unas velitas encendidas en el ala del sombrero.\n\nFrancisco de Goya, _Muri\u00f3 la Verdad_ ( _Los desastres de la guerra_ ), 1810-1815.\n\nGOYA.- Trabajaba toda la noche.\n\nPEPA.- \u00a1 _Quel panache_! Era muy elegante... con calzas estrechas y todo. Y ahora el mismo hombre, m\u00e1s viejo. Lleva gafas.\n\nGOYA.- Ha visto demasiado.\n\nPEPA.- Tiene pocas arrugas y lleva una bufanda de seda blanca alrededor del cuello.\n\nGOYA.- Era ya el a\u00f1o de la Revoluci\u00f3n francesa.\n\nPEPA.- Luego he puesto en el \u00e1lbum el retrato de un hombre de pie contra un fondo negro. Parece sorprendido, sorprendido de estar vivo.\n\nGOYA.- Sencillamente ya es viejo... tiene casi setenta a\u00f1os. La peste asola Madrid y se ha llevado a Amore.\n\nPEPA.- La expresi\u00f3n cambia, pero es siempre el mismo hombre.\n\nGOYA.- Tal vez, lo es. Pero no soy yo.\n\nPEPA.- S\u00ed... es usted y es su arte, por algo los pint\u00f3 usted.\n\n_[De pronto, GOYA pierde todo inter\u00e9s en la conversaci\u00f3n. Se queda mirando fijamente a la sepultura de la DUQUESA de Alba, al otro lado del columpio. Aparece la DUQUESA. PEPA no la ve.]_\n\nGOYA.- D\u00e9jame ahora solo, Pepa.\n\nPEPA.- Su arte, don Francisco.\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1Al infierno con mi arte!\n\nPEPA.- Fue usted un profeta. Predijo el futuro.\n\n_[La DUQUESA avanza hacia GOYA.]_\n\nGOYA.- Ven, ven, ac\u00e9rcate.\n\nPEPA.- Y con qu\u00e9 compasi\u00f3n, adem\u00e1s.\n\nGOYA.- \u00a1L\u00e1rgate, te digo, largo...!\n\n_[ GOYA expulsa a PEPA fuera del jard\u00edn empuj\u00e1ndola con el bast\u00f3n. Se vuelve al p\u00fablico.]_\n\n\u00a1 _Voyeurs_! \u00a1Largo!\n\n_[Dando la espalda al p\u00fablico, observa a la DUQUESA, que se est\u00e1 desnudando para \u00e9l, como en un espect\u00e1culo de_ striptease _.]_\n\nMi vida, mi vida querida...\n\n_[La DUQUESA abre los brazos, recibi\u00e9ndole.]_\n\nDUQUESA.- Todas para ti, todas y cada una de las plumas. Ven, amor m\u00edo, ven, ven, Hombre Rana.\n\n_[La DUQUESA desaparece. GOYA cae al suelo. El escenario est\u00e1 en completo silencio. Como si fuera a bajar el tel\u00f3n, pero no funcionara el mecanismo. Entra PEPA, se sienta en el suelo y pone la cabeza de GOYA en su regazo.]_\n\nPEPA.- Siempre hace igual. Siempre se le escapa. Nunca es lo bastante r\u00e1pido.\n\nGOYA.- Camino con bast\u00f3n...\n\n_[Van entrando desde diferentes direcciones todos los dem\u00e1s actores, vestidos como en el pr\u00f3logo. El JARDINERO, con la careta, se dirige a la colmena. PEPA se separa suavemente de GOYA, se pone en pie y toca la campana. Los actores empiezan a salir del cementerio exactamente igual que lo hac\u00edan en el pr\u00f3logo. PEPA vuelve al lado de GOYA.]_\n\nVIUDA _[para s\u00ed]_.- Dios m\u00edo, haz que reine la justicia en el mundo.\n\nM\u00c9DICO _[a la actriz]_.- Te hiciste actriz porque quer\u00edas seducir a tu padre.\n\nGOYA _[a PEPA]_.- \u00bfHan terminado? \u00bfEst\u00e1 terminado mi retrato?\n\nPEPA.- S\u00ed, est\u00e1 terminado.\n\nGOYA.- Pues que lo firmen.\n\nPEPA.- Ya est\u00e1.\n\nGOYA.- \u00bfEstoy muerto, Pepa?\n\nPEPA.- No se preocupe. Por esta noche est\u00e1 verdaderamente muerto.\n\n_[ LEANDRO es el \u00faltimo en salir.]_\n\nLEANDRO _[a PEPA, gritando]_.- \u00a1Esta noche ponte el vestido blanco nuevo!\n\nGOYA.- Eso est\u00e1 bien...\n\n_[ GOYA cierra los ojos y duerme. El JARDINERO fumiga la colmena. Cae un tel\u00f3n blanco sin im\u00e1genes ni firmas.]_\n\nFrancisco de Goya, _Si resucitar\u00e1?_ ( _Los desastres de la guerra_ ), 1810-1815.\n\n## **J. M. W. Turner**\n\n## 1775-1851\n\nNo ha habido otro pintor como Turner. Y esto se debe a la cantidad de elementos diferentes que se combinan en su obra. Hay muchos motivos para pensar que es Turner, y no Charles Dickens, William Wordsworth, Walter Scott, John Constable o Edwin Landseer, quien mejor representa, con su genialidad, el car\u00e1cter del siglo XIX brit\u00e1nico. Y, tal vez, esto explica el hecho de que precisamente fuera Turner el \u00fanico artista importante que goz\u00f3, tanto antes como despu\u00e9s de su muerte en 1851, de cierto renombre popular en el Reino Unido. Hasta muy recientemente, una gran parte del p\u00fablico sent\u00eda que de alguna manera misteriosa y callada (en el sentido de que su visi\u00f3n de las cosas aleja o excluye las palabras) Turner expresaba algo del variado fondo de experiencias de todos ellos.\n\nTurner naci\u00f3 en 1775; su padre ten\u00eda una barber\u00eda en una callejuela del centro de Londres. Su t\u00edo era carnicero. La familia viv\u00eda a un tiro de piedra del T\u00e1mesis. Turner viaj\u00f3 mucho a lo largo de su vida, pero en la mayor\u00eda de los temas que escog\u00eda recurr\u00eda continuamente al agua, las costas y las riberas de los r\u00edos. Durante sus \u00faltimos a\u00f1os vivi\u00f3, bajo el seud\u00f3nimo de Captain Booth, un capit\u00e1n de la marina retirado, un poco m\u00e1s abajo siguiendo el curso del T\u00e1mesis, en Chelsea. Sus a\u00f1os de vida adulta los pas\u00f3 en Hammersmith y Twickenham, dos zonas de Londres tambi\u00e9n pr\u00f3ximas al r\u00edo.\n\nTurner fue un ni\u00f1o prodigio y ya a los nueve a\u00f1os ganaba alg\u00fan dinero coloreando grabados; a los catorce, entr\u00f3 en las escuelas de la Royal Academy. A los dieciocho a\u00f1os ya ten\u00eda su propio estudio, y poco despu\u00e9s su padre dej\u00f3 la barber\u00eda para convertirse en el ayudante y fact\u00f3tum de su hijo. La relaci\u00f3n entre padre e hijo era obviamente muy estrecha. (La madre del pintor muri\u00f3 loca.)\n\nEs imposible saber con exactitud cu\u00e1les fueron las primeras experiencias visuales que influyeron en la imaginaci\u00f3n de Turner. Pero debemos observar de pasada, aunque no la utilicemos como explicaci\u00f3n global, la profunda correspondencia existente entre algunos de los elementos visuales propios de una barber\u00eda y ciertos elementos del estilo maduro del pintor. Pensemos en algunos de sus \u00faltimos cuadros e imagin\u00e9monos en la peque\u00f1a barber\u00eda londinense: agua, espuma, vapor, metal reluciente, espejos empa\u00f1ados, blancas palanganas o jofainas en las que el barbero agita con la brocha un agua jabonosa, los detritus depositados en ella. Consideremos la equivalencia entre la navaja de su padre y la esp\u00e1tula que, pese a la cr\u00edtica y la moda del momento, Turner insist\u00eda en utilizar tan extensamente. Y algo todav\u00eda m\u00e1s profundo, en el nivel de la fantasmagor\u00eda infantil, figur\u00e9monos esa combinaci\u00f3n, siempre posible en una barber\u00eda, de sangre y agua, agua y sangre. A los veinte a\u00f1os, Turner plane\u00f3 pintar un tema del Apocalipsis titulado _El agua se convirti\u00f3 en sangre._ Nunca lleg\u00f3 a pintarlo. Pero visualmente, mediante las puestas de sol y los incendios, este llegar\u00eda a ser el tema de cientos de sus obras y estudios posteriores.\n\nMuchos de los primeros paisajes de Turner eran m\u00e1s o menos cl\u00e1sicos, con referencias a Claude Lorrain e influencias asimismo de los primeros paisajistas holandeses. El esp\u00edritu de estas obras es bastante curioso. A primera vista, son tranquilas, \"sublimes\", o incluso suavemente nost\u00e1lgicas. No obstante, uno acaba por darse cuenta de que estos paisajes tienen mucho m\u00e1s que ver con el arte que con la naturaleza, y de que, en cuanto que arte, son una forma de pastiche. Y en el pastiche hay siempre un tipo u otro de impaciencia o desesperaci\u00f3n.\n\nLa naturaleza entr\u00f3 en la obra de Turner, o m\u00e1s bien en su imaginaci\u00f3n, como sin\u00f3nimo de violencia. Ya en 1802 pint\u00f3 una tempestad cerni\u00e9ndose en torno al muelle de Calais. Poco despu\u00e9s pint\u00f3 otra tempestad en los Alpes. Luego un alud. Hasta la d\u00e9cada de 1830, estos dos aspectos de su obra, el de calma aparente y el turbulento, coexistieron uno al lado del otro, pero poco a poco fue dominando la turbulencia. Finalmente, la violencia lleg\u00f3 a estar impl\u00edcita en la propia visi\u00f3n de Turner; ya no depend\u00eda del tema tratado. Por ejemplo, un cuadro titulado _Paz: entierro en el mar_ es, a su manera, tan violento como el de la _Tormenta de nieve._ El primero de estos es semejante a la imagen de una herida que est\u00e1 siendo cauterizada.\n\nLa violencia en los cuadros de Turner parece elemental: est\u00e1 expresada por el agua, el viento, el fuego. En algunas ocasiones se dir\u00eda que es una cualidad que pertenece tan solo a la luz. Escribiendo a prop\u00f3sito de una obra tard\u00eda llamada _El \u00e1ngel de pie en el sol,_ Turner hablaba de la luz como de algo que _devora_ todo el mundo visible. Sin embargo, yo creo que la violencia que el pintor encontraba en la naturaleza no hizo m\u00e1s que confirmar algo ya intr\u00ednseco a su propia visi\u00f3n imaginativa. Ya he sugerido que tal vez esta visi\u00f3n se debiera en parte a ciertas experiencias de infancia. Experiencias que posteriormente se ver\u00edan confirmadas no solo por la naturaleza, sino tambi\u00e9n por la iniciativa humana. Turner vivi\u00f3 durante la primera fase apocal\u00edptica de la Revoluci\u00f3n industrial en el Reino Unido. El vapor era algo m\u00e1s que lo que inundaba la barber\u00eda paterna. El bermell\u00f3n ten\u00eda que ver con los altos hornos tanto como con la sangre. El viento soplaba a trav\u00e9s de las v\u00e1lvulas tanto como sobre los Alpes. La luz, que a \u00e9l le parece devorar todo el mundo visible, era muy parecida a la nueva energ\u00eda productiva que estaba desafiando y destruyendo todas las ideas previas sobre la riqueza, la distancia, el trabajo humano, la ciudad, la naturaleza, la voluntad divina, los ni\u00f1os, el tiempo. Es un error pensar en Turner como en el virtuoso pintor de los efectos naturales, que era m\u00e1s o menos como se le valoraba oficialmente hasta que John Ruskin ofreci\u00f3 una interpretaci\u00f3n de su obra mucho m\u00e1s profunda.\n\nDurante la primera mitad del siglo XIX, el Reino Unido fue profundamente ateo. Puede que esto forzara a Turner a utilizar simb\u00f3licamente la naturaleza. No hab\u00eda otro sistema simb\u00f3lico convincente o accesible que ejerciera un atractivo moral profundo, pero ten\u00eda el inconveniente de que su sentido moral no se pod\u00eda expresar de forma directa. El _Entierro en el mar_ muestra el sepelio de los restos mortales de uno de los pocos amigos de Turner, el tambi\u00e9n pintor David Wilkie. Sus referencias son c\u00f3smicas. Pero si lo consideramos una declaraci\u00f3n, \u00bfqu\u00e9 es esencialmente? \u00bfUna protesta o una aprobaci\u00f3n? \u00bfQu\u00e9 hemos de tener m\u00e1s en cuenta? \u00bfLas velas imposiblemente negras o la ciudad imposiblemente radiante que se ve al fondo? Las cuestiones que plantea este cuadro son morales (de ah\u00ed que, como en tantas otras obras tard\u00edas de Turner, su calidad sea en cierto modo claustrof\u00f3bica), pero las soluciones ofrecidas son todas ambivalentes. No es de extra\u00f1ar que lo que m\u00e1s admirara Turner en la pintura fuera la capacidad para suscitar la duda, para sumergir en el misterio. Rembrandt, dec\u00eda Turner con admiraci\u00f3n, \"supo arrojar una duda misteriosa sobre la vulgaridad m\u00e1s \u00ednfima\".\n\nDesde el inicio de su carrera, Turner fue extremadamente ambicioso y abiertamente competitivo. No solo quer\u00eda que su pa\u00eds lo reconociera como el mejor pintor de su tiempo, sino tambi\u00e9n entre los mejores de todos los tiempos. \u00c9l mismo se consideraba comparable a Rembrandt y Jean-Antoine Watteau. Y cre\u00eda que hab\u00eda superado a Claude Lorrain. Esta competitividad iba acompa\u00f1ada por una marcada tendencia a la misantrop\u00eda y la mezquindad. Era reservado en exceso en lo que se refer\u00eda a sus m\u00e9todos de trabajo. Era un solitario en el sentido de que hab\u00eda optado por vivir alejado de la sociedad. Su aislamiento no era una consecuencia del abandono o de la falta de reconocimiento. El \u00e9xito lo acompa\u00f1\u00f3 siempre desde los primeros a\u00f1os. A medida que su obra se iba haciendo m\u00e1s original, empez\u00f3 a ser criticado, pero nunca recibi\u00f3 un trato por debajo del que se le da a un gran artista.\n\nTurner escribi\u00f3 poes\u00eda y ensayo sobre los temas de sus cuadros e incluso lleg\u00f3 a dar alguna conferencia sobre el arte en general; en ambos casos utiliz\u00f3 un lenguaje grandilocuente y, al mismo tiempo, ins\u00edpido. En la conversaci\u00f3n era taciturno y seco. Cuando decimos que fue un visionario, hemos de matizarlo recalcando su pr\u00e1ctico empirismo. Prefiri\u00f3 vivir solo, pero puso buen cuidado en triunfar en una sociedad altamente competitiva. Tuvo visiones grandiosas, que alcanzaron toda su nobleza cuando las pint\u00f3, o fueron sencillamente ampulosas en sus escritos, pero su actitud m\u00e1s seria y consciente como artista fue pragm\u00e1tica y casi artesanal. Lo que le conduc\u00eda a un tema o a un determinado modo de pintar era lo que \u00e9l denominaba la _practicalidad_ de estos: su capacidad para producir un cuadro.\n\nEl genio de Turner pertenec\u00eda a la nueva modalidad a que hab\u00eda dado lugar el siglo XIX brit\u00e1nico, aunque normalmente esta se diera m\u00e1s en los campos de la ciencia, la ingenier\u00eda o el comercio. (Un poco m\u00e1s tarde, este mismo tipo aparecer\u00eda bajo la forma de h\u00e9roe en Estados Unidos.) Supo llegar a ser famoso, pero la fama no le satisfizo. (Al morir dej\u00f3 una fortuna de 140.000 libras esterlinas.) Se sent\u00eda solo en la historia. Ten\u00eda unas visiones globales para cuya expresi\u00f3n las palabras resultaban totalmente inadecuadas, y solo pod\u00edan ser presentadas bajo el pretexto de una producci\u00f3n pr\u00e1ctica. Turner visualizaba al ser humano como un ser empeque\u00f1ecido por unas fuerzas inmensas que \u00e9l mismo hab\u00eda descubierto, sobre las cuales, empero, no ten\u00eda control alguno. Siempre estuvo cerca de la desesperaci\u00f3n, pero lo manten\u00eda vivo una extraordinaria energ\u00eda productiva. (Despu\u00e9s de su muerte se encontraron en su estudio 19.000 dibujos y acuarelas y varios cientos de \u00f3leos.)\n\nRuskin dec\u00eda que el tema subyacente a toda la obra de Turner era la muerte. Yo m\u00e1s bien creo que era la soledad, la violencia y la imposibilidad de encontrar la redenci\u00f3n. La mayor\u00eda de sus cuadros parecen tratar de las consecuencias de un crimen. Y lo que realmente resulta perturbador en ellos, lo que de hecho nos permite considerarlos hermosos, no es la culpa, sino la indiferencia general que dejan ver.\n\nEn unas cuantas ocasiones excepcionales a lo largo de su vida, Turner pudo expresar sus visiones a trav\u00e9s de sucesos reales que \u00e9l mismo hab\u00eda presenciado. En octubre de 1834 ardi\u00f3 el edificio del Parlamento brit\u00e1nico. Turner corri\u00f3 al lugar del suceso, se puso a dibujar bocetos fren\u00e9ticamente y al a\u00f1o siguiente producir\u00eda la versi\u00f3n definitiva para la Royal Academy. Unos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, a los sesenta y ocho a\u00f1os, encontr\u00e1ndose a bordo de un buque fue testigo de una tormenta de nieve, una experiencia que poco despu\u00e9s quedar\u00eda reflejada en un cuadro. Cuando uno de sus cuadros estaba basado en un suceso real, Turner pon\u00eda de relieve el hecho, ya fuera en el t\u00edtulo o en las notas del cat\u00e1logo, de que la obra era el resultado de una experiencia de primera mano. Es como si quisiera demostrar que la vida confirmaba su visi\u00f3n, aunque fuera despiadadamente. El t\u00edtulo completo de la _Tormenta de nieve_ era: _Tormenta de nieve: buque a la altura de la embocadura de un puerto haciendo se\u00f1ales en aguas poco profundas y siguiendo las instrucciones. El autor estuvo presente en esta tormenta acaecida la noche en que el Ariel zarp\u00f3 del puerto de Harwich._\n\nCuando un amigo le dijo que a su madre le hab\u00eda gustado mucho el cuadro de la tormenta de nieve, Turner observ\u00f3 lo siguiente:\n\n\u2014No lo pint\u00e9 para que nadie lo comprendiera, sino que quer\u00eda mostrar c\u00f3mo era aquella escena. Hice que los marineros me ataran al m\u00e1stil para observarla; all\u00ed estuve durante cuatro horas, creyendo que de aquella no escapar\u00eda a la muerte, y me promet\u00ed pintarla si sal\u00eda con vida. Pero no tiene por qu\u00e9 gustarle a nadie.\n\n\u2014Pero mi madre tambi\u00e9n estuvo presente en aquella escena, y el cuadro se la record\u00f3 v\u00edvidamente.\n\n\u2014\u00bfEs pintora su madre?\n\n\u2014No.\n\n\u2014Entonces estar\u00eda pensando en cualquier otra cosa.\n\nAl margen de que puedan o no ser amables, la cuesti\u00f3n que nos plantean estas palabras es saber qu\u00e9 es lo que las convert\u00eda en algo tan nuevo, tan diferente. Turner transcendi\u00f3 el principio del paisajismo tradicional, seg\u00fan el cual el paisaje es algo que se despliega ante uno. En el _Incendio del Parlamento_ , la escena empieza a extenderse allende sus l\u00edmites formales. Empieza a abrirse camino en torno al espectador en un intento por desbordarlo y rodearlo. En la _Tormenta de nieve_ , esta tendencia se convierte en un hecho. Cuando de verdad uno permite que las formas y colores del lienzo absorban su mirada, cae en la cuenta de que est\u00e1 en medio de un remolino: ha dejado de haber cerca y lejos. Por ejemplo, el empuje no le lleva, como cabr\u00eda esperar, hacia dentro del cuadro, sino que es centr\u00edfugo hacia la derecha. Es un cuadro que excluye al espectador intruso.\n\nEl valor f\u00edsico de Turner debi\u00f3 de ser considerable, pero tal vez mayor a\u00fan fue su valor ante su propia experiencia como artista. Su fidelidad con esta experiencia fue tal que lleg\u00f3 a destruir la tradici\u00f3n a la que se sent\u00eda tan orgulloso de pertenecer. Dej\u00f3 de pintar totalidades. La _Tormenta de nieve_ es el total de todo lo que puede ver e intuir un hombre atado al m\u00e1stil de aquella embarcaci\u00f3n. No hay _nada_ fuera de ello. Esto hace que sea absurda la idea de que le pueda gustar a nadie.\n\nQuiz\u00e1 Turner no pensaba exactamente en estos t\u00e9rminos. Pero sigui\u00f3 intuitivamente la l\u00f3gica de la situaci\u00f3n. Era un hombre solo, rodeado por unas fuerzas implacables e indiferentes. Ya no era posible creer que alguien pudiera llegar a ver desde el exterior lo mismo que \u00e9l hab\u00eda visto, aun cuando tal cosa le hubiera servido de consuelo. Ya no se pod\u00eda seguir tratando a las partes como si fueran todos. Lo que hab\u00eda era o todo o nada.\n\nEn un sentido m\u00e1s pr\u00e1ctico, era consciente de la importancia que ten\u00eda la totalidad en su obra. Empez\u00f3 a mostrarse reacio a vender sus cuadros. Quer\u00eda que se mantuvieran juntas el mayor n\u00famero posible de obras y se obsesion\u00f3 con la idea de legarlas a la naci\u00f3n, de forma que pudieran ser expuestas como un conjunto. \"Mantenedlas juntas \u2014dec\u00eda\u2014. \u00bfQu\u00e9 sentido tienen separadas?\" \u00bfPor qu\u00e9? Porque solo as\u00ed podr\u00edan constituir un testimonio de su experiencia, la cual, para \u00e9l, no ten\u00eda precedentes ni tampoco esperanzas de ser comprendida en el futuro.\n\n## **Jean-Louis-Andr\u00e9-Th\u00e9odore G\u00e9ricault**\n\n## 1791-1824\n\nDurante aquel invierno, paseando por el centro de Par\u00eds no pod\u00eda dejar de pensar en un retrato. Era el retrato de un desconocido y hab\u00eda sido pintado hacia los a\u00f1os veinte del siglo XIX. Era la imagen que hab\u00edan elegido para los carteles que anunciaban una gran exposici\u00f3n antol\u00f3gica de G\u00e9ricault que por entonces ten\u00eda lugar en el Grand Palais.\n\nEl cuadro en cuesti\u00f3n hab\u00eda sido encontrado en un desv\u00e1n, en Alemania, junto a otros cuatro lienzos similares, cuarenta a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la temprana muerte de G\u00e9ricault. Poco despu\u00e9s fue ofrecido al Museo del Louvre, que lo rechaz\u00f3. Imaginado en el contexto de la denuncia y de la tragedia de _La balsa de la Medusa,_ que ya llevaba cuarenta a\u00f1os colgado en el museo, el retrato ofrecido habr\u00eda de presentar en la \u00e9poca un aspecto indescriptible. Sin embargo, ha sido el cuadro elegido hoy para representar toda la obra del mismo pintor. \u00bfQu\u00e9 ha cambiado desde entonces? \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 se ha hecho hoy tan elocuente o, para ser precisos, tan obsesionante, este fr\u00e1gil retrato?\n\nDetr\u00e1s de todo lo que imagin\u00f3 y pint\u00f3 G\u00e9ricault \u2014desde sus caballos salvajes a los mendigos que retrat\u00f3 en Londres\u2014, uno percibe un mismo voto: me enfrentar\u00e9 a la aflicci\u00f3n, descubrir\u00e9 un respeto por ella y, si es posible, encontrar\u00e9 su belleza. Naturalmente, la belleza que esperaba encontrar significaba dar la espalda a la mayor parte de la piedad oficial.\n\nTen\u00eda mucho en com\u00fan con Pier Paolo Pasolini:\n\nMe esfuerzo por entenderlo todo, ignorante\n\ncomo soy de otra vida que no sea\n\nla m\u00eda, hasta perdidamente hacer\n\nde otra vida, en la nostalgia,\n\nexperiencia plena: soy todo piedad,\n\npero quiero que distinto sea el camino\n\nde mi amor por esta realidad,\n\nque tambi\u00e9n yo amar\u00e9 caso por caso, criatura\n\npor criatura.1\n\nAl retrato reproducido en el cartel de la exposici\u00f3n se le dio primero el t\u00edtulo de _El asesino loco_ ; m\u00e1s tarde se pas\u00f3 a llamar _El clept\u00f3mano_. Hoy est\u00e1 catalogado bajo el t\u00edtulo de _El obseso del robo._ Ya nadie sabe el nombre del hombre.\n\nEl hombre retratado era un interno del manicomio de La Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re, situado en el centro de Par\u00eds. G\u00e9ricault hizo all\u00ed diez retratos de diez internos distintos. Cinco de los lienzos han sobrevivido. Entre ellos se encuentra uno inolvidable de una mujer. En el Mus\u00e9e des Beaux Arts de Lyon le dieron originariamente el t\u00edtulo de _La hiena de La Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re._ Hoy se lo conoce con el t\u00edtulo de _La obsesa de la envidia._\n\nSolo podemos suponer qu\u00e9 se propon\u00eda exactamente G\u00e9ricault cuando pint\u00f3 a estos pacientes. Pero la forma en que los pint\u00f3 deja claro que lo \u00faltimo que le preocupaba era su catalogaci\u00f3n cl\u00ednica. Las mismas pinceladas indican que los conoc\u00eda y pensaba en ellos por su nombre de pila. Los nombres de sus almas. Esos nombres hoy olvidados.\n\nJean-Louis-Andr\u00e9-Th\u00e9odore G\u00e9ricault, _El obseso del robo_ , 1822.\n\nUna o dos d\u00e9cadas antes, Francisco de Goya hab\u00eda pintado escenas de locos encerrados, encadenados, desnudos. A Goya, sin embargo, lo que le interesaban eran sus actos, no su interior. Posiblemente, nadie antes de G\u00e9ricault \u2014ni pintor, ni m\u00e9dico, ni los parientes y amigos\u2014 hab\u00eda mirado durante tanto tiempo, tan fijamente, a la cara de alguien catalogado de loco y como tal condenado a su locura.\n\nEn 1942, Simone Weil escrib\u00eda: \"El amor por nuestro pr\u00f3jimo, cuando es resultado de una atenci\u00f3n creativa, es an\u00e1logo al talento\". Ciertamente no estaba pensando en t\u00e9rminos art\u00edsticos cuando lo escribi\u00f3.\n\nEl amor por nuestro pr\u00f3jimo en toda su extensi\u00f3n sencillamente significa ser capaz de decirle: \"\u00bfQu\u00e9 te pasa?\". Es un reconocimiento de que el que sufre existe, no solo como una unidad en una serie o como un esp\u00e9cimen de una categor\u00eda social etiquetada bajo el r\u00f3tulo de \"desafortunados\", sino como un ser humano, exactamente igual que nosotros, que un d\u00eda qued\u00f3 especialmente marcado con el sello de la aflicci\u00f3n. Por eso basta, pero tambi\u00e9n es indispensable, saber mirarlo de una forma especial.\n\nPara m\u00ed, el retrato del hombre desgre\u00f1ado, con el cuello de la camisa torcido y unos ojos que no parecen protegidos por ning\u00fan \u00e1ngel guardi\u00e1n, demuestra esa \"atenci\u00f3n creativa\" y contiene ese \"talento\" al que hace referencia Simone Weil.\n\nPero \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 abrumaba tanto ver este retrato por las calles de Par\u00eds? Creo que nos pellizcaba con dos dedos. Voy a explicar cu\u00e1l era el primer dedo.\n\nHay muchas formas de locura que empiezan como una especie de teatro (como tan bien sab\u00edan William Shakespeare, Luigi Pirandello y Antonin Artaud). La locura se pone a prueba en los ensayos. Cualquiera que haya estado al lado de un amigo que empieza a enloquecer reconocer\u00e1 esa sensaci\u00f3n de verse obligado a convertirse en p\u00fablico. Lo que primero ve uno en el escenario es un hombre o una mujer, solos, y a su lado \u2014como un fantasma\u2014 lo inadecuado de todas sus explicaciones para explicar el dolor cotidiano. Entonces, \u00e9l o ella se acercan al fantasma y se enfrentan al terrible espacio existente entre las palabras dichas y lo que se supone que deber\u00edan decir. En realidad, este espacio, este vac\u00edo, es el dolor propiamente dicho. Y finalmente, la locura, que, como la naturaleza, aborrece el vac\u00edo, se abalanza a llenarlo; entonces deja de haber distinci\u00f3n entre el escenario y el mundo, la representaci\u00f3n y el sufrimiento.\n\nEl espacio vac\u00edo, el hueco existente entre la experiencia de vivir una vida normal en este momento en el planeta y los discursos p\u00fablicos que se ofrecen para dar sentido a esa vida es enorme. Ah\u00ed reside la desolaci\u00f3n, no en los hechos. Por eso, un tercio de la poblaci\u00f3n francesa est\u00e1 dispuesta a escuchar a Le Pen. Las historias que cuenta \u2014siendo como son mal\u00e9ficas\u2014 parecen estar m\u00e1s cerca de lo que sucede en la calle. Y en otro orden de cosas, esta es tambi\u00e9n la raz\u00f3n por la que la gente sue\u00f1a con la realidad virtual. Cualquier cosa \u2014desde la demagogia a los sue\u00f1os onan\u00edsticos manufacturados\u2014, cualquier cosa, cualquier cosa, con tal de cerrar el vac\u00edo. La gente se pierde y se vuelve loca en esos vac\u00edos.\n\nEn los cinco retratos que G\u00e9ricault pint\u00f3 en La Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re, los ojos de los retratados miran a otro lado, de soslayo. No porque est\u00e9n viendo algo distante o imaginado, sino porque ya se han acostumbrado a evitar todo lo cercano. Lo cercano provoca v\u00e9rtigo porque las explicaciones ofrecidas no lo explican.\n\nCon cu\u00e1nta frecuencia nos encontramos hoy \u2014en los trenes, en los aparcamientos, en las colas del autob\u00fas, en los centros comerciales\u2014 con una mirada semejante, una mirada que se niega a enfocar lo cercano.\n\nHay per\u00edodos hist\u00f3ricos en los que la locura parece ser lo que es: un padecimiento extra\u00f1o, anormal. Y hay otros \u2014como este en el que acabamos de entrar\u2014 que precisamente parecen caracterizados por ella.\n\nTodo esto describe el primero de los dos dedos con los que nos pellizca la imagen del hombre desgre\u00f1ado. El segundo dedo lo constituye la compasi\u00f3n de la imagen.\n\nLa posmodernidad no suele tener en cuenta la compasi\u00f3n. Pero no solo podr\u00eda ser \u00fatil tenerla en cuenta, sino que tambi\u00e9n nos har\u00eda un poco m\u00e1s humildes.\n\nLa mayor\u00eda de las revueltas sociales que han tenido lugar en la historia se llevaron a cabo con el fin de restablecer una justicia que llevaba tiempo olvidada o maltratada. La Revoluci\u00f3n francesa, sin embargo, proclam\u00f3 el principio de un futuro mejor para la humanidad. A partir de entonces, todos los partidos pol\u00edticos, de izquierdas o de derechas, se vieron obligados a prometer de continuo que la cantidad de sufrimiento existente en el mundo estaba en v\u00edas de ser reducida o iba a estarlo en breve. De modo que, hasta cierto punto, todo padecimiento pas\u00f3 a recordar que hab\u00eda una esperanza. El sufrimiento \u2014presenciado, compartido o sufrido\u2014 segu\u00eda, claro est\u00e1, siendo sufrimiento, pero pod\u00eda ser transcendido en parte al sentirlo como un est\u00edmulo que ayudaba a esforzarse a\u00fan m\u00e1s por un futuro en el que dejar\u00eda de existir. As\u00ed, el sufrimiento ten\u00eda una v\u00e1lvula de escape hist\u00f3rica. Y durante estos dos \u00faltimos tr\u00e1gicos siglos, incluso se ha llegado a creer que la tragedia encerraba una promesa.\n\nHoy las promesas se han quedado est\u00e9riles. Ser\u00eda miope relacionar esta esterilidad \u00fanicamente con el fracaso del comunismo. M\u00e1s transcendental en ello han sido los procesos actuales conforme a los cuales los art\u00edculos de consumo han venido a sustituir al futuro como veh\u00edculo de esperanza. Una esperanza que ha demostrado ser inevitablemente est\u00e9ril para sus clientes, y que, por una l\u00f3gica econ\u00f3mica inexorable, excluye a la mayor\u00eda del planeta. Comprar un billete para el _rally_ Par\u00eds-Dakar de este a\u00f1o para d\u00e1rselo al hombre desgre\u00f1ado nos hace m\u00e1s locos que \u00e9l.\n\nDe modo que hoy lo vemos sin esperanza, ni hist\u00f3rica ni moderna. Lo vemos como una consecuencia. Y esto, en el orden natural de las cosas, significa que lo vemos con indiferencia. No lo conocemos. Est\u00e1 loco. Muri\u00f3 hace ciento cincuenta a\u00f1os. Cada d\u00eda en Brasil mueren miles de ni\u00f1os de malnutrici\u00f3n o de unas enfermedades que en Europa son curables. Est\u00e1n a miles de kil\u00f3metros de distancia. No se puede hacer nada.\n\nLa imagen nos pellizcaba a quienes la ve\u00edamos al pasar. Hay en ella una compasi\u00f3n que se niega a la indiferencia y es irreconciliable con toda esperanza f\u00e1cil.\n\n\u00a1A qu\u00e9 momento tan extraordinario en la historia de la representaci\u00f3n y de la conciencia humana pertenece esta pintura! Antes de ella, ning\u00fan desconocido hubiera mirado tan fijamente y con tanta compasi\u00f3n a un loco. Y poco tiempo despu\u00e9s, ning\u00fan pintor habr\u00eda hecho un retrato igual sin a\u00f1adirle un resplandor de esperanza moderna o rom\u00e1ntica. Al igual que Ant\u00edgona, la l\u00facida compasi\u00f3n de este retrato coexiste con su impotencia. Y estas dos cualidades, lejos de ser contradictorias, se afirman mutuamente de tal forma que las v\u00edctimas pueden agradecerlo, pero solo el coraz\u00f3n se da cuenta, lo reconoce.\n\nEsto, sin embargo, no debe impedirnos ser claros. La compasi\u00f3n no tiene lugar en el orden natural del mundo, que opera sobre la base de la necesidad. Las leyes de la necesidad son tan inexorables como las de la gravedad. La facultad humana de la compasi\u00f3n se opone a este orden y, por consiguiente, es mejor considerar que hasta cierto punto es sobrenatural. Olvidarse de uno mismo, por brevemente que sea, identificarse con un desconocido hasta el punto de reconocerlo, supone desafiar la necesidad, y en este desaf\u00edo, aunque sea m\u00ednimo y callado, y aunque solo mida 60 \u00d7 50 cm, hay un poder que no se puede medir seg\u00fan los l\u00edmites del orden natural. No es un medio y no tiene fin. Los Antiguos lo sab\u00edan.\n\nNi tampoco cre\u00eda yo \u2014dec\u00eda Ant\u00edgona\u2014 que tuvieran tal fuerza tus pregones como para poder transgredir, siendo mortal, las leyes no escritas y firmes de los dioses. Pues su vigencia no viene de ayer ni de hoy, sino de siempre y nadie sabe desde cu\u00e1ndo aparecieron.2\n\nEl cartel de la exposici\u00f3n observaba las calles de Par\u00eds como lo har\u00eda un fantasma. No era el fantasma del hombre desgre\u00f1ado, ni tampoco el de G\u00e9ricault, sino el fantasma de una forma de atenci\u00f3n especial que llevaba dos siglos marginada, pero que hoy cada d\u00eda es menos obsoleta. Este es el segundo dedo.\n\n\u00bfY qu\u00e9 hacemos al sentir el pellizco? Despertarnos, tal vez.\n\n______________\n\n1 Pasolini, Pier Paolo, _La religione del mio tempo_ , Aldo Garzanti, Mil\u00e1n, 1961 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _La religi\u00f3n de mi tiempo_ , N\u00f3rdica, Madrid, 2015) [N. del Ed.].\n\n2 S\u00f3focles, _Ant\u00edgona_ , Labor, Barcelona, 1975 [N. del Ed.].\n\n## **Honor\u00e9 Daumier**\n\n## 1808-1879\n\nHonor\u00e9 Daumier muri\u00f3 en 1879, a los setenta a\u00f1os. Hasta el \u00faltimo a\u00f1o de su vida solo se hab\u00edan exhibido p\u00fablicamente menos de una docena de sus cuadros. Charles Baudelaire y otros pocos amigos suyos lo consideraban pintor, pero la mayor\u00eda de la gente insist\u00eda en ponerle la etiqueta de gran caricaturista. Al final de su vida se qued\u00f3 ciego, ciego a causa de la gran cantidad de litograf\u00edas (4.000) que produjo para la prensa. Siempre esper\u00f3 \u2014en vano\u2014 poder dejar ese penoso trabajo y dedicarse a la pintura.\n\nEsta fue, en pocas palabras, la tragedia de la vida privada de Daumier. La cuesti\u00f3n para nosotros, hoy, es si respaldamos o no esa tragedia. \u00bfPodemos separar a Daumier, el gran caricaturista, de Daumier, el pintor, y luego lamentar las oportunidades perdidas del segundo? \u00bfDeber\u00edamos trasportar respetuosamente sus lienzos hasta el Museo de Bellas Artes y dejar los montones de peri\u00f3dicos fuera?\n\nCreo que no. Daumier nunca hubiera sido el pintor atemporal que es de no haber sido tambi\u00e9n caricaturista y haber publicado una vi\u00f1eta semanal. Ni tampoco seremos nosotros capaces de apreciar la asombrosa originalidad de su pintura hasta que no hayamos entendido este punto. No apruebo con esto, claro est\u00e1, la severa necesidad econ\u00f3mica que le oblig\u00f3 a trabajar por encargo a\u00f1o tras a\u00f1o. El equilibrio entre las dos funciones podr\u00eda haber sido muy diferente y mucho m\u00e1s feliz. Pero alg\u00fan tipo de equilibrio entre las dos era intr\u00ednseco a su genialidad.\n\nEl tema de su pintura ya lo hab\u00eda desarrollado el caricaturista: los leguleyos que se re\u00fanen como cuervos all\u00ed donde hay angustia y penuria, el hombre flaco (Don Quijote) frente al gordo (Sancho Panza), los _connoisseurs_ que se asemejan a las raras ediciones limitadas que buscan, el burgu\u00e9s que odia pagar, el obrero agotado, las corpulentas hero\u00ednas que sugieren que una sociedad razonable podr\u00eda muy bien ser tan generosa como una madre con sus hijos.\n\nCreo que hay otra conexi\u00f3n entre el caricaturista y el pintor que es mucho m\u00e1s profunda que la relativamente superficial de la tem\u00e1tica. Daumier no fue un gran pintor por los temas que trata en su pintura, sino por la manera de pintarlos. \u00bfCu\u00e1l es el elemento esencial en la pintura de Daumier? Sin duda, la luz.\n\nSu uso de la luz es \u00fanico. La luz se hace tan activa en sus lienzos que uno casi tiene que considerarla protagonista de los mismos. Muchas veces, las figuras la sufren. Las coge desprevenidas cuando est\u00e1n descansando en la oscuridad \u2014como Sancho o el pintor en su estudio\u2014, y las modela de forma que las podamos captar en unos t\u00e9rminos elementales y, por consiguiente, poco halagadores. O, si no, las muestra movi\u00e9ndose o actuando frente a ella. Las vemos, silueteadas, y la luz a su alrededor subraya el significado de sus movimientos: el ni\u00f1o que alza la mirada a la luz de su madre, Don Quijote cabalgando hacia las nubes, los refugiados arrastr\u00e1ndose hacia el horizonte, la lavandera encorvada. La luz los golpea de la misma manera que sabemos que los golpear\u00e1 la vida.\n\nTampoco es esto una simple met\u00e1fora. Si uno observa detenidamente los lienzos, ver\u00e1 c\u00f3mo Daumier dibujaba las figuras con el pincel con el que pintaba el cielo o la pared contra las que estas se recortan. El pincel de luz pulveriza sus siluetas.\n\nLa luz en Daumier es, pues, una fuerza activa. Pero \u00bfcon qu\u00e9 objetivo act\u00faa? Es en este punto cuando empezamos a ver que Daumier fue y, tal vez, todav\u00eda es, \u00fanico. Otros pintores crearon la luz activa: Rembrandt, Jean-Fran\u00e7ois Millet, los impresionistas. Pero cada uno con un objetivo distinto. En Rembrandt, las figuras generan su propia luz: son ellas las que iluminan la oscuridad que las rodea. En Daumier, la luz ilumina las figuras para que las veamos, pero no permite que _ellas_ vean con mayor claridad. Millet tambi\u00e9n deja que la luz recorte la silueta de las figuras, pero su luz es la luz de los cielos, tiene una perspectiva menguante infinita, mientras que la de Daumier es simplemente la luz de un tel\u00f3n de fondo blanco. Los impresionistas inventaron la luz primaria, pero su luz es imparcial, lo trasforma todo de la misma manera, y la de Daumier toma partido; ilumina solo a aquellos sobre los que desea informarnos urgentemente.\n\nLas pinturas que m\u00e1s se acercan a las de Daumier son los cuadros del Goya tard\u00edo, las horribles escenas de multitudes que pint\u00f3 en Madrid. Desde el punto de vista fotogr\u00e1fico, sugieren el mismo efecto: parecen sobreexpuestas. La similitud se debe, creo yo, al hecho de que Goya, al igual que Daumier, era plenamente consciente de ser un testigo, de su deber de exponer, esta vez en el sentido social del t\u00e9rmino. La diferencia entre los dos es que Goya trabajaba de noche y Daumier de d\u00eda. Goya tem\u00eda lo que la luz pudiera revelar. Daumier detestaba la inercia de la oscuridad.\n\nCreo que para entender el arte de Daumier, la comparaci\u00f3n que m\u00e1s nos puede ayudar es con otro medio completamente distinto. Sus contempor\u00e1neos comparaban sus observaciones sociales con las de Honor\u00e9 de Balzac. A m\u00ed me gustar\u00eda comparar la naturaleza de sus im\u00e1genes con las de Sergu\u00e9i Eisenstein. Contemplemos el hombre colgado de una soga contra un muro. Tengamos en cuenta las diferentes distorsiones de cada medio, y entonces veremos que la imagen podr\u00eda corresponder a una pel\u00edcula de la d\u00e9cada de 1920. La luz es ahora la pantalla plateada frente a la cual vemos las sombras de la acci\u00f3n. Nos da la sensaci\u00f3n de que el aspecto dram\u00e1tico del incidente se ha descubierto mirando hacia arriba o hacia los lados, en una direcci\u00f3n poco com\u00fan, en cualquier caso. Somos conscientes de que ninguna posici\u00f3n de las piernas podr\u00eda ser la adecuada. Lo vemos moverse. Lo reconocemos al pasar y ya no podemos olvidarlo.\n\nSin embargo, la semejanza no se acaba en una imagen que encierra una azarosa profec\u00eda t\u00e9cnica. Una vez que hemos establecido la comparaci\u00f3n, se hace obvio. Imaginemos que hacemos una pel\u00edcula empleando unas caricaturas de Daumier como guion visual o _storyboard:_ funcionar\u00eda perfectamente. Y funcionar\u00eda porque, al igual que un director de cine, Daumier ve\u00eda cada incidente que pintaba como parte de un proceso en evoluci\u00f3n, como una imagen cuyo significado no pod\u00eda ni deb\u00eda ser nunca completo en s\u00ed mismo. Por eso le costaba tanto \"acabar\" sus cuadros. Si los hubiera acabado, haci\u00e9ndolos definitivos, habr\u00eda traicionado por completo la naturaleza de su visi\u00f3n personal.\n\nY esto nos vuelve a llevar a la conexi\u00f3n org\u00e1nica que exist\u00eda entre el pintor y el caricaturista. Como comentarista pol\u00edtico y tambi\u00e9n como autor de s\u00e1tiras sociales, Daumier sab\u00eda que registraba procesos y costumbres que pod\u00edan modificarse. En realidad, esperaba que, por el hecho de registrarlas, har\u00eda que la gente las cambiara. No paraba de usar la imaginaci\u00f3n para predecir las consecuencias de lo que revelaba. Cuando mostraba a un hombre hambriento viendo comer a otro hombre, sab\u00eda que la historia no pod\u00eda acabar ah\u00ed. El hambriento terminar\u00eda por reivindicar su pan. Cuando mostraba el tedio de la burgues\u00eda, sab\u00eda que al final ese hast\u00edo acabar\u00eda destrozando la base material del confort burgu\u00e9s. Cuando mostraba a los hombres y a las mujeres trabajando, no solo le interesaba registrar sus gestos; sab\u00eda que su trabajo sosten\u00eda a toda la sociedad y, por consiguiente, quer\u00eda mostrar que ten\u00edan un papel hist\u00f3rico.\n\nExactamente en el momento en el que la pintura \"hist\u00f3rica\" acad\u00e9mica, con sus grandes escenas de batalla y sus victorias rom\u00e1nticas, empezaba a cansar, Daumier introdujo en las artes visuales un nuevo sentido de la historia: un sentido de la fuerza continua del cambio hist\u00f3rico obrando en la vida cotidiana del mundo que le rodeaba. Se daba cuenta de que su propia obra formaba parte de esta fuerza, la representaba. La representaba, en sus caricaturas, en la pasi\u00f3n de su comentario directo. En sus cuadros, la representaba mediante el uso de la luz \u2014la luz contra la que act\u00faan los seres humanos\u2014 como agente activo en s\u00ed mismo. Para resumir, Daumier pintaba a la luz de la historia.\n\nHonor\u00e9 Daumier, _Nadar eleva la fotograf\u00eda a la categor\u00eda de arte_ , 1863.\n\n***\n\nLo que distingue la obra de Daumier de la de sus contempor\u00e1neos es su materialidad, su corporalidad. Sus protagonistas se acercan a nosotros de una manera distinta, y nosotros los abordamos tambi\u00e9n de una manera distinta. Tienen su propia anatom\u00eda, su propia relaci\u00f3n con el esfuerzo. Sus rostros caricaturizados parecen cuerpos; sus cuerpos \"realistas\" parecen rostros. Observemos esta obra de una madre con un ni\u00f1o. Constituyen un solo rostro. Esto se debe al hecho de que Daumier no dibuj\u00f3 ni compuso partiendo de lo que instalaba en un estudio cerrado, sino partiendo de lo que recordaba y evocaba una y otra vez de las figuras y las escenas que hab\u00eda observado en las calles. Su modelo era el gent\u00edo de las calles.\n\nHonor\u00e9 Daumier, _La carga_ , 1865.\n\nDaumier ten\u00eda una afinidad natural, dir\u00eda yo, con los saltimbanquis, a quienes retrat\u00f3 sin romanticismo alguno, pero con mucho afecto. Actuaban en la calle, engatusaban a la gente para que se detuviera, hac\u00edan m\u00fasica, levantaban pesas, convenc\u00edan a todos, entre risotadas, de que pod\u00edan quererse unos a otros, y con su habilidad y las manos vac\u00edas lanzaban al aire moment\u00e1neamente una suerte de gracia.\n\nEn otros momentos, otros d\u00edas, los saltimbanquis pod\u00edan hacer que la lavandera, con su monstruosa carga, y su hija sonrieran con una sonrisa que ning\u00fan ministro del gobierno de la \u00e9poca hubiera sido capaz de mostrar.\n\n## **Jean-Fran\u00e7ois Millet**\n\n## 1814-1875\n\nLos santos y humildes campesinos de Millet se han utilizado para ilustrar muchas par\u00e1bolas y han consolado muchas conciencias intranquilas: las conciencias de aquellos que lo han soportado todo \"con fortaleza\", pero que sospechan que, tal vez, han aceptado demasiado con demasiada pasividad; y tambi\u00e9n las conciencias de quienes viven del trabajo de otros, pero siempre han pensado que de un modo que no es f\u00e1cil describir (y Dios asista a quienes lo describen demasiado expl\u00edcitamente), el trabajador tiene una nobleza de la que ellos carecen. Y, sobre todo, las pinturas de Millet se han citado para convencer a quienes est\u00e1n presos de que den las gracias porque podr\u00edan estar peor; se han utilizado a modo de etiqueta pict\u00f3rica en el gigantesco frasco eclesi\u00e1stico de bromuro prescrito para calmar todo tipo de fiebre o irritaci\u00f3n social. Y esto es una parte m\u00e1s importante de la historia del arte de Millet que el hecho de que las modas cultas lo hayan ignorado durante los \u00faltimos treinta o cuarenta a\u00f1os. Aparte de esto, lo importante es que artistas como Edgar Degas, Claude Monet, Vincent van Gogh y Walter Richard Sickert daban por supuesto que Millet era un gran dibujante. De hecho, al comentar su obra se puede citar a Miguel \u00c1ngel, a Nicolas Poussin, a Jean-Honor\u00e9 Fragonard, a Honor\u00e9 Daumier y a Degas, aunque solo sea necesario hacerlo a fin de convencer al p\u00fablico \"aficionado al arte\", inducido a error por los libros de texto, de que Millet no fue solo una especie de san Juan Bautista, un precursor de los prerrafaelitas o de George Frederick Watts. Pero cuando se ha dicho todo esto, queda la cuesti\u00f3n moral, que es la cuesti\u00f3n que Millet plantea.\n\nMillet fue un moralista, un moralista de un tipo del que solo los grandes artistas pueden serlo: por el poder de la identificaci\u00f3n con sus temas. Opt\u00f3 por pintar campesinos, porque \u00e9l mismo lo era y porque \u2014bajo una influencia en cierto modo parecida a la de los realistas apol\u00edticos de hoy\u2014 detestaba instintivamente la falsa elegancia del gran mundo. Su talento era el resultado del hecho de que eligi\u00f3 pintar el trabajo f\u00edsico, pero \u00e9l ya pose\u00eda de antemano ese temperamento apasionado, sensual y sexual que puede conducir a una intensa identificaci\u00f3n f\u00edsica. Kenneth Clark le otorga mucha importancia al hecho de que a los treinta y cinco a\u00f1os dej\u00f3 de pintar desnudos, unos desnudos que eran, aunque solo en la mitolog\u00eda que emplean, un poco parecidos al \"arte de _boudoir_ \" caracter\u00edstico del siglo XVIII. No hab\u00eda, sin embargo, un puritanismo inhibido detr\u00e1s de esta decisi\u00f3n. La principal objeci\u00f3n que le pon\u00eda Millet a Fran\u00e7ois Boucher era que \"no pintaba mujeres desnudas, sino solo criaturas sin ropa\".\n\nEn cuanto a la naturaleza del poder de identificaci\u00f3n de Millet, parece que queda claro en uno de sus comentarios sobre un dibujo de Miguel \u00c1ngel:\n\nCuando vi ese dibujo suyo en el que representa a un hombre que cae desmayado, me sent\u00ed como la figura del dibujo, como si me atormentara un dolor atroz. Sufr\u00ed con el cuerpo y con los miembros que ve\u00eda sufrir.\n\nDel mismo modo, avanzaba a zancadas con _El sembrador_ , sent\u00eda el peso de la mano en un regazo incluso cuando est\u00e1 en sombra (v\u00e9ase el aguafuerte titulado _La papilla_ ), abrazaba con los segadores los haces de heno, enderezaba la espalda con los labradores, hincaba la pierna contra el tronco con los le\u00f1adores, se reclinaba en el \u00e1rbol con el pastor, se tend\u00eda en el campo a medio d\u00eda con los labriegos agotados. Este era el grado de su ense\u00f1anza moral. Cuando le acusaron de ser socialista, lo neg\u00f3 \u2014aunque continu\u00f3 trabajando del mismo modo y sufriendo la misma acusaci\u00f3n\u2014 porque le parec\u00eda que el socialismo no ten\u00eda nada que ver con la verdad que \u00e9l hab\u00eda experimentado y expresado: la verdad del campesino a merced de las estaciones; una verdad tan dominante que se le hac\u00eda totalmente imposible pensar en cualquier otra vida para el campesinado. Es fatal para el sentido moral del artista adelantarse a su experiencia de la realidad. (El de William Hogarth no se adelant\u00f3; el de Jean-Baptiste Greuze s\u00ed.) Sin sentimentalismo alguno, Millet cont\u00f3 la verdad tal como \u00e9l la sab\u00eda: la aceptaci\u00f3n pasiva de la pareja de _El \u00c1ngelus_ era una peque\u00f1a parte de la verdad. Y el sentimentalismo y la falsa moral que posteriormente se le endosaron a este cuadro resultar\u00e1n ser pasajeras, o tal vez ya lo han sido. En la historia del arte de los siglos XIX y XX se repite siempre lo mismo. El artista, aislado, sabe que su m\u00e1xima responsabilidad moral es luchar por decir la verdad; su pugna se sit\u00faa a este lado de la l\u00ednea a partir de la cual se extraen conclusiones morales, no al otro lado de la misma. El p\u00fablico, o algunos segmentos del mismo, sacan entonces conclusiones morales que disfrazan la verdad: se califica de inmoral la obra del artista \u2014Honor\u00e9 de Balzac o \u00c9mile Zola\u2014, se requisa para un tipo de serm\u00f3n falso \u2014Millet, Fi\u00f3dor Dostoevski\u2014 o, si no funciona ninguno de estos subterfugios, se la desecha por ingenua: Percy Bysshe Shelley y Bertolt Brecht.\n\n***\n\nJean-Fran\u00e7ois Millet muri\u00f3 en 1875. Tras su muerte y hasta muy recientemente, algunas de sus obras, en particular _El \u00c1ngelus, El sembrador_ y _Las espigadoras,_ se encontraban entre las im\u00e1genes pintadas m\u00e1s conocidas en todo el mundo. Incluso hoy no creo que exista una familia campesina francesa que no conozca estos tres cuadros por haberlos visto en grabados, postales, adornos o platos. _El sembrador_ sirvi\u00f3 tanto de logotipo para un banco americano como de s\u00edmbolo revolucionario en Pek\u00edn y en Cuba.\n\nJean-Fran\u00e7ois Millet, _El \u00c1ngelus_ , 1857-1859.\n\nA medida que sus obras se popularizaban, la fama de Millet empez\u00f3 a declinar entre los cr\u00edticos. Al principio, no obstante, esas mismas obras hab\u00edan sido admiradas por otros artistas como Georges Seurat, Camille Pisarro, Paul C\u00e9zanne y Vincent van Gogh. Para los cr\u00edticos de hoy, Millet fue una v\u00edctima p\u00f3stuma de su propia popularidad. Pero las cuestiones que plantea el arte de Millet son mucho m\u00e1s trascendentales y perturbadoras. Con \u00e9l se pone en tela de juicio toda una tradici\u00f3n de la cultura.\n\nEn 1862, Millet pint\u00f3 _Invierno y cuervos,_ que no es m\u00e1s que un cielo, un bosquecillo distante y una inmensa llanura desierta de tierra inerte en la que han quedado abandonados un arado de madera y una grada. Los cuervos inspeccionan la tierra mientras esperan; una espera que durar\u00e1 todo el invierno. Una pintura de la simplicidad m\u00e1s absoluta. Apenas es un paisaje, sino m\u00e1s bien el retrato de una llanura en noviembre. La horizontalidad de esta lo dice todo. Cultivar esta tierra es una lucha continua para estimular lo vertical. Y el cuadro nos muestra cu\u00e1n agotadora f\u00edsicamente es la lucha.\n\nLas im\u00e1genes de Millet fueron tan reproducidas porque eran \u00fanicas: ning\u00fan otro pintor europeo hab\u00eda tratado la vida rural, el trabajo del campesinado, como tema central de su arte. Millet consagr\u00f3 su vida como pintor a la tarea de introducir un tema nuevo en una tradici\u00f3n antigua, la tarea de forzar a un determinado lenguaje a hablar de algo que hasta entonces hab\u00eda ignorado. El lenguaje era el de la pintura al \u00f3leo; el tema era el del campesino en tanto que _sujeto_ individual, independiente.\n\nHabr\u00e1 quienes no est\u00e9n de acuerdo con esto y citen la obra de Pieter Breughel el Viejo y Gustave Courbet. Pero en Breughel los campesinos forman parte de la gran masa que constituye la humanidad; el tema de Breughel es una colectividad de la que el campesinado en su conjunto es solo una parte; ning\u00fan ser humano ha sido todav\u00eda condenado en perpetuidad al aislamiento del individualismo, y antes del juicio final todos los seres humanos son iguales; la posici\u00f3n social es algo secundario.\n\nPuede que Courbet pintara _Los picapedreros,_ en 1850, bajo la influencia de Millet (este \u00faltimo obtuvo su primer \u00e9xito con _El aventador,_ expuesto en el Sal\u00f3n de 1848). Pero la imaginaci\u00f3n de Courbet era esencialmente sensual; a \u00e9l le preocupaban las fuentes de las experiencias sensitivas y no el sujeto de ellas. Como artista de origen campesino, el gran logro de Courbet fue introducir en la pintura un nuevo tipo de sustancialidad, percibida conforme a unos sentidos desarrollados gracias a unos h\u00e1bitos diferentes de los del burgu\u00e9s urbano. El pez visto con los ojos del pescador, el perro que escoger\u00eda el cazador, los \u00e1rboles y la nieve como aquello a trav\u00e9s de lo cual nos conduce un camino conocido, un funeral visto como se ve en el pueblo, como un momento de reuni\u00f3n de sus moradores. El punto flaco de Courbet en la pintura era el ojo humano. En sus muchos retratos, los ojos, como algo separado de los p\u00e1rpados y las cuencas, son casi intercambiables. Rechaz\u00f3 todo tipo de interiorizaci\u00f3n. Esta es la raz\u00f3n por la que el campesino, _como sujeto,_ no pod\u00eda ser el tema central de su obra.\n\nDetalle de _El \u00c1ngelus_ en una mantequillera.\n\nEntre los cuadros de Millet podemos encontrar las siguientes experiencias: la siega, el esquilado de las ovejas, la tala, la recogida de la patata, el pastoreo, el arado y abonado de los campos, la poda. La mayor\u00eda de ellas son tareas de estaci\u00f3n, y, por consiguiente, su experiencia incluye la de un tiempo en particular. El cielo detr\u00e1s de la pareja representada en _El \u00c1ngelus_ (1859) es el t\u00edpico de la calma de los primeros d\u00edas del oto\u00f1o. Si un pastor pasa la noche a la intemperie con sus ovejas, tan probable como la luna es que su lana se cubra de escarcha. Puesto que inevitablemente Millet se dirig\u00eda a un p\u00fablico urbano privilegiado, decidi\u00f3 describir aquellos momentos que ponen de relieve la dureza de la experiencia campesina; muchas veces un momento de agotamiento. El trabajo y, una vez m\u00e1s, la estaci\u00f3n determinan la expresi\u00f3n de este agotamiento. Un hombre con las manos sobre la azada y la mirada perdida en el cielo se reclina hacia atr\u00e1s intentando enderezar su espalda. Otro hombre est\u00e1 sentado en la tierra ardiente, encogido entre las verdes hojas de la vi\u00f1a.\n\nTan grande era la ambici\u00f3n de Millet por introducir una experiencia nunca pintada anteriormente que muchas veces se propone una tarea imposible. Una mujer sembrando patatas en la zanja cavada por su marido (las patatas suspendidas en el aire antes de caer) puede que sea filmable, pero no es f\u00e1cil de representar pict\u00f3ricamente. En otros momentos, su originalidad es impresionante. Por ejemplo, en un dibujo en el que un pastor y su reba\u00f1o se disuelven en la oscuridad se dir\u00eda que la escena absorbe el crep\u00fasculo como el pan que uno moja en el taz\u00f3n de caf\u00e9. O en aquella otra pintura en la que, a la luz de las estrellas, la tierra y los arbustos solo se distinguen como montones informes.\n\nDuerme el universo\n\ncolocando sobre su zarpa\n\nla enorme oreja\n\nllena de garrapatas de estrellas.1\n\nEstas experiencias nunca hab\u00edan sido pintadas antes, ni siquiera por Aert van der Neer, cuyas escenas nocturnas estaban todav\u00eda delineadas como si fueran diurnas. (El gusto de Millet por la noche y las medias luces es algo que merece la pena volver a tocar.)\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 incit\u00f3 a Millet a escoger esta nueva tem\u00e1tica? No basta con decir que pintaba campesinos porque \u00e9l mismo proced\u00eda de una familia campesina normanda y, de joven, hab\u00eda trabajado en el campo. Ni tampoco es correcto suponer que la solemnidad \"b\u00edblica\" de su trabajo era el resultado de su fe religiosa. En realidad era agn\u00f3stico.\n\nEn 1847, a los treinta y tres a\u00f1os, Millet pint\u00f3 un peque\u00f1o cuadro titulado _Regreso de los campos_ que muestra a tres ninfas, vistas, en cierto modo, a la manera de Fragonard, jugando sobre un carro de heno. Una alegre escena r\u00fastica apropiada para un dormitorio o una biblioteca privada. Fue un a\u00f1o despu\u00e9s cuando pint\u00f3, bastante torpemente, la tensa figura de _El aventador_ en la penumbra de un granero, en el que el polvo que sale de la cesta, cual polvo de lat\u00f3n, es un signo de la energ\u00eda con la que todo su cuerpo est\u00e1 oreando el grano. Y dos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s, _El sembrador,_ corriendo colina abajo mientras siembra a los cuatro vientos, una figura que simboliza el pan nuestro de cada d\u00eda y cuya silueta e inexorabilidad recuerdan la figura de la muerte. Lo que inspir\u00f3 este cambio, patente en la obra de Millet a partir de 1847, fue la Revoluci\u00f3n de 1848.\n\nSu visi\u00f3n de la historia era demasiado pasiva y pesimista para poder tener ninguna convicci\u00f3n pol\u00edtica fuerte. Sin embargo, los a\u00f1os comprendidos entre 1848 y 1851, las esperanzas que suscitaron y reprimieron, arraigaron en \u00e9l, como en muchos otros, la reivindicaci\u00f3n de la democracia, no tanto en el sentido parlamentario, como en el de que los derechos humanos fueran universalmente respetados. El estilo art\u00edstico que acompa\u00f1\u00f3 a esta nueva reivindicaci\u00f3n fue el realismo. El realismo, porque revelaba unas condiciones sociales ocultas; el realismo, porque todos pod\u00edan reconocer lo que revelaba (o, al menos, eso se cre\u00eda).\n\nDespu\u00e9s de 1847, Millet consagr\u00f3 los veintisiete a\u00f1os que a\u00fan ten\u00eda por delante a revelar las condiciones de vida del campesinado franc\u00e9s. Dos tercios de la poblaci\u00f3n eran campesinos. La Revoluci\u00f3n de 1789 los hab\u00eda liberado de las servidumbres feudales, pero hacia mediados del siglo XIX se hab\u00edan convertido en las v\u00edctimas del \"libre cambio\" de la capital. El inter\u00e9s anual que el campesinado franc\u00e9s ten\u00eda que pagar en concepto de pr\u00e9stamos e hipotecas era igual al del pr\u00e9stamo nacional anual del Reino Unido, el pa\u00eds m\u00e1s rico del mundo. La mayor parte del p\u00fablico que iba a contemplar los cuadros expuestos en el Sal\u00f3n ignoraba la penuria que exist\u00eda en el campo, y uno de los objetivos conscientes de Millet era \"perturbar su placer y su ocio\".\n\nSu elecci\u00f3n del tema entra\u00f1aba tambi\u00e9n a\u00f1oranza. En un doble sentido. Como tantos otros que lo abandonan, Millet ten\u00eda nostalgia del pueblo de su infancia. Pas\u00f3 veinte a\u00f1os de su vida trabajando en un lienzo que muestra la carretera que conduce a la aldea donde naci\u00f3; no lo terminar\u00eda hasta dos a\u00f1os antes de su muerte. Intensamente verde, compacto, las sombras tan sustancialmente oscuras como sustancialmente luminosas las luces, este paisaje es comparable a una prenda de vestir que el pintor hubiera llevado durante un per\u00edodo de su vida _(El caser\u00edo Cousin)._ Y hay un dibujo al pastel, en el que aparece un pozo delante de una casa y una mujer dando de comer a los patos y las ocas, que me impresion\u00f3 en gran manera cuando lo vi por primera vez. El dibujo es realista, pero yo lo vi como el escenario de uno de aquellos cuentos de hadas que comienzan en la granja de una anciana. Lo vi como si lo hubiera visto cientos de veces, aunque sab\u00eda que no lo hab\u00eda visto antes; inexplicablemente, la \"memoria\" estaba en el propio dibujo. Posteriormente descubr\u00ed, en el cat\u00e1logo realizado por Robert L. Herbert para la exposici\u00f3n de 1976, que esta escena era lo que se ve\u00eda delante de la casa donde naci\u00f3 Millet, y que, consciente o inconscientemente, el artista hab\u00eda aumentado en dos tercios las proporciones del pozo, a fin de que coincidieran con su percepci\u00f3n infantil de este.\n\nLa nostalgia de Millet, sin embargo, no se limitaba a lo personal. Impregnaba tambi\u00e9n su visi\u00f3n de la historia. Se mostraba esc\u00e9ptico en cuanto a ese progreso que no dejaban de proclamar en torno suyo, vi\u00e9ndolo m\u00e1s bien como una posible amenaza para la dignidad humana. No obstante, a diferencia de William Morris y otros medievalistas rom\u00e1nticos, no describi\u00f3 con sentimentalismo el mundo rural. Casi lo \u00fanico que sab\u00eda sobre los campesinos era que estaban reducidos a una existencia cruel, especialmente los hombres. Y, por muy conservadora o negativa que pueda haber sido su perspectiva general, yo creo que Millet percibi\u00f3 algo que muy pocos supieron ver en aquella \u00e9poca: que la pobreza de la ciudad y sus suburbios y el mercado creado por la industrializaci\u00f3n, a la que estaba siendo sacrificado el campesinado, un d\u00eda podr\u00edan suponer la p\u00e9rdida de todo sentido de la historia. Por eso, para Millet, el campesino lleg\u00f3 a representar al hombre; por eso, tambi\u00e9n, consideraba que sus cuadros cumpl\u00edan una funci\u00f3n hist\u00f3rica.\n\nLas reacciones ante su pintura fueron tan complejas como los propios sentimientos de Millet. Enseguida se le etiquet\u00f3 de socialista revolucionario. Con entusiasmo por parte de la izquierda, con horror indignado por parte del centro y la derecha. Estos \u00faltimos pudieron decir sobre los campesinos pintados por Millet lo que tem\u00edan, pero no se atrev\u00edan a decir, sobre los campesinos reales, aquellos que segu\u00edan trabajando la tierra o los cinco millones de desarraigados que hab\u00edan sido empujados hacia las ciudades: _parecen asesinos, son cretinos, son animales, no son hombres, est\u00e1n degenerados._ Y tras decir estas cosas, acusaron a Millet de haberse inventado aquellas figuras.\n\nHacia el final del siglo, cuando la estabilidad econ\u00f3mica y social del capitalismo se hizo m\u00e1s firme, las pinturas de Millet empezaron a ofrecer otros significados. Reproducidas por la Iglesia y el comercio, llegaron al medio rural. El orgullo con el que una clase se ve a s\u00ed misma por primera vez representada de modo reconocible en un arte permanente es un orgullo completamente placentero, aun cuando el arte tenga fallos y la verdad sea dura. La representaci\u00f3n da a sus vidas una resonancia hist\u00f3rica. El orgullo, que hasta entonces hab\u00eda consistido en una negaci\u00f3n obstinada de su verg\u00fcenza, se convierte en una afirmaci\u00f3n.\n\nMientras tanto, los originales de Millet eran comprados por los viejos millonarios estadounidenses que quer\u00edan volver a creer que lo mejor de la vida eran las cosas sencillas y libres.\n\n\u00bfC\u00f3mo juzgar, pues, esta implantaci\u00f3n de un tema nuevo en un arte antiguo? Es necesario recalcar hasta qu\u00e9 punto Millet era consciente de la tradici\u00f3n que hab\u00eda heredado. Trabajaba lentamente a partir de dibujos, retornando a menudo al mismo motivo. Habiendo escogido al campesino como tema central de su obra, trabaj\u00f3 toda su vida para hacerle justicia, confiri\u00e9ndole dignidad y permanencia. Y esto significaba incorporarlo a la tradici\u00f3n de Giorgone, Miguel \u00c1ngel, los holandeses del siglo XVII, Nicolas Poussin, Jean Sime\u00f3n Chardin.\n\nSi consideramos su arte desde un punto de vista cronol\u00f3gico, veremos c\u00f3mo el campesino va surgiendo, casi literalmente, de entre las sombras. Las sombras constituyen el rinc\u00f3n que la tradici\u00f3n reserva a la pintura de g\u00e9nero: la escena de la vida humilde (la taberna, las viviendas de los criados) entrevista al pasar, con indulgencia, casi con envidia, por el viajero que camina por una carretera en donde hay espacio y luz. _El aventador_ est\u00e1 todav\u00eda en el rinc\u00f3n de la pintura de g\u00e9nero, aunque es un rinc\u00f3n ampliado. _El sembrador_ es una figura ilusoria, extra\u00f1amente incompleta como pintura, que se lanza a exigir un lugar. Hasta 1856, m\u00e1s o menos, Millet produjo otras pinturas de g\u00e9nero: pastoras a la sombra de los \u00e1rboles, una mujer haciendo mantequilla, un tonelero en su taller. Pero ya en 1853, en _Saliendo al trabajo,_ la pareja, modelada a la manera del _Adan y Eva_ de Masaccio, que abandona la casa para encaminarse a la labor en la llanura, ha avanzado a un primer plano, convirti\u00e9ndose as\u00ed en el centro del mundo adoptado por la pintura. De ahora en adelante, esto se repetir\u00e1 en todas las grandes obras de Millet que contengan figuras humanas. Lejos de presentarlas como algo marginal, visto al pasar, hace todo lo posible por darles un car\u00e1cter central y monumental. Y, en mayor o menor grado, todas esas obras son un fracaso.\n\nSon un fracaso porque no se establece unidad alguna entre las figuras y su entorno. La pintura rechaza la monumentalidad de las figuras, y a la inversa. Como resultado de ello, las figuras recortadas son r\u00edgidas y teatrales. El momento dura demasiado. Por el contrario, en los bocetos y los grabados, esas mismas figuras est\u00e1n vivas y pertenecen al momento en que fueron dibujadas, el cual incluye todo lo que las rodea. Por ejemplo, el grabado de _Saliendo al trabajo,_ realizado diez a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la pintura, es una obra espl\u00e9ndida, comparable con los mejores grabados de Rembrandt.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 le impidi\u00f3 a Millet lograr sus objetivos como pintor? Hay dos respuestas convencionales. Una es que todos los bocetos del siglo XIX eran mejores que las obras acabadas. Una dudosa generalizaci\u00f3n desde el punto de vista de la historia del arte. La otra, que Millet no era un pintor nato.\n\nYo creo que Millet no alcanz\u00f3 los objetivos que se propon\u00eda porque el lenguaje de la pintura tradicional al \u00f3leo no se adaptaba al tema que \u00e9l quer\u00eda representar. Podr\u00edamos explicarlo ideol\u00f3gicamente. El inter\u00e9s del campesino en la _tierra,_ expresado mediante su actividad, es desproporcionado en relaci\u00f3n con el paisaje esc\u00e9nico. Si no toda, al menos la mayor\u00eda de la pintura paisaj\u00edstica europea estaba dirigida al visitante que ven\u00eda de la ciudad, el que m\u00e1s tarde ser\u00eda llamado turista; el paisaje es _su_ visi\u00f3n, el esplendor del mismo, _su_ recompensa. El paradigma del paisaje es uno de esos paneles orientativos en los que aparecen indicados los nombres de los lugares que se ven desde un punto determinado. Imaginemos que de repente aparece un campesino trabajando entre el panel y la vista: la contradicci\u00f3n social\/humana enseguida se hace evidente.\n\nLa historia de las formas revela la misma incompatibilidad. Hab\u00eda varias f\u00f3rmulas iconogr\u00e1ficas de integraci\u00f3n de las figuras en el paisaje. Las figuras distantes, como notas de color. Los retratos, en los que el paisaje constituye el tel\u00f3n de fondo. Las figuras mitol\u00f3gicas, las diosas, con las cuales se entrelaza la naturaleza para \"danzar al son de la m\u00fasica del tiempo\". Las figuras dram\u00e1ticas, cuyas pasiones refleja e ilustra la naturaleza. El visitante o espectador solitario que contempla la escena, un _alter ego_ del espectador propiamente dicho. Pero no hab\u00eda una f\u00f3rmula para representar la fisicalidad, profunda, violenta, paciente, del trabajo campesino _en_ la tierra, y no _delante de_ ella. E inventar una hubiera significado la destrucci\u00f3n del lenguaje tradicionalmente utilizado para describir el paisaje esc\u00e9nico.\n\nDe hecho, esto es lo que intent\u00f3 hacer Van Gogh tan solo unos a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de la muerte de Millet, al que consideraba su maestro tanto espiritual como art\u00edsticamente. Van Gogh pint\u00f3 decenas de cuadros copiados casi directamente de los grabados de Millet. Mediante los gestos y la energ\u00eda que caracterizan sus pinceladas, Van Gogh logra en ellos que la figura que trabaja la tierra se fusione con su entorno. Era su intensa empat\u00eda con la tem\u00e1tica tratada la que liberaba esa energ\u00eda.\n\nPero a consecuencia de esto, la pintura iba a convertirse en una visi\u00f3n personal caracterizada por su \"caligraf\u00eda\". El testigo era m\u00e1s importante que su testimonio. Quedaba abierto el camino para el expresionismo y, posteriormente, para el expresionismo abstracto y la destrucci\u00f3n final de la pintura entendida como un lenguaje con referencias supuestamente objetivas. As\u00ed pues, podemos considerar que el fracaso y los reveses de Millet constituyeron un momento decisivo en t\u00e9rminos de la historia del arte. La pintura al \u00f3leo no admit\u00eda su empleo para reivindicar una democracia universal. Y la consiguiente crisis de significado forz\u00f3 a una gran parte de la pintura a hacerse autobiogr\u00e1fica.\n\n\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 lo admit\u00edan, sin embargo, el dibujo y la obra gr\u00e1fica? El dibujo registra una experiencia visual. La pintura al \u00f3leo, debido a su peculiar y amplia gama de tonos, texturas y colores, pretende reproducir lo visible. La diferencia es inmensa. La ejecuci\u00f3n virtuosa de una pintura al \u00f3leo re\u00fane todos los aspectos de lo visible a fin de conducirlos a un solo punto: el punto de vista del espectador emp\u00edrico. Y luego insiste en que tal visi\u00f3n constituye la visibilidad misma. El trabajo gr\u00e1fico, debido a lo limitado de sus medios, es m\u00e1s modesto; solo pretende reproducir un \u00fanico aspecto de la experiencia visual, y, por lo tanto, se puede adaptar a varios usos diferentes.\n\nEl creciente uso del pastel que empieza a hacer Millet hacia el final de su vida, su amor por las medias luces, en las que la misma visibilidad se hace problem\u00e1tica, su fascinaci\u00f3n por las escenas nocturnas, todo ello sugiere que tal vez estuviera intentando resistirse a la exigencia, por parte del espectador privilegiado, de un mundo ordenado conforme a su visi\u00f3n. Esto estar\u00eda en consonancia con las tendencias de Millet, pues \u00bfacaso el hecho de que el campesino como tema central fuera inadmisible en la tradici\u00f3n de la pintura europea no prefiguraba ya exactamente el conflicto total de intereses que existe hoy entre el mundo industrializado y el tercer mundo? De ser as\u00ed, el trabajo al que Millet consagr\u00f3 su vida nos muestra que, si no modificamos radicalmente nuestros valores sociales y culturales, nada podr\u00e1 hacerse para resolver ese conflicto.\n\n______________\n\n1 Mayakovski, Vlad\u00edmir, \"La nube en pantalones\" [1914-1915], en Triolet, Elsa, _Recuerdos sobre Mayakovski y una selecci\u00f3n de poemas_ , Kair\u00f3s, Barcelona, 1970, p\u00e1g. 103 [N. del Ed.].\n\n## **Gustave Courbet**\n\n## 1819-1877\n\nComo siempre se lo calific\u00f3 de socialista pertinaz (fue condenado a prisi\u00f3n, por supuesto, por el papel que jug\u00f3 en la Comuna y, al final de su vida, tuvo que exiliarse en Suiza), la cr\u00edtica m\u00e1s reaccionaria ha pretendido que su posicionamiento pol\u00edtico no tiene nada que ver con su arte: no pod\u00edan ignorar su arte, aunque solo fuera por su importante influencia en artistas posteriores, como \u00c9douard Manet y Paul C\u00e9zanne; y la cr\u00edtica progresista, por otro lado, ha tendido a pensar que la grandeza de su arte es un resultado de su lealtad pol\u00edtica. As\u00ed que parece pertinente preguntarse hasta qu\u00e9 punto exactamente estaba su socialismo impl\u00edcito en sus pinturas, c\u00f3mo se reflejaba su actitud vital en las innovaciones de su arte.\n\nPrimero, sin embargo, es necesario limpiar algo del barro que se le ha quedado pegado. Porque nunca claudic\u00f3 en sus convicciones, porque su obra y su modo de vida \"vulgar\" demostraban que el arte era tan relevante en las trastiendas, los talleres y las celdas como en los salones, porque sus pinturas nunca ofrecieron la menor posibilidad de escapar del mundo tal como era, fue oficialmente rechazado durante su vida y luego admitido solo a rega\u00f1adientes. Se le acus\u00f3 de pomposo. Consideremos su autorretrato en la c\u00e1rcel. Est\u00e1 sentado junto a la ventana, fumando en pipa, tranquilamente, y la invitaci\u00f3n del sol, en el patio, es la \u00fanica referencia a su encarcelamiento. O consideremos su copia del autorretrato de Rembrandt. Tuvo la humildad de imponerse esa disciplina a los cincuenta a\u00f1os. Se le acus\u00f3 de tosquedad. Contemplemos una marina normanda, en la que el aire, que parece alejarse entre el mar desnudo y las nubes bajas, sostiene con firmeza, pero con una finura extraordinaria, todo el misterio encerrado en el hecho aparente y la ilusi\u00f3n real de un horizonte. Se le acus\u00f3 de sentimentalismo. Contemplemos el cuadro de la gran trucha enganchada al anzuelo: la fidelidad con la est\u00e1n reproducidos los hechos esenciales le fuerza a uno a sentir el peso del pez, la fuerza con la que la cola lucha, golpeando las piedras, la astucia necesaria para moverla, la deliberaci\u00f3n necesaria para arponearla, demasiado grande para meterla en una red. De vez en cuando, esas cr\u00edticas son, claro est\u00e1, justas, pero ning\u00fan artista pinta solo obras maestras, y las obras de, pongamos, por ejemplo, John Constable (a quien, en cierto modo, en su contribuci\u00f3n independiente al paisajismo, se parece Courbet), de Camille Corot o de Eug\u00e8ne Delacroix son igualmente desiguales, pero se las elige con menos frecuencia como blanco de ataques tendenciosos.\n\nPero volviendo al problema fundamental: Courbet cre\u00eda en la independencia del artista, y fue el primer pintor que expuso en solitario. Sin embargo, para \u00e9l, esto significaba independencia del arte por el arte, independencia de la visi\u00f3n rom\u00e1ntica dominante de que el artista o su obra eran m\u00e1s importantes que la existencia del tema pintado y de la visi\u00f3n cl\u00e1sica opuesta de que la inspiraci\u00f3n de todo el arte era absoluta y atemporal. Courbet se dio cuenta de que la independencia del artista solo pod\u00eda ser productiva si significaba libertad para identificarse con los temas vivos, para sentir que formaba parte de ellos, nunca lo contrario. Para los pintores como tales pintores, esto es lo que significa \"materialismo\". Courbet lo expres\u00f3 con palabras, expres\u00f3 la relaci\u00f3n indestructible entre la aspiraci\u00f3n humana y el hecho real, cuando escribi\u00f3: \"Saber para poder, ese fue mi pensamiento\". Pero el reconocimiento de Courbet, con toda la fuerza de su imaginaci\u00f3n, de la realidad de los objetos que pintaba, nunca se deterior\u00f3 hasta convertirse en un mero naturalismo, en una mirada superficial e irreflexiva, con ojos como platos, a las apariencias, como, por ejemplo, la visi\u00f3n que puede tener un excursionista de un lugar pintoresco. Uno no solo siente que esa era la apariencia de todas y cada una de las escenas que pintaba, sino tambi\u00e9n que le eran conocidas. Sus paisajes eran revolucionarios en tanto en cuanto presentaban lugares reales sin sugerir una ant\u00edtesis rom\u00e1ntica de la ciudad, pero en ellos \u2014y no como algo impuesto\u2014 uno tambi\u00e9n puede descubrir un sentido de Arcadia potencial: un reconocimiento local de que, para los ni\u00f1os en sus juegos y para las parejas de novios, estas escenas comunes podr\u00edan reunir una magia familiar. Un desnudo magn\u00edfico delante de una ventana y un paisaje es una interpretaci\u00f3n categ\u00f3rica de una mujer sin ropa, sujeta a las mismas leyes que la trucha; pero al mismo tiempo, la pintura evoca la impresi\u00f3n que causa la inesperada soledad de la desnudez, la impresi\u00f3n personal que inspira a los amantes, expresada de otra manera en _La tempestad_ de Giorgione. Sus retratos (las obras maestras de Jules Vall\u00e8s, Van Wisselingh o del cazador) son personas concretas. Uno se puede imaginar c\u00f3mo cambiar\u00e1n, uno se puede imaginar sus ropas en otras personas, a las que no les quedan bien; y, sin embargo, comparten la misma dignidad porque todas son vistas con el conocimiento del afecto del mismo hombre. La luz les favorece porque toda luz que revele la forma de los amigos de uno es bienvenida.\n\nGustave Courbet, _Autorretrato en Sainte P\u00e9lagie_ , 1872-1873.\n\nUn principio paralelo se puede aplicar al dibujo de Courbet y a su percepci\u00f3n de la estructura. Siempre se establece la forma b\u00e1sica en primer lugar, todas las modulaciones y afloramientos de la textura son considerados variaciones org\u00e1nicas, de la misma manera que las excentricidades del car\u00e1cter son vistas por los amigos, a diferencia de los desconocidos, como parte del hombre completo que uno conoce.\n\nPara resumir en una sola frase, uno podr\u00eda decir que el socialismo de Courbet se expresaba en la desinhibida fraternidad que caracteriza su obra.\n\n***\n\nNo se puede decir que la obra de un artista determinado sea reducible a _la_ verdad independiente. Al igual que su vida, o la tuya o la m\u00eda, su obra constituye una verdad, su propia verdad v\u00e1lida o in\u00fatil. Las explicaciones, los an\u00e1lisis, las interpretaciones no son sino encuadres o lentes que ayudan al espectador a enfocar su atenci\u00f3n m\u00e1s n\u00edtidamente sobre la obra. La \u00fanica justificaci\u00f3n de la cr\u00edtica es que permite ver con mayor claridad.\n\nHace unos a\u00f1os escrib\u00ed que hab\u00eda dos puntos en la obra de Courbet que nunca hab\u00edan sido abordados y requer\u00edan una explicaci\u00f3n. En primer lugar, la verdadera naturaleza de la materialidad, la densidad y el peso de sus im\u00e1genes. En segundo lugar, las razones profundas por las que dicha obra atent\u00f3 de tal modo contra el mundo del arte burgu\u00e9s. Este segundo punto ha sido desde entonces brillantemente tratado no por un estudioso franc\u00e9s, como cabr\u00eda haber esperado, sino por un brit\u00e1nico y una estadounidense: Timothy J. Clark en sus dos libros, _Imagen del pueblo: Gustave Courbet y la Revoluci\u00f3n de 1848_ y _The Absolute Bourgeois,_ y Linda Nochlin en el suyo, _El Realismo_.1 La primera cuesti\u00f3n, sin embargo, sigue sin ser abordada. La teor\u00eda y el programa del realismo de Courbet han sido social e hist\u00f3ricamente explicados, pero nunca se ha hablado de su manera de ponerlos en pr\u00e1ctica con los ojos y las manos. \u00bfCu\u00e1l es el significado de esa manera \u00fanica que tiene Courbet de representar las apariencias? Cuando dec\u00eda que el arte es \"la expresi\u00f3n m\u00e1s completa de la existencia de una cosa\", \u00bfqu\u00e9 entend\u00eda por _expresi\u00f3n_?\n\nLa regi\u00f3n en la que un pintor pas\u00f3 su infancia suele tener un papel importante en la formaci\u00f3n de su visi\u00f3n. El T\u00e1mesis desarroll\u00f3 la de J. M. W. Turner. Los acantilados de la regi\u00f3n de Le Havre fueron formativos en el caso de Claude Monet. Courbet creci\u00f3 en el valle del Loue, en la vertiente oeste de la cordillera del Jura, lugar que pintar\u00eda y al que volver\u00eda a menudo a lo largo de su vida. El tomar en consideraci\u00f3n el car\u00e1cter del paisaje de los alrededores de Ornans, pueblo natal del pintor, es, creo yo, una buena manera de construir un encuadre desde el que enfocar su obra.\n\nEsa es una regi\u00f3n excepcionalmente lluviosa: aproximadamente se recogen 125 mm anuales, mientras que la media en las llanuras francesas var\u00eda entre 80 en el oeste y 40 mm en el centro. La mayor parte de esta lluvia se filtra a trav\u00e9s de la roca caliza del suelo y forma canales subterr\u00e1neos. El Loue, en su nacimiento, mana de entre las rocas con la fuerza de un r\u00edo ya sustancialmente caudaloso. Es una regi\u00f3n t\u00edpicamente k\u00e1rstica _,_ caracterizada por afloramientos de caliza, valles profundos, cuevas y pliegues geol\u00f3gicos. En el estrato horizontal de caliza suele haber dep\u00f3sitos de marga, lo que permite que crezcan \u00e1rboles y hierba encima de las rocas. Se puede ver este tipo de formaci\u00f3n, un paisaje muy verde dividido cerca del cielo por una l\u00ednea horizontal de roca gris, en muchos de los cuadros de Courbet, como en _Entierro en Ornans._ Sin embargo, en mi opini\u00f3n, la influencia de este paisaje y su geolog\u00eda en la obra de Courbet es algo m\u00e1s que esc\u00e9nica.\n\nEn primer lugar, intentemos visualizar c\u00f3mo aparecen las cosas en este tipo de paisaje, a fin de descubrir los h\u00e1bitos perceptuales a que puede dar lugar. Debido a sus pliegues geol\u00f3gicos, este paisaje es _alto:_ el cielo est\u00e1 muy alejado. El color predominante es el verde, y contra este destacan principalmente las rocas. El tel\u00f3n de fondo de lo que aparece en el valle es oscuro, como si algo de la oscuridad de las cuevas y aguas subterr\u00e1neas se hubiera filtrado en lo que es visible.\n\nDesde esta oscuridad, todo lo que recibe luz (un lateral de una roca, el agua que fluye, la rama de un \u00e1rbol) emerge con una claridad v\u00edvida, gratuita, pero solo parcial (ya que mucho permanece en la sombra). Es un lugar en donde lo visible es discontinuo. O, para decirlo de otro modo, en donde lo visible no siempre se puede dar por supuesto y se ha de captar cuando realmente hace su aparici\u00f3n. No solo la abundante caza, sino tambi\u00e9n la apariencia del lugar, creada por sus espesos bosques, sus empinadas laderas, sus cascadas y su tortuoso r\u00edo, fomentan el que uno llegue a desarrollar ojos de cazador.\n\nCourbet trasplant\u00f3 muchas de estas caracter\u00edsticas a su arte, incluso cuando los temas tratados ya no tienen nada que ver con su tierra natal. Un gran n\u00famero de sus cuadros de exteriores apenas tienen cielo, o carecen de \u00e9l por completo ( _Los picapedreros, Proudhon y su familia, Se\u00f1oritas a la orilla del Sena, La hamaca,_ la mayor\u00eda de los cuadros de ba\u00f1istas) _._ La luz es la luz lateral de los bosques, no muy diferente de esa luz subacu\u00e1tica cuya perspectiva resulta enga\u00f1osa. Lo que desconcierta en el inmenso cuadro _Estudio_ es que la luz del bosque pintado en el lienzo montado en el caballete es la luz que ba\u00f1a la atestada habitaci\u00f3n parisina. Una excepci\u00f3n a la regla es una pintura titulada _Buenos d\u00edas, se\u00f1or Courbet,_ en que aparecen representados \u00e9l mismo y su patr\u00f3n con el cielo al fondo. No obstante, se trataba de un cuadro conscientemente situado en la lejana llanura de Montpelier.\n\nYo dir\u00eda que el agua es un motivo que se da, bajo una u otra forma, aproximadamente en un tercio de los cuadros de Courbet, y con mucha frecuencia en primer plano. (La casa rural burguesa en la que naci\u00f3 el pintor se asoma sobre un r\u00edo. El discurrir del agua debi\u00f3 de ser una de las primeras visiones y sonidos que experiment\u00f3 el pintor.) En los cuadros en los que no aparece el agua, las figuras representadas en primer plano suelen recordar las corrientes y remolinos del agua que fluye (por ejemplo, en el _Retrato de dama con loro_ y en la _Hilandera dormida)._ La lacada viveza de los objetos iluminados en sus cuadros recuerda con frecuencia al brillo de los guijarros y los peces vistos a trav\u00e9s del agua. Hay paisajes enteros de Courbet que podr\u00edan ser paisajes reflejados sobre un lago, como si sus colores brillaran en la superficie desafiando toda perspectiva atmosf\u00e9rica (por ejemplo, _Las rocas en Mouthier)._\n\nCourbet sol\u00eda pintar sobre un fondo oscuro utilizando unos colores m\u00e1s oscuros todav\u00eda. La profundidad de sus cuadros se debe siempre a la oscuridad, aun cuando all\u00e1 arriba, muy lejos, haya un cielo intensamente azul; en esto, los cuadros de Courbet tienen algo de pozos. Cuando las formas emergen de la oscuridad a la luz, Courbet las define aplic\u00e1ndoles un color m\u00e1s luminoso, por lo general con una esp\u00e1tula. Dejando a un lado por el momento la cuesti\u00f3n de su t\u00e9cnica como pintor, este movimiento de la esp\u00e1tula reproduc\u00eda, como no pod\u00eda hacerlo ninguna otra cosa, la acci\u00f3n de un haz de luz pasando sobre la quebrada superficie de las hojas, de la hierba, un haz de luz que confiere vida y convicci\u00f3n, pero que no siempre revela la estructura.\n\nCorrespondencias de esta suerte sugieren una relaci\u00f3n \u00edntima entre la pr\u00e1ctica de Courbet como pintor y el paisaje en donde creci\u00f3. Pero en s\u00ed mismas no responden a la cuesti\u00f3n de cu\u00e1l es el _significado_ que el pintor daba a las apariencias. Hemos de seguir interrogando al paisaje. Este est\u00e1 configurado b\u00e1sicamente por las rocas, las cuales le dan una identidad, permiten fijarlo. Son los afloramientos de la roca los que crean la presencia del paisaje. Uno podr\u00eda hablar de \"caras de roca\". Las rocas constituyen el car\u00e1cter, el esp\u00edritu de la regi\u00f3n. Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, que proced\u00eda de la misma zona, escrib\u00eda: \"Yo soy pura roca caliza del Jura\". Courbet, siempre jactancioso, dec\u00eda refiri\u00e9ndose a sus cuadros: \"Incluso consigo que las piedras piensen\".\n\nSiempre hay una pared rocosa. (Pensemos en uno de los paisajes expuestos en el Museo del Louvre, el que lleva por t\u00edtulo _La carretera de las diez._ ) Esta pared domina y exige ser vista, y, sin embargo, su apariencia, tanto en la forma como en el color, cambia conforme a la luz y las condiciones clim\u00e1ticas. Ofrece sin cesar a la visibilidad diferentes facetas de s\u00ed misma. Comparada a un \u00e1rbol, a un animal o a una persona, su apariencia apenas es normativa. Una roca puede parecer casi cualquier cosa. Es innegablemente ella misma, pero su sustancia no propone una forma particular. Existe categ\u00f3ricamente, pero su apariencia es arbitraria (todo lo que se lo permiten las amplias limitaciones geol\u00f3gicas). Por esta vez, es solo como es. Su apariencia es, de hecho, el l\u00edmite de su significado.\n\nEl crecer rodeado de tales rocas significa crecer en una regi\u00f3n en donde lo visible es al mismo tiempo an\u00e1rquico e irreductiblemente real. Existe el hecho visual, pero el orden visual est\u00e1 reducido al m\u00ednimo. Seg\u00fan su amigo Francis Wey, Courbet era capaz de pintar convincentemente un objeto, por ejemplo una lejana pila de le\u00f1a, _sin saber de qu\u00e9 se trataba._ Esto es algo bastante inusual entre los pintores y, a mi modo de ver, muy significativo.\n\nEn el _Autorretrato con perro,_ una obra rom\u00e1ntica temprana, Courbet se pint\u00f3 a s\u00ed mismo, rodeado por la oscuridad de su capa y su sombrero, ante una gran roca. Y en este cuadro su cara y su mano est\u00e1n pintadas exactamente en el mismo esp\u00edritu que la piedra que aparece en segundo plano. Eran fen\u00f3menos visuales comparables, que pose\u00edan la misma realidad visual. Si la visibilidad es an\u00e1rquica, no existe una jerarqu\u00eda de las apariencias. Courbet lo pint\u00f3 todo, la nieve, la carne, el cabello, las pieles, las rocas, la corteza de los \u00e1rboles, como los habr\u00eda pintado si hubieran sido paredes rocosas. Nada de lo que pint\u00f3 tiene interioridad \u2014sorprendentemente, ni siquiera su copia de un autorretrato de Rembrandt\u2014, pero todo est\u00e1 interpretado con asombro: asombro porque ver, que es algo que carece de reglas, consiste en sorprenderse continuamente.\n\nPuede parecer que estoy tratando a Courbet como si fuera \"atemporal\", tan ahist\u00f3rico como las monta\u00f1as del Jura que tanto le influyeron. No es esa mi intenci\u00f3n. El paisaje del Jura influy\u00f3 en su obra de la forma en la que lo hizo dada la situaci\u00f3n hist\u00f3rica en la que estaba trabajando como pintor y dado su temperamento concreto. Ni siquiera en los t\u00e9rminos del tiempo jur\u00e1sico \"producir\u00e1\" el Jura m\u00e1s de un Courbet. La \"interpretaci\u00f3n geogr\u00e1fica\" no hace sino dar una base y una sustancia material, visual, a la hist\u00f3rica y social.\n\nEs dif\u00edcil resumir en unas cuantas frases el sutil estudio de Timothy J. Clark sobre Courbet.2 Este estudio nos permite ver el per\u00edodo pol\u00edtico en toda su complejidad. Pone adem\u00e1s en su lugar todas las leyendas que rodeaban al pintor: la leyenda del buf\u00f3n rural dotado para la pintura, la del revolucionario peligroso, la del provocador grosero, borracho y pendenciero. (Probablemente, el retrato de Courbet m\u00e1s real y comprensivo es el que nos brinda Jules Vall\u00e8s en un texto publicado en su peri\u00f3dico _Cri du Peuple_.)\n\nLuego Clark nos muestra c\u00f3mo, de hecho, en sus grandes obras de los primeros a\u00f1os de la d\u00e9cada de 1850, con su extraordinaria ambici\u00f3n, su genuino odio a la burgues\u00eda, su experiencia rural, su amor por lo teatral y su maravillosa intuici\u00f3n, Courbet se propon\u00eda nada menos que una doble transformaci\u00f3n del arte de la pintura: la transformaci\u00f3n de la tem\u00e1tica, por un lado, y la del p\u00fablico, por el otro. Durante algunos a\u00f1os trabaj\u00f3 inspirado por el ideal de que ambos, tem\u00e1tica y p\u00fablico, iban a ser por primera vez verdaderamente populares.\n\nLa transformaci\u00f3n implicaba \"capturar\" la pintura tal como era y modificar su direcci\u00f3n. Creo que se podr\u00eda decir que Courbet es el \u00faltimo maestro. Aprendi\u00f3 su prodigiosa t\u00e9cnica de los venecianos, de Rembrandt, de Diego Vel\u00e1zquez, de Francisco de Zurbar\u00e1n y de otros pintores con cuyas obras estaba plenamente familiarizado. Como profesional fue un tradicionalista. Sin embargo, adquiri\u00f3 la t\u00e9cnica sin adoptar los valores tradicionales a los que esta serv\u00eda. Se podr\u00eda decir que su profesionalidad era robada.\n\nPor ejemplo: la pr\u00e1ctica del desnudo estaba estrechamente asociada a los valores del tacto, el lujo y la riqueza. El desnudo era un ornamento er\u00f3tico. Courbet rob\u00f3 la pr\u00e1ctica del desnudo y la utiliz\u00f3 para describir la desnudez \"vulgar\" de una campesina que ha amontonado sus ropas a la orilla del r\u00edo. (Posteriormente, cuando empezara a desilusionarse, tambi\u00e9n \u00e9l producir\u00eda ornamentos er\u00f3ticos, como el _Retrato de dama con loro._ )\n\nPor ejemplo: la pr\u00e1ctica del realismo espa\u00f1ol del siglo XVII estaba estrechamente relacionada con el principio religioso del valor moral de la sencillez y la austeridad, y la nobleza de la caridad. Courbet rob\u00f3 esta pr\u00e1ctica y la utiliz\u00f3 en los _Picapedreros_ para presentar la irredenta y desesperada pobreza rural. Por ejemplo: la pr\u00e1ctica del retrato de grupo, caracter\u00edstica de la pintura holandesa del siglo XVII, era una manera de celebrar cierto _esprit de corps._ Courbet rob\u00f3 esta pr\u00e1ctica para el _Entierro en Ornans_ a fin de poner de manifiesto la soledad general ante la muerte.\n\nEl cazador del Jura, el dem\u00f3crata rural y el pintor bandido se unieron en el mismo artista durante unos cuantos a\u00f1os, entre 1848 y 1856, para producir unas im\u00e1genes \u00fanicas y sorprendentes. Para estas tres personalidades, las apariencias eran una experiencia directa, relativamente independiente de la convenci\u00f3n y, por esa misma raz\u00f3n, asombrosa e impredecible. La visi\u00f3n de las tres era al mismo tiempo realista _(vulgar_ para sus oponentes) e inocente _(est\u00fapida_ para sus oponentes). Despu\u00e9s de 1856, durante la disoluci\u00f3n del Segundo Imperio, era ya solo el cazador el que produc\u00eda, a veces, unos paisajes que segu\u00edan siendo diferentes de los de cualquier otro pintor, unos paisajes en los que podr\u00eda cuajar la nieve.\n\nGustave Coubert, _Entierro en Ornans_ , 1849-1850.\n\nEn el _Entierro de Ornans_ podemos intuir algo del alma de Courbet, de esa \u00fanica alma que pertenec\u00eda, seg\u00fan el momento, a un cazador, a un dem\u00f3crata y a un pintor bandido. Pese a sus ganas de vivir, su jactancia y su risa proverbial, lo m\u00e1s probable es que Courbet viera la vida con cierto pesimismo, cuando no de una manera directamente tr\u00e1gica.\n\nEn el medio del lienzo, atraves\u00e1ndolo de arriba abajo (a lo largo de sus casi seis metros y medio) hay una zona de oscuridad, una zona negra. Esta oscuridad se podr\u00eda explicar nominalmente por las ropas de luto del grupo de figuras. Pero es algo demasiado intenso y profundo, aun teniendo en consideraci\u00f3n el hecho de que el cuadro se haya oscurecido con el paso de los a\u00f1os, para que esa sea toda su significaci\u00f3n. Es la oscuridad del paisaje, de la noche que se acerca y de la tierra en la que va a ser sepultado el ata\u00fad. Pero, a mi modo de ver, esta oscuridad tiene tambi\u00e9n una significaci\u00f3n social y personal.\n\nEmergiendo de la zona de oscuridad se ven los rostros de los familiares, amigos y conocidos de Courbet en Ornans, pintados sin idealizaci\u00f3n y sin rencor, pintados sin recurrir a una norma preestablecida. Se dijo que el cuadro era c\u00ednico, sacr\u00edlego y brutal. Se lo trat\u00f3 como si fuera una suerte de conspiraci\u00f3n. Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 se pretend\u00eda con ella? \u00bfUn culto a la fealdad? \u00bfLa subversi\u00f3n social? \u00bfUn ataque contra la Iglesia? Los cr\u00edticos investigaron el cuadro intentando encontrar alguna pista. Pero fue en vano. Nadie pudo dar con la causa real de su car\u00e1cter subversivo.\n\nCourbet hab\u00eda pintado un grupo de hombres y mujeres tal como podr\u00edan aparecer cuando asisten a un funeral en el pueblo, y se hab\u00eda negado a organizar (armonizar) las apariencias d\u00e1ndoles un significado m\u00e1s elevado, independientemente de que este fuera falso o aut\u00e9ntico. Courbet rechaz\u00f3 la funci\u00f3n del arte como moderador de las apariencias, como algo que ennoblece lo visible. En su lugar, pint\u00f3, en un lienzo de veinti\u00fan metros cuadrados, un grupo de figuras en tama\u00f1o natural en torno a una sepultura; unas figuras que no anunciaban _nada,_ salvo \"as\u00ed es como somos\". Y precisamente fue la verdad de esta declaraci\u00f3n la que neg\u00f3, en la medida en que supo comprenderla, el p\u00fablico art\u00edstico parisino diciendo que se trataba de una exageraci\u00f3n malsana.\n\nPuede que en el fondo de su alma Courbet lo hubiera previsto; tal vez, sus grandes esperanzas eran una estratagema para animarse a continuar. La tenacidad con la que pint\u00f3, en el _Entierro de Ornans,_ en los _Picapedreros,_ en los _Campesinos de Flagey,_ todo lo que emerg\u00eda a la luz, insistiendo en que todas las partes que aparec\u00edan eran valiosas por igual, me lleva a pensar que el fondo de oscuridad representaba la obcecaci\u00f3n en la ignorancia. Cuando dec\u00eda que el arte \"es la expresi\u00f3n m\u00e1s completa de la existencia de una cosa\", lo estaba contraponiendo a todo sistema jer\u00e1rquico o a toda cultura cuya funci\u00f3n sea minimizar o negar la expresi\u00f3n de una gran parte de lo que existe. Fue el \u00fanico gran pintor que plant\u00f3 cara a la ignorancia voluntaria de las clases cultas.\n\n______________\n\n1 Clark, Timothy J., _Image of the People: Gustave Coubert and the 1848 Revolution_ , Thames & Hudson, Londres, 1973 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Imagen del pueblo: Gustave Courbet y la Revoluci\u00f3n de 1848_ , Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 1981); y _The Absolute Bourgeois: Artists and Politics in France 1848-1851_ , Thames & Hudson, Londres, 1973; y Nochlin, Linda, _Realism_ , Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1971 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El Realismo_ , Alianza Editorial, Madrid, 1991) [N. del Ed.].\n\n2 Clark, Timothy J., _Imagen del pueblo: Gustave Courbet y la Revoluci\u00f3n de 1848_ , _op. cit._\n\n## **Edgar Degas**\n\n## 1834-1917\n\nDices que la pierna sostiene el cuerpo\n\npero \u00bfnunca has visto\n\nla semilla en el tobillo\n\nde donde el cuerpo crece?\n\nDices (si eres el constructor de puentes\n\nque creo que eres) que cada pose\n\ndebe guardar su equilibrio natural\n\npero \u00bfnunca has visto\n\nlos tercos m\u00fasculos de las bailarinas\n\nmantener el suyo tan poco natural?\n\nDices (si eres tan racional\n\ncomo espero que seas) que la evoluci\u00f3n del b\u00edpedo\n\nhace ya tiempo que concluy\u00f3\n\npero \u00bfnunca has visto\n\nligeramente metido en la cadera\n\nel signo milagroso a\u00fan\n\nque predice la bifurcaci\u00f3n de los cuerpos\n\nun palmo m\u00e1s abajo?\n\nContemplemos pues juntos\n\n(sabemos los dos\n\nque la luz es mensajera\n\ndel espacio y el tiempo)\n\ncontemplemos esta figura\n\npara verificar\n\nyo mi diosa\n\nt\u00fa el esfuerzo.\n\nImag\u00ednate un puente.\n\nMira: la carretera de la pierna y la espalda\n\narticulada a la cadera y al hombro\n\nse sostiene firme de la palma al tal\u00f3n\n\ncomo pilar una sola pierna\n\nel muslo sobre la rodilla\n\nun miembro en voladizo.\n\nImag\u00ednate un puente\n\nsobre lo que anta\u00f1o los hombres llamaron el Leteo.\n\nMira: el cuerpo normal que atravesamos\n\nvulnerable, habitado, c\u00e1lido\n\ntambi\u00e9n aguanta la tensi\u00f3n.\n\nPeso muerto, peso vivo\n\ny resistencia aerodin\u00e1mica lateral.\n\nQue el puente que esta bailarina nos tiende\n\nsoporte el peso de todos nuestros viejos prejuicios\n\nverifiquemos pues de nuevo,\n\nT\u00fa mi diosa\n\ny yo el esfuerzo.\n\n***\n\nEst\u00e1 el amor, dijo en una ocasi\u00f3n, y est\u00e1 el trabajo al que se entrega la vida, y uno solo tiene un coraz\u00f3n. As\u00ed que se vio obligado a escoger. Puso su coraz\u00f3n en el trabajo. Espero poder mostrar con qu\u00e9 efecto.\n\nSu madre, una estadounidense de Nueva Orleans de origen franc\u00e9s, muri\u00f3 cuando \u00e9l, el mayor de sus hijos, ten\u00eda trece a\u00f1os. Al parecer, ninguna otra mujer entrar\u00eda nunca en su vida emocional. Se convirti\u00f3 en un solter\u00f3n al cuidado de amas de llaves. Nunca tuvo problemas econ\u00f3micos, ya que pertenec\u00eda a una acomodada familia de banqueros. Era coleccionista de pintura. Era arisco y malhumorado. Se dec\u00eda de \u00e9l que era un \"hombre terrible\". Viv\u00eda en Montmartre. En el caso Dreysus adopt\u00f3 el antisemitismo convencional del burgu\u00e9s medio. Las \u00faltimas fotos muestran a un anciano de aspecto fr\u00e1gil, curtido en la soledad. Edgar Degas.\n\nLo que hace rara esta historia es que el arte de Degas muestra un inter\u00e9s supremo por las mujeres y sus cuerpos. Este inter\u00e9s ha sido malentendido. Por lo general, la cr\u00edtica se ha apropiado sus dibujos y sus esculturas para subscribir sus propios prejuicios, ya fueran mis\u00f3ginos o feministas. Hoy, ochenta a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de que Degas dejara de trabajar, podr\u00eda haber llegado el momento de volver a valorar lo que dej\u00f3 atr\u00e1s el artista. No en cuanto que obras maestras aseguradas en millones de d\u00f3lares \u2014hace tiempo que el valor de mercado de su obra qued\u00f3 fijado\u2014, sino como una ayuda en nuestras vidas. Pragm\u00e1ticamente. Entre 1866 y 1890, Degas realiz\u00f3 una serie de peque\u00f1os caballos en bronce. Todos ellos revelan una observaci\u00f3n intensa y l\u00facida. Nadie antes que \u00e9l \u2014ni siquiera G\u00e9ricault\u2014 hab\u00eda representado los caballos con un naturalismo y una expresividad tan magistrales. Pero hacia 1888 tiene lugar un cambio cualitativo. El estilo sigue siendo exactamente el mismo, pero la energ\u00eda es distinta. Y la diferencia es flagrante. Un ni\u00f1o ser\u00eda capaz de distinguirla r\u00e1pidamente. Solo ciertos moralistas del arte podr\u00edan no verla. Los primeros bronces son de caballos vistos, maravillosamente vistos, ah\u00ed fuera, en el mundo que pasa a nuestro lado, el mundo observable. En los \u00faltimos, los caballos no solo son observados, sino tambi\u00e9n temblorosamente percibidos desde dentro. El artista no solo ha percibido su energ\u00eda, sino que se ha sometido a ella, la ha sufrido, soportado, como si las manos del escultor hubieran sentido la terrible energ\u00eda nerviosa del caballo en la arcilla que estaba manipulando.\n\nLa fecha de este cambio coincide con su descubrimiento de las fotograf\u00edas de Eadweard Muybridge, que mostraban por primera vez en la historia c\u00f3mo se mueven realmente las patas de un caballo al trote o al galope. Y su uso de estas fotos concuerda perfectamente con el esp\u00edritu positivista de la \u00e9poca. Lo que provoca ese cambio _intr\u00ednseco_ , sin embargo, desaf\u00eda todo positivismo. La naturaleza pasa de objeto a sujeto de la investigaci\u00f3n. Las obras tard\u00edas parecen acatar todas ellas los requisitos del modelo m\u00e1s que la voluntad del artista.\n\nPero, tal vez, podr\u00edamos equivocarnos con respecto a la voluntad del artista. Por ejemplo, nunca esper\u00f3 que sus esculturas se exhibieran: no estaban hechas para ser acabadas y presentadas al p\u00fablico. No era eso lo que le interesaba.\n\nCuando Ambrose Vollard, el marchante de los impresionistas, le pregunt\u00f3 que por qu\u00e9 no fund\u00eda en bronce algunas de sus peque\u00f1as esculturas, \u00e9l contest\u00f3 que se sab\u00eda que esa aleaci\u00f3n de cobre y esta\u00f1o conocida como bronce era eterna y que nada odiaba m\u00e1s que lo que quedaba fijado para siempre.\n\nDe las setenta y cuatro esculturas de Degas que existen hoy en bronce, todas menos una fueron fundidas despu\u00e9s de su muerte. En muchos casos, las figuras originales, modeladas en arcilla o cera, estaban deterioradas o medio deshechas. Otras setenta estaban demasiado estropeadas para poder salvarlas.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 podemos deducir de todo esto? Las estatuillas ya hab\u00edan cumplido su funci\u00f3n. (Hacia el final de su vida, Degas dej\u00f3 de exponer por completo.) No eran bocetos o estudios preparatorios de otra cosa. Hab\u00edan sido modeladas por ellas mismas, pero hab\u00edan cumplido su funci\u00f3n: hab\u00edan alcanzado su punto culminante y, por consiguiente, pod\u00edan ser abandonadas.\n\nEl punto culminante llegaba cuando lo dibujado entraba en el dibujo, cuando lo esculpido entraba en la escultura. Este era el \u00fanico momento de encuentro, la \u00fanica transferencia que le interesaba.\n\nNo s\u00e9 explicar c\u00f3mo entra lo dibujado en el dibujo. Solo s\u00e9 que sucede. Uno lo entiende mejor cuando dibuja, en el acto mismo de dibujar. Las \u00fanicas palabras escritas en la l\u00e1pida de Degas, en el cementerio de Montmartre, son: _Il aimait beaucoup le dessin_ (Le gustaba mucho dibujar).\n\nPensemos ahora en los dibujos al carb\u00f3n, al pastel, los monotipos y los bronces de mujeres. Muchas veces son bailarinas de ballet; otras, mujeres en ba\u00f1o; y a veces tambi\u00e9n (sobre todo en los monotipos) prostitutas. La forma de representarlas carece de importancia: el ballet, la ba\u00f1era o el burdel solo eran pretextos para Degas. Por eso, todos los debates cr\u00edticos sobre el escenario pict\u00f3rico suelen pasar por alto lo m\u00e1s importante. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 le fascinaban tanto a Degas las mujeres en el ba\u00f1o? \u00bfEra acaso un _voyeur_ que pegaba el ojo a las cerraduras? (En un excelente ensayo incluido en su libro _His Other Half_ ,1 Wendy Lesser echa por tierra este tipo de cuestiones.)\n\nLa verdad es que Degas sencillamente utilizaba cualquier ocasi\u00f3n, o se la inventaba, para proseguir sus estudios del cuerpo humano. Por lo general, eran cuerpos femeninos, porque era heterosexual y, por consiguiente, las mujeres le asombraban m\u00e1s que los hombres, y el asombro es lo que le incitaba a dibujar de la manera que lo hac\u00eda.\n\nHubo quien le reproch\u00f3 directamente que los cuerpos que representaba eran deformes, feos, bestiales, o estaban contorsionados. Incluso llegaron a decir que odiaba a quienes dibujaba.\n\nEl origen del malentendido es que Degas rechaz\u00f3 las convenciones de la belleza f\u00edsica tal como las ven\u00edan transmitiendo tradicionalmente el arte o la literatura. Y, para muchos de sus espectadores, cuanto m\u00e1s desnudo est\u00e1 un cuerpo, m\u00e1s ha de cubrirlo la convenci\u00f3n, m\u00e1s debe ajustarse a una norma, ya sea una norma perversa o idealizada. \u00a1Los desnudos han de llevar puesto el uniforme de un regimiento! Mientras que Degas, partiendo de su asombro, quer\u00eda que cada perfil del cuerpo que estaba recordando o contemplando sorprendiera, fuera improbable, pues solo entonces se har\u00eda palpable su particularidad.\n\nEdgar Degas, _Despu\u00e9s del ba\u00f1o_ , 1886.\n\nLas obras m\u00e1s hermosas de Degas son en verdad chocantes, pues empiezan y acaban en el lugar com\u00fan \u2014en lo que Wendy Lesser denomina \"la cotidianeidad\" de la vida\u2014, y siempre encuentran ah\u00ed algo impredecible y desolado. Y en esta desolaci\u00f3n hay un recuerdo del dolor o de la necesidad.\n\nHay una estatuilla de una masajista dando un masaje en la pierna a una mujer tumbada que yo leo, en parte, como una confesi\u00f3n. No una confesi\u00f3n de que le empezaba a fallar la vista, ni de una necesidad reprimida de acariciar el cuerpo de una mujer, sino una confesi\u00f3n de su fantas\u00eda, como artista, de aliviar tocando, aunque el tocar fuera solo el roce del carboncillo sobre el papel. \u00bfAliviar qu\u00e9? Esa fatiga de la que toda la carne es heredera...\n\nMuchas veces pegaba hojas adicionales a los dibujos, porque, pese a su maestr\u00eda, perd\u00eda el control sobre ellos. La imagen le llevaba m\u00e1s lejos de lo que hab\u00eda calculado, le llevaba al borde, donde al instante ced\u00eda el paso al otro. Todas sus obras tard\u00edas de mujeres parecen inacabadas, abandonadas. Y, al igual que con los bronces de los caballos, se puede ver la raz\u00f3n: en un momento determinado, el artista desaparec\u00eda y entraba el modelo. Entonces ya no deseaba nada m\u00e1s, y paraba de dibujar.\n\nCuando \"entraba\" el modelo, lo oculto se hac\u00eda tan presente en el papel como lo visible. Una mujer, vista desde atr\u00e1s, se seca un pie posado al borde de la ba\u00f1era. Pero el frente invisible de su cuerpo est\u00e1 tambi\u00e9n ah\u00ed, conocido, reconocido, en el dibujo.\n\nUna caracter\u00edstica de las obras tard\u00edas de Degas es la manera en la que se repiten y se trabajan los contornos de los cuerpos y de los miembros. Y la raz\u00f3n de esto no puede ser m\u00e1s simple: en el borde (justo a punto), todo lo que hay en el otro lado, el lado invisible, clama por ser reconocido, y la l\u00ednea busca y busca... hasta que entra lo invisible.\n\nAl contemplar a la mujer de pie sobre una pierna, sec\u00e1ndose la otra, lo que nos alegra es lo que ha sido reconocido y admitido. Sentimos que lo existente recuerda su propia creaci\u00f3n, ese momento en que se dio nombre a las constelaciones, antes de que hubiera fatiga alguna, antes de que aparecieran el primer burdel o el primer balneario, antes de la soledad del narcisismo. S\u00ed, eso es lo que sentimos al observarla guardar el equilibrio.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 dejo entonces tras de s\u00ed el artista, si no eran obras maestras acabadas?\n\n\u00bfAcaso no so\u00f1amos todos con que se nos conozca, se nos conozca por nuestras espaldas, nuestras piernas, nuestros hombros, nuestros codos, nuestro cabello? No conocidos psicol\u00f3gicamente, ni tampoco socialmente aclamados ni celebrados, sino simplemente conocidos en nuestra desnudez. Conocidos como una madre conoce a su hijo.\n\nSe podr\u00eda expresar as\u00ed. Degas dej\u00f3 tras \u00e9l algo muy extra\u00f1o: su nombre. Su nombre, que, gracias al ejemplo de sus dibujos, se podr\u00eda utilizar hoy como verbo: _\"\u00a1Deg\u00e1same_! \u00a1Con\u00f3ceme as\u00ed! \u00a1Recon\u00f3ceme, por Dios! \u00a1Con\u00f3ceme como Degas conoc\u00eda los cuerpos!\".\n\n***\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 hay entre los pliegues? Esto es, los pliegues de los trajes y de los cuerpos de las bailarinas de ballet cl\u00e1sico tal como las dibuj\u00f3 y las pint\u00f3 Degas. Esta es la cuesti\u00f3n que plantea _Degas and the Ballet: Picturing Movement_ , la exposici\u00f3n celebrada en la Royal Academy de Londres. El suntuoso cat\u00e1logo contiene una cita de Charles Baudelaire: \"La danza es poes\u00eda con brazos y piernas; la materia elegante y atroz, animada y embellecida por el movimiento\".\n\nEn las composiciones de Degas con varias bailarinas, sus pasos, posturas y gestos se parecen a veces a las letras casi geom\u00e9tricas, formales, de un alfabeto, mientras que sus cuerpos y sus cabezas son sinuosos, contumaces y personales. \"La danza es poes\u00eda con brazos y piernas...\"\n\nA Degas le obsesionaba el ballet cl\u00e1sico porque para \u00e9l era un arte que revelaba algo de la condici\u00f3n humana. No era un man\u00edaco del ballet en busca de un mundo alternativo al que escapar. La danza le ofrec\u00eda una especie de escaparate en el cual pod\u00eda encontrar, despu\u00e9s de mucho buscar, ciertos secretos humanos. Esta muestra expresa de una forma muy convincente los paralelismos existentes entre la obra de Degas, altamente original, y el desarrollo de la fotograf\u00eda y la invenci\u00f3n de la c\u00e1mara de cine. Estos avances tecnol\u00f3gicos llevaron a ciertos descubrimientos relativos a la forma de moverse y de operar de los cuerpos humano y animal: un caballo al galope, un p\u00e1jaro en vuelo, etc.\n\nA Degas, sin duda, le intrigaban estas innovaciones e hizo uso de ellas, pero creo que lo que le obsesionaba estaba m\u00e1s cerca de lo que obsesionaba a Miguel \u00c1ngel y a Andrea Mantegna. A los tres les fascinaba la capacidad humana para soportar el martirio. Los tres se preguntaban si no ser\u00eda esta capacidad lo que defin\u00eda a la humanidad. La calidad humana que Degas m\u00e1s admiraba era la resistencia, la entereza.\n\nAcerqu\u00e9monos. En un dibujo tras otro, un pastel tras otro, un \u00f3leo tras otro, los contornos de las bailarinas de Degas, llegados a cierto punto, se ensombrecen, se enmara\u00f1an, toman una oscura insistencia. Puede ser alrededor de un codo, de un tal\u00f3n, de una axila, del m\u00fasculo de la pantorrilla, del cogote. La imagen se oscurece, y esta oscuridad no tiene nada que ver con una sombra l\u00f3gica.\n\nEn primer lugar, es el resultado de que el artista corrige, cambia y vuelve a corregir la posici\u00f3n precisa del miembro, la mano o la oreja en cuesti\u00f3n. Su l\u00e1piz o su pastel anota, reajusta y vuelve a anotar con mayor \u00e9nfasis el borde que avanza o retrocede de un cuerpo en movimiento continuo. La velocidad es crucial. Sin embargo, estos \"oscurecimientos\" tambi\u00e9n sugieren la oscuridad de los pliegues o de las fisuras: adquieren una funci\u00f3n expresiva propia. \u00bfCu\u00e1l?\n\nAcerqu\u00e9monos a\u00fan m\u00e1s. Una bailarina de ballet cl\u00e1sico controla y mueve todo su cuerpo, que es indivisible, pero los movimientos m\u00e1s dram\u00e1ticos son los que hace con las piernas y los brazos, que podemos considerar pares: dos parejas que comparten el mismo torso. En la vida cotidiana, las dos parejas y el torso viven y funcionan juntos, d\u00f3ciles, contiguos, unidos por una energ\u00eda centr\u00edpeta, dirigida hacia adentro. En el ballet cl\u00e1sico, en cambio, los pares se separan, la energ\u00eda del cuerpo es muchas veces centr\u00edfuga, se echa hacia fuera, y cada cent\u00edmetro cuadrado de carne se tensa con una especie de soledad.\n\nLos oscuros pliegues o fisuras que muestran est\u00e1n im\u00e1genes expresan la soledad que siente una de las partes de un miembro o del torso, que est\u00e1n acostumbradas a la compa\u00f1\u00eda, a que las otras partes las toquen, pero que al bailar tienen que ir en solitario. Los oscurecimientos expresan el dolor de este descoyuntamiento y la entereza necesaria para salvarla de una forma imaginativa. De ah\u00ed la elegancia y la severidad a la que Baudelaire hac\u00eda referencia cuando dec\u00eda \"elegante y atroz\".\n\nConsideremos ahora los estudios de bailarinas descansando, en particular los que hizo hacia el final de su vida. Estos estudios se encuentran entre las im\u00e1genes m\u00e1s paradisiacas que conozco, y, sin embargo, est\u00e1n muy lejos del para\u00edso terrenal. Mientras las bailarinas descansan, sus miembros vuelven a unirse. Un brazo reposa a lo largo de una pierna. Una mano busca un pie y lo toca, emparejando los dedos de la mano con los del pie. Por unos momentos, parece que han puesto fin a sus m\u00faltiples soledades. Una barbilla descansa en una rodilla. Se restablece felizmente la contig\u00fcidad. Muchas veces tienen los ojos medio cerrados, y sus rostros parecen inmateriales, como si recordaran una trascendencia.\n\nEdgar Degas, _Dos bailarinas descansando_ , 1898.\n\nLa trascendencia que recuerdan es el objetivo del arte de la danza: el objetivo del cuerpo enteramente dolorido de la bailarina de hacerse uno con la m\u00fasica. Lo sorprendente es que las im\u00e1genes de Degas capturan esta experiencia silenciosamente. Con pliegues, pero sin sonido.\n\n______________\n\n1 Lesser, Wendy, _His Other Half: Men Looking at Women through Art_ , Harvard University Press, Cambridge (Mass.), 1991 [N. del Ed.].\n\n## **Ferdinand \"Le Facteur\" Cheval**\n\n## 1836-1924\n\nMuy pocos campesinos se hacen artistas, solo ocasionalmente, tal vez, ha llegado a serlo un hijo o una hija de campesinos. No tiene esto nada que ver con el talento, sino con las oportunidades y el tiempo libre. Hay algunas canciones y, recientemente, unas cuantas autobiograf\u00edas sobre la experiencia campesina. Y est\u00e1, claro, la maravillosa obra filos\u00f3fica de Gaston Bachelard. Pero salvo estas excepciones se ha escrito muy poco al respecto. Esta carencia significa que el alma campesina es tan desconocida para los habitantes de las ciudades como lo son su resistencia f\u00edsica y las condiciones materiales de su trabajo.\n\nEs cierto que, a veces, en la Europa medieval, los campesinos se transformaban en artesanos, canteros o incluso escultores. Pero no se les empleaba para que expresaran su propia visi\u00f3n del mundo, sino la ideolog\u00eda de la Iglesia. Existe, no obstante, una obra colosal, que no se parece a ninguna otra y que es una expresi\u00f3n directa de la experiencia campesina. Es sobre esta obra, que incluye poes\u00eda, escultura y arquitectura, sobre la que me propongo hablar.\n\nComo cartero rural, al igual que mis 27.000 compa\u00f1eros, caminaba todos los d\u00edas desde Hauterives a Tersanne \u2014en una regi\u00f3n donde quedan todav\u00eda vestigios de la \u00e9poca en la que estuvo cubierta por el mar\u2014, a veces por la nieve y el hielo, a veces entre las flores. \u00bfQu\u00e9 puede hacer un hombre, sino so\u00f1ar, cuando camina perennemente por los mismos parajes? Yo constru\u00ed en mis enso\u00f1aciones un palacio que supera toda imaginaci\u00f3n, todo lo que el ingenio de un hombre sencillo puede concebir, con jardines, _grottos_ , torres, castillos, museos y estatuas: todos tan hermosos y tan v\u00edvidos en sus detalles que su imagen iba a perdurar en mis pensamientos durante los diez a\u00f1os siguientes.\n\nCuando ya casi hab\u00eda olvidado mi sue\u00f1o, y era casi en lo \u00faltimo que pensaba, me lo volvi\u00f3 a traer a las mientes uno de mis pies, al tropezar con algo que por poco me hace caer. Quise saber lo que era: era una piedra con una forma tan rara que me la met\u00ed en el bolsillo para contemplarla a mis anchas. Al d\u00eda siguiente, pas\u00e9 por el mismo sitio. Me encontr\u00e9 otras a\u00fan m\u00e1s bonitas, las junt\u00e9 all\u00ed mismo, y me qued\u00e9 maravillado... Busqu\u00e9 por los barrancos, por las laderas, por los lugares m\u00e1s desolados y yermos... Encontr\u00e9 toba, que el agua hab\u00eda petrificado y que es tambi\u00e9n maravillosa.\n\nAh\u00ed empezaron mis tribulaciones y mis sufrimientos. Pues entonces empec\u00e9 a llevar cestos. Adem\u00e1s de los 30 kil\u00f3metros que hac\u00eda todos los d\u00edas de cartero, cubr\u00eda docenas con la cesta a la espalda, llena de piedras. Cada comuna tiene su propio tipo de piedras duras. En mis recorridos campo a trav\u00e9s, sol\u00eda amontonarlas, y al caer la tarde volv\u00eda con la carretilla a recogerlas. Las m\u00e1s cercanas estaban a cuatro o cinco kil\u00f3metros, a veces a diez. A veces emprend\u00eda el camino a las dos o las tres de la madrugada.\n\nEl escritor es Ferdinand Cheval, que naci\u00f3 en 1836 y muri\u00f3 en 1924, y que pas\u00f3 treinta y tres a\u00f1os construyendo ese palacio suyo \"que supera a toda imaginaci\u00f3n\". Todav\u00eda se puede visitar en Hauterives, su pueblo natal, en el Departamento de Dr\u00f4me, en el sureste de Francia.\n\nEl palacio ideal (1879-1912) de Ferdinand Cheval.\n\nPor la tarde, al caer la noche,\n\ncuando descansa el g\u00e9nero humano\n\nyo trabajaba en mi palacio.\n\nNadie sabr\u00e1 nunca las penas que he pasado.\n\nEn los minutos de esparcimiento\n\nque me permit\u00eda el servicio\n\nconstru\u00ed este palacio de las mil y una noches\n\nen el que he dejado esculpido mi recuerdo.\n\nHoy el palacio se est\u00e1 derrumbando, las esculturas se desintegran y los textos grabados o tallados en los muros se van borrando lentamente. No tiene m\u00e1s de ochenta a\u00f1os. La mayor\u00eda de los edificios y de las esculturas aguantan m\u00e1s, porque pertenecen a una tradici\u00f3n establecida que dicta los principios de para qui\u00e9n se deben construir y, m\u00e1s tarde, para qui\u00e9n se deben preservar. Esta obra est\u00e1 desnuda y carece de tradici\u00f3n porque es la obra de un \u00fanico campesino \"loco\".\n\nHay bastantes libros de fotos del palacio, pero el problema de las fotos \u2014incluso en las pel\u00edculas\u2014 es que el espectador no se levanta de la silla. Y el palacio ideal consiste en la experiencia de estar dentro de \u00e9l. Uno no lo _contempla_ m\u00e1s de lo que se contempla un bosque. O entras en \u00e9l o pasas dej\u00e1ndolo atr\u00e1s.\n\nComo lo explica el propio Cheval, el origen de su imaginer\u00eda se encuentra en las piedras, unas piedras que, moldeadas durante eras geol\u00f3gicas, le parec\u00edan caricaturas.\n\nLa piedra forma unas esculturas tan raras que al hombre le resulta imposible imitarlas; representa animales de todas las especies, todo tipo de caricaturas. Y me dije: pues si la naturaleza quiere hacer la escultura, yo har\u00e9 la alba\u00f1iler\u00eda y la arquitectura.\n\nCuando uno las mira, estas piedras se convierten en criaturas, sobre todo p\u00e1jaros u otros animales. Algunos te devuelven la mirada. Algunos solo se entrev\u00e9n mientras desaparecen de vuelta a las piedras de las que emergieron brevemente como meros contornos. El palacio est\u00e1 lleno de una vida que nunca es enteramente visible.\n\nSalvo por algunas excepciones de las que hablar\u00e9 m\u00e1s adelante, no hay superficies que sean terminantemente exteriores. Todas las superficies, para su realidad, se refieren al interior. Los animales vuelven al interior de las piedras; y cuando uno no est\u00e1 mirando, vuelven a salir. Todas las apariencias cambian. Y, sin embargo, ser\u00eda err\u00f3neo considerar el palacio un lugar on\u00edrico. Ese fue el error que cometieron los surrealistas, que fueron los primeros que lo \"descubrieron\" en la d\u00e9cada de 1930. Convertirlo en una cuesti\u00f3n psicol\u00f3gica, cuestionar el inconsciente de Cheval, es adoptar un punto de vista que nunca explicar\u00e1 su singularidad.\n\n***\n\nPese a su nombre, su modelo no es un palacio, sino un bosque. Dentro est\u00e1n contenidos muchos palacios m\u00e1s peque\u00f1os, _ch\u00e2teaux_ , templos, casas, guaridas, madrigueras, nidos, agujeros, etc. Es imposible establecer el contenido total o la poblaci\u00f3n del palacio. Cada vez que uno entra en \u00e9l, ve algo m\u00e1s o algo distinto. Cheval termin\u00f3 haciendo mucho m\u00e1s que la alba\u00f1iler\u00eda y la arquitectura para las esculturas de la naturaleza. Empez\u00f3 a hacer las suyas propias. Pero la naturaleza sigui\u00f3 siendo su modelo: no como dep\u00f3sito de apariencias fijas, no como la fuente de todas las taxonom\u00edas, sino como un ejemplo de metamorfosis continua. Si miro a lo que tengo inmediatamente enfrente, veo:\n\nun pino\n\nun ternero, lo bastante grande para que el pino sea uno de sus cuernos\n\nuna serpiente\n\nuna vasija romana\n\ndos lavanderas del tama\u00f1o de dos topos\n\nuna nutria\n\nun faro\n\nun caracol\n\ntres amigos recostados unos en otros\n\nun leopardo, m\u00e1s grande que el faro\n\nun cuervo\n\nHabr\u00eda que multiplicar esta lista varios miles de veces a fin de llegar a aproximarnos a un primer censo. Y en cuanto uno se da cuenta de esto, percibe al instante cu\u00e1n ajeno al esp\u00edritu de la obra ser\u00eda semejante ejercicio. Su funci\u00f3n no es presentar, sino rodear.\n\nYa se suba a sus torres, se atraviese las criptas o se alce la vista por una de las fachadas, uno es consciente de haber entrado en algo; se encuentra en un sistema que incluye el espacio que \u00e9l mismo ocupa. El sistema puede cambiar su propia imagen, sugiriendo diferentes met\u00e1foras en cada momento. Ya lo he comparado con un bosque. En algunas partes se parece a un est\u00f3mago. En otras, se parece a un cerebro, el \u00f3rgano f\u00edsico que habita en el interior del cr\u00e1neo, no la mente abstracta.\n\nLo que le rodea a uno tiene una realidad f\u00edsica. Est\u00e1 construido de piedra arenisca, de toba, de cal, de arena, de conchas, de f\u00f3siles. Al mismo tiempo, todo este material diverso se unifica y se hace misteriosamente figurativo. No estoy hablando ahora de su poblaci\u00f3n de im\u00e1genes. Hablo del material mineral como un ser completo dispuesto de tal forma que representa un sistema org\u00e1nico vivo.\n\nUna especie de tejido lo conecta todo. Uno puede imaginar que consta de hojas, de pliegues, de fol\u00edculos o de c\u00e9lulas. Toda la energ\u00eda imparable de Cheval, toda su fe, se aplic\u00f3 en la creaci\u00f3n de este tejido. Es en \u00e9l donde uno siente el ritmo real de sus movimientos cuando moldeaba el cemento o colocaba las piedras. Ver crecer este tejido bajo sus manos le confirmaba en lo que estaba haciendo. Es este tejido lo que le rodea a uno, como un \u00fatero.\n\nDec\u00eda que la unidad b\u00e1sica de este tejido suger\u00eda un tipo de hoja o de pliegue. Tal vez lo m\u00e1s cerca que puedo llegar a la hora de definirla, o de imaginarla plenamente \u2014dentro del palacio o lejos del mismo\u2014 es pensar en la hoja ideal de la que escribe Johan Wolfgang von Goethe en su ensayo _La metamorfosis de las plantas_. Todas las formas de la plantas se derivan de esta hoja arquet\u00edpica.\n\nEn el palacio, la unidad b\u00e1sica entra\u00f1a un proceso de reproducci\u00f3n; no se trata de la reproducci\u00f3n de las apariencias, sino de una reproducci\u00f3n de s\u00ed mismo mientras crece.\n\nCheval sali\u00f3 de su regi\u00f3n natal, el Dr\u00f4me, una sola vez en su vida: de joven, para ir a trabajar durante unos meses en Argelia. Todo su conocimiento del mundo lo obtuvo a trav\u00e9s de las nuevas revistas enciclop\u00e9dicas que salieron al mercado durante el segundo cuarto del siglo XIX y no tardaron en hacerse muy populares. Este conocimiento le facult\u00f3 para aspirar a una \"visi\u00f3n de mundo\", diferente de una visi\u00f3n local o parcial. (Hoy, los medios de comunicaci\u00f3n tienen, en distintas partes del mundo, un efecto pol\u00edtico comparable. Los campesinos terminar\u00e1n visualiz\u00e1ndose desde una perspectiva global.)\n\nSin una aspiraci\u00f3n global, Cheval nunca habr\u00eda podido mantener la confianza necesaria para trabajar en soledad durante treinta y tres a\u00f1os. En la Edad Media, la Iglesia hab\u00eda ofrecido una visi\u00f3n universal, pero sus artesanos trabajaban en su mayor\u00eda dentro de las restricciones de una iconograf\u00eda prescrita, en la que la visi\u00f3n del campesino ten\u00eda un lugar, pero no era susceptible de desarrollo. Cheval surgi\u00f3, en solitario, y enfrent\u00f3 el mundo moderno a una visi\u00f3n campesina intacta, la suya. Y construy\u00f3 su palacio conforme a esa visi\u00f3n.\n\nFue un acontecimiento incre\u00edblemente improbable, un acontecimiento que depend\u00eda de infinidad de contingencias. Temperamentales. Geogr\u00e1ficas. Sociales. Del hecho, por ejemplo, de que fuera cartero y, por tanto, tuviera un peque\u00f1o salario. De haber sido un campesino que trabajara su tierra, nunca podr\u00eda haberle dedicado al palacio las 93.000 horas que invirti\u00f3 en su construcci\u00f3n. Sin embargo, nunca dej\u00f3 de pertenecer, org\u00e1nica y conscientemente, a la clase en la que naci\u00f3. \"Hijo de campesinos, como campesino quiero vivir y morir a fin de demostrar que en mi clase hay hombres con energ\u00eda y talento\".\n\nEl car\u00e1cter del palacio est\u00e1 determinado por dos cualidades esenciales: su materialidad f\u00edsica (no contiene ning\u00fan atractivo sentimental, abstracto, y todas las declaraciones de Cheval ponen de relieve el enorme esfuerzo f\u00edsico que supuso su construcci\u00f3n) y su interioridad (el \u00e9nfasis total en lo que est\u00e1 dentro y en el hecho de estar dentro). Esta combinaci\u00f3n no existe en la experiencia urbana moderna, pero es profundamente t\u00edpica de la experiencia campesina.\n\nTal vez podemos utilizar aqu\u00ed a modo de ejemplo la noci\u00f3n de _visceral_. Se hace, sin embargo, necesaria una advertencia. Pensar que las actitudes de los campesinos son m\u00e1s valientes, al tiempo que m\u00e1s desinhibidas o descaradas, que las urbanas supone no entender nada y recurrir a un ignorante clich\u00e9.\n\nLa puerta de un establo. Colgado de un clavo, un cabrito que est\u00e1 siendo desollado y vaciado de sus v\u00edsceras por un abuelo que hace uso de la punta de su navaja delicadamente, como si fuera una aguja. A su lado, una abuela sostiene las tripas en sus brazos, a fin de facilitarle al marido la tarea de separar el est\u00f3mago sin perforarlo. A unos metros, sentado en el suelo y ajeno por unos instantes a lo que hacen sus abuelos, el nieto de cuatro a\u00f1os juega con un gato y se frota la nariz contra la del animal. Para los campesinos, lo visceral es una categor\u00eda cotidiana, conocida, desde una edad muy temprana.\n\nPor el contrario, el desconocimiento estimula el horror urbano a lo visceral, un horror relacionado, a su vez, con las actitudes urbanas con respecto a la muerte y el nacimiento. Ambos momentos se han transformado en momentos secretos, remotos. En los dos es imposible negar la primac\u00eda de unos procesos internos, invisibles.\n\nLa superficie urbana ideal es brillante (por ejemplo, los cromados), una superficie que refleja lo que tiene delante y parece negar que haya nada visible detr\u00e1s. Su ant\u00edtesis es el costado de un cuerpo que asciende y desciende al ritmo de la respiraci\u00f3n. La experiencia urbana se concentra en confundir lo que est\u00e1 fuera con lo que es la cosa, midi\u00e9ndola, prob\u00e1ndola, proces\u00e1ndola. Cuando se ha de explicar lo que est\u00e1 dentro (no hablo ahora desde el punto de vista de la biolog\u00eda molecular, sino en relaci\u00f3n con la vida cotidiana), se explica como un mecanismo, pero las medidas del mecanismo utilizado siempre pertenecen al exterior. Una reproducci\u00f3n visual constante celebra el exterior, lo de fuera, que se justifica por el empirismo.\n\nLo emp\u00edrico es ingenuo para el campesino. El campesino opera con lo que nunca se puede predecir del todo, con lo emergente. Lo visible suele ser para \u00e9l un signo del estado de lo invisible. Toca las superficies para crearse una mejor imagen mental de lo que se encuentra detr\u00e1s. Sobre todo, es consciente de seguir y modificar unos procesos que est\u00e1n fuera de su alcance, o del de cualquiera, iniciar o detener: siempre es consciente de estar \u00e9l mismo en un proceso.\n\nEn una f\u00e1brica, los art\u00edculos que salen de la cadena de producci\u00f3n son id\u00e9nticos. Pero no hay dos prados iguales, ni dos ovejas, ni dos \u00e1rboles. (Las cat\u00e1strofes de la revoluci\u00f3n verde, cuando la producci\u00f3n agr\u00edcola la planifican desde arriba unos expertos de la ciudad, son por lo general el resultado de ignorar unas condiciones locales espec\u00edficas o de desafiar las leyes de la heterogeneidad natural.) El ordenador se ha convertido en el almac\u00e9n, en la \"memoria\" de la informaci\u00f3n urbana moderna: en las culturas campesinas, el almac\u00e9n equivalente es la tradici\u00f3n oral que pasa de generaci\u00f3n en generaci\u00f3n; no obstante, la verdadera diferencia entre ellos es esta: el ordenador proporciona, con gran celeridad, la respuesta exacta a una cuesti\u00f3n compleja; la tradici\u00f3n oral proporciona una respuesta ambigua \u2014a veces, incluso en forma de acertijo\u2014 a una cuesti\u00f3n pr\u00e1ctica com\u00fan. La verdad como certeza. La verdad como incertidumbre.\n\nSe suele pensar que los campesinos son conservadores, tradicionalistas, cuando se los sit\u00faa en el tiempo hist\u00f3rico, pero en el tiempo c\u00edclico est\u00e1n mucho m\u00e1s acostumbrados a vivir con los cambios.\n\nLa cercan\u00eda a lo impredecible, lo invisible, lo incontrolable y lo c\u00edclico predispone a la mente a hacer una interpretaci\u00f3n religiosa del mundo. El campesino no cree que el progreso est\u00e9 derribando las fronteras de lo desconocido porque no acepta el diagrama estrat\u00e9gico que encierra esa afirmaci\u00f3n. En su experiencia, lo desconocido es constante y central: el conocimiento lo rodea, pero nunca lo eliminar\u00e1. No es posible generalizar sobre el papel de la religi\u00f3n entre los campesinos, pero se puede decir que articula otra experiencia profunda: su experiencia de producci\u00f3n mediante el trabajo.\n\nHe mencionado que unas cuantas superficies del palacio no hacen referencia al interior para mostrar su realidad. Entre estas se incluyen las superficies de algunos de los edificios que Cheval reproduce, como la Casa Blanca, de Washington, o la Maison Carr\u00e9e de Argel. Las otras son las superficies de los rostros humanos. Todos ellos son enigm\u00e1ticos. Los rostros humanos ocultan sus secretos, y es posible, como no lo es en ning\u00fan otro elemento del palacio, que sus secretos sean antinaturales. Las ha esculpido con respeto y suspicacia.\n\nEl propio Cheval dijo que su palacio era un templo a la naturaleza. Pero no a la naturaleza de los viajeros, de los paisajistas, ni siquiera a la de Jean-Jacques Rousseau, sino un templo a la naturaleza so\u00f1ada por un genio que expresa la visi\u00f3n de una clase de supervivientes endurecidos y astutos.\n\nEn el centro del palacio hay una cripta, rodeada de animales esculpidos: solo para con sus animales mostr\u00f3 Cheval su capacidad para la ternura. Entre los animales hay conchas, piedras con ojos escondidos en ellas, y, uni\u00e9ndolo todo, el tejido de la primera hoja. En el techo de esta cripta, en forma de c\u00edrculo, Cheval escribi\u00f3 esto: \"Es aqu\u00ed donde quer\u00eda dormir\".\n\n## **Paul C\u00e9zanne**\n\n## 1839-1906\n\nTodo europeo que haya vivido en el siglo XX y se haya apasionado con la pintura habr\u00e1 tenido que aceptar el misterio, el logro, el fracaso o el triunfo de la obra de Paul C\u00e9zanne. Muri\u00f3 seis a\u00f1os despu\u00e9s de comenzado el siglo, a los sesenta y siete. Fue un profeta, aunque, como muchos otros profetas, no fuera esto lo que se propon\u00eda.\n\nSe exhiben ahora en el Mus\u00e9e du Luxembourg, en Par\u00eds, setenta y cinco maravillosos cuadros pertenecientes a todos los per\u00edodos de su carrera. Esto nos ofrece la oportunidad de mirarlo de nuevo, de contemplar toda su originalidad. Despu\u00e9s de toda una vida de sentir a mi lado su compa\u00f1\u00eda, la exposici\u00f3n supuso para m\u00ed una revelaci\u00f3n. Me olvid\u00e9 del impresionismo, del cubismo, de la historia del arte del siglo XX, de la modernidad, de la posmodernidad, y vi solo su historia de amor, su relaci\u00f3n amorosa con lo visible. Y lo vi como un diagrama, uno de esos diagramas que aparecen en los folletos de instrucciones de los electrodom\u00e9sticos o de las herramientas.\n\nEmpecemos con los fondos negros de muchas de sus obras tempranas, pintadas a los veintitantos a\u00f1os. Es un negro como no hay otro en la historia de la pintura. Su manera de dominar el cuadro es en cierto modo semejante a la oscuridad que encontramos en el Rembrandt tard\u00edo, con la diferencia de que este negro es mucho m\u00e1s tangible. Es como el negro de una caja que contiene todo lo que existe en el mundo material.\n\nSi avanzamos unos diez a\u00f1os en su carrera art\u00edstica, vemos que C\u00e9zanne empieza a sacar colores de la caja negra; no se trata de colores primarios, sino colores complejos, colores sustanciales, y busca un lugar para ellos en aquello a lo que mira con la mayor atenci\u00f3n: un tejado o una manzana para un rojo, un cuerpo para un color piel, una zona en particular entre las nubes de un cielo para un azul. Saca estos colores como si fueran una tela, salvo que, en lugar de estar hechos de hilo o de algod\u00f3n, est\u00e1n hechos de las marcas que un pincel o una esp\u00e1tula dejan en el \u00f3leo.\n\nY luego, durante los \u00faltimos veinte a\u00f1os de su vida, C\u00e9zanne empieza a aplicar esos hisopos o escobillas cargados con color al lienzo, pero no los aplica donde se corresponder\u00edan con el color local de un objeto, sino donde indiquen un camino a trav\u00e9s del espacio que puedan seguir nuestros ojos, un camino que se aleja o se acerca. Y deja cada vez m\u00e1s trozos de lienzo en blanco, sin tocar. Estos trozos no son mudos, sin embargo: representan el vac\u00edo, el hueco abierto por el que emerge lo material.\n\nLas \u00faltimas, prof\u00e9ticas, obras de C\u00e9zanne tratan de la creaci\u00f3n, la creaci\u00f3n del mundo o, si se quiere, del universo. Estoy tentado de denominar \"agujero negro\" a esa caja negra que veo como su punto de partida, pero no pasar\u00eda de ser un truco verbal y, por lo tanto, demasiado f\u00e1cil. Mientras que lo que hizo C\u00e9zanne fue obstinado, persistente, dif\u00edcil.\n\nDurante su viaje como pintor, creo que su estado mental cambi\u00f3 escatol\u00f3gicamente, se hizo m\u00e1s apocal\u00edptico. El enigma de lo material, lo corp\u00f3reo, le obsesion\u00f3 desde el principio. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 tienen las cosas consistencia, solidez? \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 todo, incluidos los seres humanos, est\u00e1 hecho de materia? En sus obras muy tempranas, tendi\u00f3 a reducir lo material a lo corp\u00f3reo: el cuerpo humano en el que estamos condenados a vivir. Y era extremadamente consciente de lo que significaba ser carne: nuestros deseos, nuestros anhelos ciegos y nuestra capacidad para la violencia gratuita. De ah\u00ed la elecci\u00f3n de temas tales como el asesinato y la tentaci\u00f3n. Tal vez era mejor mantener cerrada la caja negra.\n\nPoco a poco, sin embargo, C\u00e9zanne empez\u00f3 a ampliar la noci\u00f3n o la sensaci\u00f3n de corporeidad, a fin de que incluyera cosas que normalmente no se considera que tengan cuerpo. Esto se hace sobre todo evidente en sus naturalezas muertas. Sus manzanas tienen la autonom\u00eda de los cuerpos. Todas y cada una son due\u00f1as de s\u00ed mismas; las ha tenido todas en su mano y las ha reconocido como \u00fanicas. Sus cuencos de porcelana vac\u00edos esperan a ser llenados. Su vac\u00edo es expectante. Su jarra de leche es incontestable.\n\nEn la tercera y \u00faltima fase de su vida profesional, conforme a mi diagrama imaginario, C\u00e9zanne llev\u00f3 todav\u00eda m\u00e1s lejos la noci\u00f3n de corporeidad. Un adolescente \u2014su hijo, probablemente\u2014 est\u00e1 echado en la hierba, a orillas de un r\u00edo, en alg\u00fan lugar cerca de Par\u00eds, y el aire a su alrededor le acaricia de una forma visible, de la misma manera que el sol y el viento de un d\u00eda con una climatolog\u00eda concreta acaricia su monta\u00f1a Sainte-Victoire. C\u00e9zanne estaba descubriendo una complementariedad entre el equilibrio de un cuerpo y la inevitabilidad de un paisaje. Las oquedades de algunas rocas del bosque de Fontainebleau tienen la intimidad de unas axilas humanas. Sus \u00faltimas ba\u00f1istas forman cadenas similares a una cordillera. La cantera desierta de Bib\u00e9mus parece un retrato.\n\n\u00bfCu\u00e1l es el secreto que hay detr\u00e1s de todo esto? La convicci\u00f3n de C\u00e9zanne de que lo que percibimos como visible no es algo dado, sino una interpretaci\u00f3n, algo construido, ensamblado por la naturaleza y por nosotros mismos. \"El paisaje se piensa en m\u00ed, y yo soy su conciencia\", dec\u00eda. Y tambi\u00e9n: \"El color es el lugar en el que se re\u00fanen nuestro cerebro y el universo\".\n\nDe este modo abr\u00eda su caja negra.\n\nPaul C\u00e9zanne, _El reloj de p\u00e9ndulo negro_ , 1869-1871.\n\n## **Origen de los textos**\n\nTodos los escritos comprendidos en este libro ya han sido publicados en diferentes medios. En ocasiones, los art\u00edculos est\u00e1n compuestos de varios art\u00edculos o fragmentos sobre el mismo tema. Aunque todos los textos de este libro sean traducci\u00f3n de Pilar V\u00e1zquez, se indican aqu\u00ed tambi\u00e9n, cuando las hay, otras versiones castellanas (mientras no se especifique lo contrario, las traducciones son de Pilar V\u00e1zquez).\n\n**Los pintores de la cueva de Chauvet**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Chauvet Caves\" [1996], en _The Shape of a Pocket_ , Bloomsbury, Londres, 2001 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"La cueva de Chauvet\", en _El tama\u00f1o de una bolsa_ , Taurus, Madrid, 2004) _._\n\n**Los retratistas de El Fayum**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Fayum Portraits\" [1988], en ib\u00edd _._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Los retratos de Fayum\", en ib\u00edd.) _._\n\n**Piero della Francesca**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Calculations of Piero\" [1959], en _Permanent Red: Essays in Seeing_ , Methuen, Londres, 1960.\n\n**Antonello da Messina**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Resistance Is Fertile\", _New Statesman_ , Londres, 9 de abril de 2009. Parte de este ensayo fue incluido en _Bento's Sketchbook_ , Pantheon Books, Nueva York, 2011 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El cuaderno de Bento_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2012).\n\n**Andrea Mantegna**\n\nExtra\u00eddo de Andreadakis Berger, Katya y Berger, John, _Lying Down to Sleep_ , Corraini, Mantua, 2010 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Echarse a dormir\", en _Tiziano y el legado veneciano_ , Fundaci\u00f3n Amigos del Museo del Prado\/Galaxia Gutenberg-C\u00edrculo de Lectores, Madrid, 2005).\n\n**Giovanni Bellini**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"John Berger on Four Bellini Madonnas\", en Wheldon, Huw (ed.), _Monitor: An Anthology_ , Macdonald, Londres, 1962.\n\n**El Bosco**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Against the Great Defeat of the World\", en _The Shape of a Pocket_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Contra la gran derrota del mundo\", en _El tama\u00f1o de una bolsa_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Matthias Gr\u00fcnewald**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Between Two Colmars\" [1976], en _About Looking_ , Readers and Writers Publishing Cooperative, Londres, 1980 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Entre los dos Colmar\", en _Mirar_ , Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 2001).\n\n**Alberto Durero**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"D\u00fcrer: A Portrait of the Artist\" [1971], en Spencer, Lloyd (ed.), _The White Bird: Writings,_ Chatto & Windus, Londres, 1985 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Durero: retrato del artista\", en _El sentido de la vista_ , Alianza Editorial, Madrid, 1990).\n\n**Miguel \u00c1ngel**\n\n\"Michelangelo\" [1995], en _The Shape of a Pocket_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Miguel \u00c1ngel\", en _El tama\u00f1o de una bolsa_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Tiziano**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Titian as Dog\", _The Threepenny Review_ , n\u00fam. 54, 1 de julio de 1993, y en Andreadakis Berger, Katya y Berger, John, _Titian: Nymph and Shepherd_ [1996], Bloomsbury, Londres, 2003 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Tiziano: ninfa y pastor_ , Ediciones \u00c1rdora, Madrid, 1999).\n\n**Hans Holbein el Joven**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"A Professional Secret\" [1979], en _Keeping a Rendezvous_ , Granta Books, Londres, 1992 (existen dos versiones castellanas de este t\u00edtulo: \"Un secreto profesional\", en _Cada vez que decimos adi\u00f3s_ , Ediciones de la Flor, Buenos Aires, 1997, traducci\u00f3n de Graciela Speranza; y \"Un secreto profesional\", en _Siempre bienvenidos_ , Huelga y Fierro editores, Madrid, 2004, traducci\u00f3n de Jos\u00e9 Luis Moreno-Ruiz).\n\n**Pieter Brueghel el Viejo**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Case Against Us\", _The Observer_ , Londres, 7 de octubre de 1962.\n\n**Caravaggio**\n\nExtra\u00eddo de _And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos_ [1984], Bloomsbury, Londres, 2005 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Y nuestros rostros, mi vida, breves como fotos_ , Hermann Blume, Madrid, 1986).\n\n**Frans Hals**\n\n\"Frans Hals\" [1966], en _The Moment of Cubism and Other Essays_ , Pantheon, Nueva York, 1969 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Hals y la bancarrota\", en _Mirar_ , _op. cit._ ); y bajo el t\u00edtulo de \"The Hals Mystery\" [1979], en _The White Bird_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"El misterio de Hals\", en _El sentido de la vista_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Diego Vel\u00e1zquez**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"A Story for Aesop\" [1992], en _Keeping a Rendezvous_ , _op. cit_. (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Una f\u00e1bula para Esopo\", en _Cada vez que decimos adi\u00f3s_ , _op. cit_.; y \"Una historia para Esopo\", en _Siempre bienvenidos_ , _op. cit._ ); y \"Through the Peephole of Eternity\", en _The Drawbridge,_ n\u00fam. 17, Londres, verano de 2010; tambi\u00e9n en _Bento's Sketchbook_ , Pantheon Books, Nueva York, 2011 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El cuaderno de Bento_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2012).\n\n**Rembrandt**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Three Dutchmen\" (rese\u00f1a sobre Wilhelm Reinhold Valentiner, Rembrandt, Spinoza, David Lewis y Mondrian), _Spectator,_ n\u00fam. 6729, 1957; extracto de _Way of Seeing_ , BBC, Londres, 1972 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Modos de ver,_ Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 2016, p\u00e1gs. 122-124, traducci\u00f3n de Justo G. Beramendi); poema \"Rembrandt Self-Portrait\" [1975], en _The White Bird_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Autorretrato de Rembrandt\", en _El sentido de la vista_ , _op. cit._ ); \"Once in Amsterdam\" [1984], en _And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Una vez en \u00c1msterdam\", en _Y nuestros rostros, mi vida, breves como fotos_ , _op. cit._ ); \"Rembrandt and the Body\" [1992], en _The Shape of a Pocket_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Rembrandt y el cuerpo\", en _El tama\u00f1o de una bolsa_ , _op. cit._ ); \"A Cloth Over the Mirror\" [2000], en ib\u00edd _._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Un pa\u00f1o sobre el espejo\", en ib\u00edd.); y extracto de _Here Is Where We Meet_ , Bloomsbury, Londres, 2006 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Aqu\u00ed nos vemos_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2005).\n\n**Willem Drost**\n\nExtracto de _Bento's Sketchbook_ , _op. cit_. (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El cuaderno de Bento_ , _op. cit_.).\n\n**Jean-Antoine Watteau**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Drawings by Watteau\", en _The Look of Things,_ Penguin, Hardmondsworth, 1972 (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Los dibujos de Watteau\", en _Sobre el dibujo_ , Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 2011; y en _La apariencia de las cosas_ , Editorial Gustavo Gili, Barcelona, 2014).\n\n**Francisco de Goya**\n\nExtracto de _A Painter of Our Time_ , Secker & Warburg, Londres, 1958 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _Un pintor de hoy_ , Alfaguara, Madrid, 2002); publicado bajo el t\u00edtulo de \"The Honesty of Goya\", en _Permanent Red_ , _op. cit._ ; publicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Maja Dressed and the Maja Undressed\" [1964], en _The Moment of Cubism, op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Goya: La Maja, vestida y desnuda\", en _El sentido de la vista_ , _op. cit_.); extracto de _Corker's Freedom_ , Methuen, Londres, 1964 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _La libertad de Corker_ , Interzona, Buenos Aires, 2016, traducci\u00f3n de Marcos Mayer); y extractos de Berger, John y Bielski, Nella, _Goya's Last Portrait_ , Faber, Londres, 1989 (versi\u00f3n castellana: _El \u00faltimo retrato de Goya_ , Alfaguara, 1996).\n\n**J. M. W. Turner**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Turner and the Barber's Shop\" [1972], en _About Looking_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Turner y la barber\u00eda\", en _Mirar_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Jean-Louis-Andr\u00e9-Th\u00e9odore G\u00e9ricault**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"A Man with Tousled Hair\", en _The Shape of a Pocket, op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Un hombre desgre\u00f1ado\", en _El tama\u00f1o de una bolsa_ , _op. cit_.).\n\n**Honor\u00e9 Daumier**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Painter Inside the Cartoonist: Daumier's Silver Screen\", _The Observer,_ Londres, 11 de junio de 1961; y p\u00e1rrafo extra\u00eddo de _Daumier: Visions of Paris_ (cat\u00e1logo de exposici\u00f3n), Royal Academy, Londres, 2013.\n\n**Jean-Fran\u00e7ois Millet**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Millet and Labour\" [1956], en _Permanent Red_ , _op. cit._ ; y \"Millet and the Peasant' [1976], en _About Looking_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Millet y el campesino\", en _Mirar_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Gustave Courbet**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Politics of Courbet\" [1953], en _Permanent Red_ , _op. cit_.; y \"Courbet and the Jura\" [1978], en _About Looking_ , _op. cit_. (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Courbert y el Jura\", en _Mirar_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Edgard Degas**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"On a Degas Bronze of a Dancer\" [1969], en _Permanent Red_ , _op. cit_. (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Sobre la bailarina de bronce de Degas\", en _El sentido de la vista_ , _op. cit_.); bajo el t\u00edtulo \"Degas\", _Die Weltwoche_ , Z\u00farich, 18 de abril 1997; y en _The Shape of a Pocket_ , _op. cit_. (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"Degas\", en _El tama\u00f1o de una bolsa_ , _op. cit_.); y como \"The Dark Side of Degas's Ballet Dancers\", _The Guardian,_ Londres, 15 de noviembre de 2011.\n\n**Ferdinand \"Le Facteur\" Cheval**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"The Ideal Palace\" [hacia 1977], en _Keeping a Rendezvous_ , _op. cit._ (versi\u00f3n castellana: \"El palacio ideal\", en _Cada vez que decimos adi\u00f3s_ , _op. cit._ ; y en _Siempre bienvenidos_ , _op. cit._ ).\n\n**Paul C\u00e9zanne**\n\nPublicado bajo el t\u00edtulo \"C\u00e9zanne: Paint It Black\", _The Guardian_ , Londres, 12 de diciembre de 2011.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":"\n\nE-text prepared by Woodie4, Curtis Weyant, and the Project Gutenberg\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team (http:\/\/www.pgdp.net) from digital\nmaterial generously made available by Internet Archive\/American Libraries\n(http:\/\/www.archive.org\/details\/americana)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n file which includes the original illustrations.\n See 28861-h.htm or 28861-h.zip:\n (http:\/\/www.gutenberg.org\/files\/28861\/28861-h\/28861-h.htm)\n or\n (http:\/\/www.gutenberg.org\/files\/28861\/28861-h.zip)\n\n\n Images of the original pages are available through\n Internet Archive\/American Libraries. See\n http:\/\/www.archive.org\/details\/daveporterinfarn00straiala\n\n\n\n\n\nDave Porter Series\n\nDAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH\n\nOr\n\nThe Pluck of an American Schoolboy\n\nby\n\nEDWARD STRATEMEYER\n\nAuthor of \"Dave Porter at Oak Hall,\" \"Dave Porter in the South Seas,\"\n\"Dave Porter's Return to School,\" \"Old Glory Series,\" \"Pan American\nSeries,\" \"Defending His Flag,\" etc.\n\nIllustrated By Charles Nuttall\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: In a twinkling the turnout was upset.--_Page 206._]\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Publishers mark]\n\nBoston\nLothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.\n\nPublished, March, 1908\n\nCopyright, 1908, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.\nAll rights reserved\n\nDAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH\n\nNorwood Press\nBERWICK & SMITH CO.\nNorwood, Mass.\nU. S. A.\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\n\"Dave Porter in the Far North\" is a complete story in itself, but forms\nthe fourth volume in a line issued under the general title of \"Dave\nPorter Series.\"\n\nIn the first volume, entitled \"Dave Porter at Oak Hall,\" I introduced a\ntypical American lad, full of life and vigor, and related the\nparticulars of his doings at an American boarding school of to-day--a\nplace which is a little world in itself. At this school Dave made both\nfriends and enemies, proved that he was a natural leader, and was\nadmired accordingly.\n\nThe great cloud over Dave's life was the question of his parentage. His\nenemies called him \"that poorhouse nobody,\" which hurt him deeply. He\nmade a discovery, and in the second volume of the series, entitled \"Dave\nPorter in the South Seas,\" we followed him on a most unusual voyage, at\nthe end of which he found an uncle, and learned something of his father\nand sister, who were at that time traveling in Europe.\n\nDave was anxious to meet his own family, but could not find out just\nwhere they were. While waiting for word from them, he went back to Oak\nHall, and in the third volume of the series, called \"Dave Porter's\nReturn to School,\" we learned how he became innocently involved in a\nmysterious series of robberies, helped to win two great games of\nfootball, and brought the bully of the academy to a realization of his\nbetter self.\n\nAs time went by Dave longed more than ever to meet his father and his\nsister, and how he went in search of them I leave the pages which follow\nto relate. As before, Dave is bright, manly, and honest to the core, and\nin those qualities I trust my young readers will take him as their model\nthroughout life.\n\nOnce more I thank the thousands who have taken an interest in what I\nhave written for them. May the present story help them to despise those\nthings which are mean and hold fast to those things which are good.\n\n EDWARD STRATEMEYER.\n\nJanuary 10, 1908.\n\n\n\n CONTENTS\n\n\nCHAPTER PAGE\n\n I. ON THE TRAIN 1\n\n II. A ROW IN A RESTAURANT 12\n\n III. OFF THE TRACK 22\n\n IV. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE BARN 32\n\n V. BACK TO OAK HALL 42\n\n VI. GUS PLUM'S CONFESSION 51\n\n VII. HOW JOB HASKERS WENT SLEIGH-RIDING 59\n\n VIII. A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 69\n\n IX. DAVE TALKS TO THE POINT 78\n\n X. AN ADVENTURE ON ROBBER ISLAND 87\n\n XI. A HUNT FOR AN ICE-BOAT 97\n\n XII. THE MEETING OF THE GEE EYES 107\n\n XIII. AN INTERRUPTED INITIATION 116\n\n XIV. GOOD-BYE TO OAK HALL 125\n\n XV. DAVE AND ROGER IN LONDON 134\n\n XVI. SOME IMPORTANT INFORMATION 143\n\n XVII. ON THE NORTH SEA 152\n\n XVIII. IN NORWAY AT LAST 162\n\n XIX. OFF TO THE NORTHWARD 171\n\n XX. AN ENCOUNTER WITH WOLVES 181\n\n XXI. CAUGHT IN A WINDSTORM 190\n\n XXII. SNOWBOUND IN THE MOUNTAINS 200\n\n XXIII. LEFT IN THE DARK 210\n\n XXIV. THE BURGOMASTER OF MASOLGA 219\n\n XXV. TO THE NORTHWARD ONCE MORE 228\n\n XXVI. DAYS OF WAITING 237\n\n XXVII. DAVE STRIKES OUT ALONE 246\n\nXXVIII. A JOYOUS MEETING 255\n\n XXIX. BEARS AND WOLVES 264\n\n XXX. HOME AGAIN--CONCLUSION 274\n\n\n\n ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nIn a twinkling the turnout was upset (page\n206) _Frontispiece_\n\n PAGE\n\nRoger shoved it aside and it struck Isaac Pludding\nfull on the stomach 25\n\n\"Can't stop, I'm on the race-track!\" yelled\nShadow 58\n\nThe mule shied to one side and sent Dave\nsprawling on the ice 101\n\nWhat was left of the camp-fire flew up in the\nair 120\n\nOnce they ran close to a three-masted schooner 160\n\n\"Out with the lot of them! I will take the\nrooms\" 229\n\nDave received a blow from a rough paw that\nsent him headlong 267\n\n\n\nDAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nON THE TRAIN\n\n\n\"Here we are at the station, Dave!\"\n\n\"Yes, and there is Phil waiting for us,\" answered Dave Porter. He threw\nup the car window hastily. \"Hi, there, Phil, this way!\" he called out,\nlustily.\n\nA youth who stood on the railroad platform, dress-suit case in hand,\nturned hastily, smiled broadly, and then ran for the steps of the\nrailroad car. The two boys already on board arose in their seats to\ngreet him.\n\n\"How are you, Dave? How are you, Ben?\" he exclaimed cordially, and shook\nhands. \"I see you've saved a seat for me. Thank you. My, but it's a cold\nmorning, isn't it?\"\n\n\"I was afraid you wouldn't come on account of the weather,\" answered\nDave Porter. \"How are you feeling?\"\n\n\"As fine as ever,\" answered Phil Lawrence. \"Oh, it will take more than\none football game to kill me,\" he went on, with a light laugh.\n\n\"I trust you never get knocked out like that again, Phil,\" said Dave\nPorter, seriously.\n\n\"So do I,\" added Ben Basswood. \"The game isn't worth it.\"\n\n\"Mother thought I ought to stay home until the weather moderated a bit,\nbut I told her you would all be on this train and I wanted to be with\nthe crowd. Had a fine Thanksgiving, I suppose.\"\n\n\"I did,\" returned Ben Basswood.\n\n\"Yes, we had a splendid time,\" added Dave Porter, \"only I should have\nbeen better satisfied if I had received some word from my father and\nsister.\"\n\n\"No word yet, Dave?\"\n\n\"Not a line, Phil,\" and Dave Porter's usually bright face took on a\nserious look. \"I don't know what to make of it and neither does my Uncle\nDunston.\"\n\n\"It certainly is queer. If they went to Europe your letters and\ncablegrams ought to catch them somewhere. I trust you get word soon.\"\n\n\"If I don't, I know what I am going to do.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Go on a hunt, just as I did when I found my uncle,\" was Dave Porter's\nreply.\n\nWhile the three boys were talking the train had rolled out of the\nstation. The car was but half filled, so the lads had plenty of room in\nwhich to make themselves comfortable. Phil Lawrence stowed away his suit\ncase in a rack overhead and settled down facing the others. He gave a\nyawn of satisfaction.\n\n\"I can tell you, it will feel good to get back to Oak Hall again,\" he\nobserved. \"You can't imagine how much I've missed the boys and the good\ntimes, even if I was laid up in bed with a broken head.\"\n\n\"You'll get a royal reception, Phil,\" said Dave. \"Don't forget that when\nyou went down you won the football game for us.\"\n\n\"Maybe I did, Dave, but you had your hand in winning, too, and so did\nBen.\"\n\n\"Well, if the fellows---- Say, here comes Nat Poole.\" Dave lowered his\nvoice. \"I don't think he'll want to see me.\"\n\nAs Dave spoke, a tall, fastidiously dressed youth came down the car\naisle. He was not bad-looking, but there was an air of dissipation about\nhim that was not pleasant to contemplate. He wore a fur-trimmed overcoat\nand a cap to match, and heavy fur-lined gloves.\n\n\"Hello!\" he exclaimed, on catching sight of Phil Lawrence. \"Going back\nto the Hall, eh?\"\n\n\"I am, and you are going back too, Nat, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" drawled Nat Poole. He turned and caught sight of Dave and Ben.\n\"Humph!\" he muttered, and without saying more continued on his way down\nthe aisle and through to the next car of the train.\n\n\"He's real sociable, he is,\" observed Ben Basswood, with a grin.\n\n\"I knew he wouldn't want to see me,\" said Dave.\n\n\"What's up--more trouble, Dave?\" questioned Phil. \"Remember, I've been\naway from Oak Hall so long I've rather lost track of things.\"\n\n\"This trouble didn't occur at the school,\" answered Dave. His face grew\na trifle red as he spoke.\n\n\"It happened back at Crumville,\" broke in Ben, and winked one eye. \"You\nsee, Nat wanted to come to a Thanksgiving party the Wadsworths gave. But\nDave told Jessie just what sort Nat was, and she left him out at the\nlast moment. It made Nat furious, and I've heard that he is going to do\nhis best to square up with Dave this winter.\"\n\n\"You're mistaken, Ben; I didn't have to tell Jessie anything,\" corrected\nDave. \"A fellow named Bangs wanted Nat invited, but Jessie didn't want\nhim and neither did her folks. Bangs got mad over it, and said he\nwouldn't come either, and he and Nat went to a show instead.\"\n\n\"Well, I heard that Nat blamed it on you.\"\n\n\"He is apt to blame everything on me--if he can,\" said Dave, with a\nshort, hard laugh. \"It's his style. I suppose he'll even blame me for\ngetting Gus Plum to reform.\"\n\n\"Well, you did get Gus to do that,\" declared Ben, heartily. \"It's the\nbest thing I ever heard of, too.\"\n\n\"If Plum cuts Poole, what's the dude to do?\" asked Phil. \"The two used\nto be great cronies.\"\n\nTo these words Dave did not reply. He was wiping the steam from the car\nwindow. Now he peered out as the train came to a stop.\n\n\"Hurrah! Here we are!\" he cried, and leaped from his seat.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" demanded Ben.\n\n\"After Roger. I know he'll be at the station, for I sent him a special\nmessage,\" and away went Dave after Roger Morr, one of his best and\ndearest schoolmates. The two met on the car platform, and as the train\nmoved off again, both came in to join Ben and Phil.\n\nTo those who have read the former volumes in this \"Dave Porter Series\"\nthe boys already mentioned need no special introduction. They were all\npupils of Oak Hall, a first-class boarding school located in the heart\nof one of our New England States. At the academy Dave Porter seemed to\nbe a natural leader, although that place had been at times disputed by\nNat Poole, Gus Plum, and others. It was wonderful what a hold Dave had\non his friends, considering his natural modesty. Physically he was well\nbuilt and his muscles were those of a youth used to hard work and a life\nin the open air. Yet, though he loved to run, row, swim, and play games,\nDave did not neglect his studies, and only a short time before this\nstory opens had won the Oak Hall medal of honor, of which he was justly\nproud.\n\nIn times gone by Dave's enemies had called him \"a poorhouse\nnobody\"--something which had caused him a great deal of pain. When a\nchild, he had been picked up alongside of the railroad tracks by\nstrangers and taken to the Crumville poorhouse. At this institution he\nremained until he was nine years old, when a broken-down college\nprofessor named Caspar Potts, who had turned farmer, took him out and\ngave him a home. At that time Caspar Potts was in the grasp of a\nhard-hearted money lender, Aaron Poole, the father of Nat Poole, already\nmentioned, and the outlook soon became very dark for both man and boy.\n\nThen came an unexpected turn of affairs, and from that moment Dave's\nfuture seemed assured. As related in my first volume, \"Dave Porter at\nOak Hall,\" the boy called upon Mr. Oliver Wadsworth, a rich manufacturer\nof that neighborhood. The gentleman had a daughter Jessie, a bright-eyed\nmiss some years younger than Dave. She was waiting to take an\nautomobile ride when the gasoline tank of the machine caught fire. It\nwas plucky Dave who rushed in and, at the peril of his own life, saved\nthe girl from being fatally burned.\n\nThe Wadsworths were more than grateful, and when Mr. Wadsworth\ndiscovered that Caspar Potts was one of his former college teachers, he\ninsisted that both the old man and Dave come to live at his mansion. He\ntook a great interest in Dave, more especially as he had had a son about\nDave's age who had died.\n\n\"The lad must go to some boarding school,\" said Oliver Wadsworth, and at\nhis own expense he sent Dave to Oak Hall. With Dave went Ben Basswood, a\nfriend of several years' standing.\n\nDave made friends with great rapidity. First came Roger Morr, the son of\na United States senator, then Phil Lawrence, whose father was a wealthy\nship-owner, Sam Day, who was usually called \"Lazy,\" because he was so\nbig and fat, \"Buster\" Beggs, \"Shadow\" Hamilton, and a number of others,\nwhom we shall meet as our story proceeds.\n\nFor a while all went well with Dave, but then came trouble with Nat\nPoole, who had come to the Hall, and with Gus Plum, the school bully,\nand Chip Macklin, his toady. The cry of \"poorhouse nobody\" was again\nraised, and Dave felt almost like leaving Oak Hall in disgust.\n\n\"I must find out who I really am,\" he told himself, and fortune\npresently favored him. By a curious turn of circumstances he fell in\nwith an old sailor named Billy Dill. This tar declared he knew Dave or\nsomebody who looked exactly like him. This unknown individual was on an\nisland in the South Seas.\n\n\"My father's ships sail to the South Seas,\" Phil Lawrence told Dave, and\nthe upshot of the matter was that Dave took passage on one of the\nvessels, in company with the ship-owner's son, Roger Morr, and Billy\nDill.\n\nAs already related in the second volume of this series, \"Dave Porter in\nthe South Seas,\" the voyage of the _Stormy Petrel_ proved to be anything\nbut an uneventful one. Fearful storms arose, and Dave and some others\nwere cast away on an uninhabited island. But in the end all went well,\nand, much to the lad's joy, he found an uncle named Dunston Porter.\n\n\"Your father is my twin brother,\" said Dunston Porter. \"He is now\ntraveling in Europe, and with him is your sister Laura, about one year\nyounger than yourself. We must return to the United States at once and\nlet them know of this. They mourn you as dead.\"\n\nThere was a good deal of money in the Porter family, a fair share of\nwhich would come to Dave when he became of age. The whole party returned\nto California and then to the East, and word was at once sent to Europe,\nto David Breslow Porter, as Dave's father was named. To the surprise of\nall, no answer came back, and then it was learned that Mr. Porter and\nhis daughter Laura had started on some trip, leaving no address behind\nthem.\n\n\"This is too bad,\" said Dave. \"I wanted so much to see them.\"\n\n\"We'll get word soon, never fear,\" replied his uncle, and then advised\nDave to finish out his term at Oak Hall, Mr. Porter in the meantime\nremaining a guest of the Wadsworth family.\n\nHow Dave went back to Oak Hall, and what happened to him there has\nalready been related in detail in \"Dave Porter's Return to School.\" His\nenemies could no longer twit him with being a \"poorhouse nobody,\" yet\nthey did all they could to dim his popularity and get him into trouble.\n\n\"He shan't cut a dash over me, even if he has money,\" said Nat Poole,\nand to this Gus Plum, the bully, eagerly agreed. There was likewise\nanother pupil, Nick Jasniff, who also hated Dave, and one day this\nfellow, who was exceedingly hot-tempered, attempted to strike Dave down\nwith a heavy Indian club. It was a most foul attack and justly condemned\nby nearly all who saw it, and thoroughly scared over what he had\nattempted to do, Nick Jasniff ran away from school and could not be\nfound.\n\nThere had been a number of robberies around Oakdale, where the academy\nwas located, and one day when Dave and his chums were out ice-boating\nthey had come on the track of two of the robbers. Then to his surprise\nDave learned that Nick Jasniff was also implicated in the thefts. He\nknew that Jasniff and Gus Plum were very intimate, and wondered if the\nbully of the school could be one of the criminals also. At length, one\nsnowy day, he saw Plum leave the Hall and followed the fellow. Plum made\nfor the railroad, where there was a deep cut, and into this cut he fell,\njust as a train was approaching. At the peril of his life Dave scrambled\nto the bottom of the opening and drew the bully from the tracks just as\nthe train rolled by.\n\nIf ever a boy was conquered, it was Gus Plum at that time. At first he\ncould not realize that Dave had saved him. \"To think you would do this\nfor me--you!\" he sobbed. \"And I thought you hated me!\" And then he broke\ndown completely. He confessed how he had tried to injure Dave and his\nchums, but said he had had nothing to do with the robberies. Nick\nJasniff had wanted him to go in with the robbers, but he had declined.\n\n\"I am going to cut Jasniff after this,\" said Gus Plum, \"and I am going\nto cut Nat Poole, too. I want to make a man of myself--if I can.\"\n\nBut it was hard work. A short time after the railroad incident the two\nrobbers were caught and sent to prison, to await trial, and Plum had to\nappear as a witness for the state and tell how he had been implicated.\nIn the meantime Nick Jasniff ran away to Europe, taking several hundred\ndollars of the stolen funds with him. Dave thought he had seen the last\nof the young rascal, but in this he was mistaken, as the events which\nfollowed proved.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nA ROW IN A RESTAURANT\n\n\nThe majority of the boys had been home only for the Thanksgiving\nholidays. The exception was poor Phil Lawrence, who had been laid up for\na number of weeks as the result of a blow on the head while playing a\ngame of football. Phil said he felt as well as ever, but he was somewhat\npale and in no humor for anything in the way of roughness.\n\nAs the train stopped at one station and another along the line, it began\nto fill up with passengers, including a goodly number of Oak Hall\nstudents. At one place Sam Day and Shadow Hamilton came on board,\nfollowed by half a dozen snowballs, sent after them by boys who had come\nto see them off.\n\n\"Hi! stop that!\" cried Sam Day, as he tried to dodge, and just then a\nsnowball meant for his head took a somewhat stout man in the ear. The\nman uttered a cry of surprise, slipped on the platform of the car, and\nfell flat, crushing his valise under him. At this a shout of laughter\nrang out from the depot platform, and the lads standing there lost no\ntime in disappearing.\n\n\"You--you villains!\" roared the stout man when he could catch his\nbreath. \"I'll--I'll have you locked up!\"\n\n\"It wasn't my fault,\" answered Sam Day, trying hard to suppress the grin\non his face. \"Shall I help you up?\"\n\n\"No,\" grunted the man, and arose slowly. \"Do you know I have a dozen\nfresh eggs in that valise?\"\n\n\"Sorry, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"A dozen eggs!\" cried Shadow Hamilton. \"Well, I never! Say, that puts me\nin mind of a story. Once a man bought some eggs that weren't strictly\nfresh, and----\"\n\n\"Pah! who wants to listen to your stories?\" interrupted the stout man.\n\"You had better pay for the eggs that are smashed,\" and he entered the\ncar in anything but a pleasant humor.\n\nDave had come to the car door to greet Sam and Shadow and conduct them\nto a seat near his own. The stout man was so upset mentally that he\nbumped roughly into the youth.\n\n\"Get out of my way, will you?\" grunted the irate passenger.\n\n\"Excuse me, I didn't know you owned the whole aisle,\" said Dave, coldly.\nHe did not like the manner in which he had been addressed.\n\n\"See here, are you another one of them good-for-nothing schoolboys?\"\nbellowed the stout individual. \"If you are, I want you to understand you\ncan't run this train--not as far as I am concerned, anyhow.\"\n\nDave looked at the man for a moment in silence. \"You are very polite, I\nmust say,\" he observed. \"I haven't done anything to you, have I?\"\n\n\"No, but you young bloods are all in together. I know you! Last spring I\nwas on the train with a lot of college boys, and they tried to run\nthings to suit themselves. But we fixed 'em, we did. And we'll fix you,\ntoo, if you try to run matters here,\" and with a savage shake of his\nhead the stout man passed down the aisle and dropped heavily into the\nfirst vacant seat he reached.\n\n\"Isn't he a peach?\" murmured Sam Day to Dave. \"Meekest man I ever saw,\nand ought to have a monument for politeness.\"\n\n\"I hope all his eggs are smashed,\" said Shadow Hamilton. \"He certainly\ndeserves it.\"\n\n\"Shouldn't wonder if they are--he came down hard enough,\" answered Dave.\n\nBy good luck all the students had seats close to each other, and as the\ntrain rolled along they told of their various holiday experiences and\ndiscussed school matters.\n\n\"Just four weeks and then we'll close down for Christmas,\" said Roger.\n\n\"We ought to have lots of fun,\" said Ben. \"We can go skating and\nice-boating, and we can build a fort----\"\n\n\"And snowball Pop Swingly and Horsehair,\" interrupted Sam, mentioning\nthe janitor of Oak Hall and the driver for the institution. \"Don't\nforget them or they'll feel slighted.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with snowballing Job Haskers?\" asked Phil, mentioning\na teacher who was anything but popular with the students.\n\n\"Oh, we'll attend to him, never fear,\" answered Roger Morr.\n\n\"Has anybody heard from Plum?\" questioned Sam, during a lull in the\nconversation.\n\n\"I got a letter from him,\" answered Dave, seeing that nobody else\nreplied. \"He is afraid he is going to have a hard time of it to reform.\nI hope you fellows will treat him as well as you can.\"\n\n\"I shall,\" said the senator's son, and several nodded.\n\n\"I think I have always treated him better than he deserved,\" said Shadow\nHamilton. He could not forget what serious trouble the former bully of\nOak Hall had once caused him, when Doctor Clay's valuable collection of\npostage stamps had disappeared.\n\nIt had been snowing slightly since morning, and now the flakes began to\ncome down thicker than ever. As a consequence the engineer of the train\ncould not see the signals ahead and had to run slowly, so that when the\nJunction was gained, where the boys had to change for Oakdale, they were\nhalf an hour late.\n\n\"We've missed the connection and must remain here for just an hour and a\nquarter,\" declared Dave, after questioning the station master. \"We can't\nget to Oak Hall until after dark.\"\n\n\"I move we have something to eat,\" said Roger. \"A sandwich, a piece of\nmince-pie, and a cup of hot chocolate wouldn't go bad.\"\n\n\"Second the commotion!\" cried Ben. \"All in favor raise their left ear.\"\n\n\"Which puts me in mind of a story,\" said Shadow. \"Two men went to a\nrestaurant and ordered----\"\n\n\"Fried snakes' livers on mushrooms,\" interrupted Dave. \"You've told that\nstory before.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't, and it wasn't fried----\"\n\n\"I know what he means,\" said Phil. \"It was robins' wings salted in\nsauerkraut.\"\n\n\"It wasn't. This was an order of----\"\n\n\"Blue pumpkin rinds with mackerel sauce,\" interrupted Sam Day. \"Very\nfine dish. I ate it once, when I was dining at the White House with the\nPresident.\"\n\n\"It wasn't pumpkin rinds, or anything like it. It was a plain order\nof----\"\n\n\"Cherry roast, with minced sunflowers?\" suggested Roger. \"The girls at\nVassar dine on 'em regularly, after playing football.\"\n\n\"This was a plain everyday order of pork and beans,\" shouted Shadow,\ndesperately. \"And after the men got 'em, what do you think they did? Oh,\nthis is a good one;\" and Shadow's eyes began to sparkle.\n\n\"Found fault, I suppose, because the beans weren't from Boston,\" said\nDave.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Don't keep us waiting, Shadow. Tell the story to a finish,\" said Phil.\n\n\"Well, they got the pork and beans----\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And they sat down, facing each other----\"\n\n\"All right--fire away,\" said Sam, as the story-teller paused.\n\n\"And they began to eat----\"\n\n\"Glad to know they didn't begin to weep,\" was Roger's soft comment.\n\n\"And they ate the pork and beans all up,\" continued Shadow, soberly. And\nthen he stopped short and looked around blankly.\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Well, I never!\"\n\n\"Is that all there is to the story?\" demanded Sam.\n\n\"Certainly. You didn't expect they'd buy the beans and throw them away,\ndid you?\" asked Shadow, innocently.\n\n\"Sold that time!\" cried Dave, good-naturedly. \"Never mind; we'll let\nShadow pay for the lunch we're going to have. Come on.\"\n\n\"Not on your tintype,\" murmured the story-teller. \"Not unless you pass\naround the hat and make me treasurer.\"\n\nThey found a convenient restaurant and, pushing together two of the\ntables, sat down in a merry group. The proprietor knew some of them, and\nnodded pleasantly as he took their orders. Soon they were eating as only\nhappy and healthy schoolboys can eat.\n\n\"My, but this mince-pie is good!\" declared Roger. \"I could eat about a\nyard of it!\"\n\n\"A yard of pie is good,\" said Dave, with a smile.\n\n\"Talking about a yard of pie puts me in mind of a story,\" came from\nShadow, who was stowing away the last of a hot roast-beef sandwich.\n\n\"Hold on, we've had enough!\" cried Sam.\n\n\"If you pile on another like that last one, we'll roll you out in the\nsnow,\" was Phil's comment.\n\n\"This is a real story, really it is, and it's a good one, too.\"\n\n\"Vintage of 1864, or before Columbus landed?\" inquired Ben.\n\n\"I've never told this before. Some Yale students went into a butcher\nshop and one of 'em, to be funny, asked the butcher if he'd sell him a\nyard of mutton. 'Certainly,' says the butcher. 'Fifty cents a yard.'\n'All right,' says Mr. Student. 'I'll take two yards.' 'A dollar,\nplease,' says the butcher. 'Here you are,' says the student, and holds\nup the money. Then the butcher takes the bill, puts it in his cash\ndrawer, and hands out--six sheep feet.\"\n\n\"Very old and musty,\" was Dave's comment. \"Washington told that to Caesar\nwhen the two were planning to throw Socrates into Niagara.\" And then a\nlaugh went up all around.\n\nThe boys were just finishing their lunch when the door opened and a\nstout man walked in. He was covered with snow, and looked anything but\nhappy.\n\n\"Our friend of the smashed eggs,\" whispered Sam to Dave. \"Wonder if he\nhas cleaned out his valise yet.\"\n\nThe man sat down at a side table and ordered several things. Then he\nhappened to glance around, noticed the students for the first time, and\nscowled.\n\n\"Humph! what you fellows doing here?\" he growled.\n\n\"Haven't we a right to come here?\" demanded Dave, for the man was\nlooking straight at him.\n\n\"Shouldn't think the proprietor would want such gay larks as you here.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't think he'd want such a grunt as you here,\" retorted Sam\nDay.\n\n\"Hi! now, don't you talk to me that way!\" roared the stout man. \"I want\nyou to understand I am a gentleman, I am.\"\n\n\"See here, we can't have any quarreling in here,\" said the restaurant\nproprietor, coming forward.\n\n\"Some of them fellows knocked me down on the train and smashed a valise\nfull of eggs on me, Mr. Denman.\"\n\n\"We did nothing of the sort,\" answered Sam. \"He fell on the icy platform\nof the car and right on top of his valise.\"\n\n\"And then he got up and bumped into me,\" added Dave. \"He was very\nimpolite, to say the least.\"\n\n\"Look here!\" roared the stout man, \"I want you to understand----\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" interrupted Amos Denman, the restaurant keeper. \"Isn't\nyour name Isaac Pludding?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then you are the man who caused the trouble at Mr. Brown's restaurant\nlast week. I know you. Some time ago you were in here, and nothing\nsuited you. I don't want to serve you, and you can go elsewhere for your\nmeal.\"\n\n\"Don't want to sell me anything?\" snarled Isaac Pludding.\n\n\"Not a mouthful. And, let me add, I consider these young men gentlemen,\nand I won't have them annoyed while they are in my place.\"\n\n\"Oh, all right, have your own way,\" snarled the stout man. \"I'll take my\nmoney elsewhere, I will!\" He glared at the students. \"But I'll get\nsquare some day for this--don't forget that!\" And shaking his head very\nsavagely, he stormed out of the restaurant, banging the door after him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nOFF THE TRACK\n\n\n\"Well, if he isn't the worst yet,\" was the comment of the senator's son.\n\n\"I hope he isn't waiting for that train,\" said Shadow. \"I don't want to\nsee any more of him.\"\n\n\"Pooh! who's afraid?\" asked Phil. \"I guess we can make him keep his\ndistance.\"\n\n\"I thought I knew him when he came in, but I wasn't sure,\" said the\nrestaurant keeper. \"The man who runs the hotel, Mr. Brown, had a lot of\ntrouble with him because he wouldn't pay his bill--said it was too high.\nThen he came here once and said the meat wasn't fresh and the bread was\nstale and sour. I came close to pitching him out. Don't let him walk\nover you--if he does take your train.\"\n\n\"No danger,\" answered Dave. He had not yet forgotten the rude manner in\nwhich Isaac Pludding had shoved him.\n\nIt was soon time for the Oakdale train to arrive, and the students\nwalked back to the depot. The snow was over a foot deep and still coming\ndown steadily. The depot was crowded with folks, and among them they\ndiscovered Isaac Pludding, with his valise and a big bundle done up in\nbrown paper.\n\n\"He certainly must be waiting for the train,\" said Dave; and he was\nright. When the cars came to a stop the stout man was the first person\naboard. The students entered another car and secured seats in a bunch as\nbefore.\n\n\"By the way, where is Nat Poole?\" asked Roger, suddenly. \"I didn't see\nhim get off the other train.\"\n\n\"He got off and walked towards the hotel,\" answered Phil. \"I suppose he\nfeels rather lonesome.\"\n\n\"That can't be helped,\" said Sam. \"He makes himself so disagreeable that\nnobody wants him around.\"\n\nJust as the train was about to start a boy leaped on the platform of the\ncar our friends occupied, opened the door, and came in. It was Nat\nPoole, and he was all out of breath. He looked for a seat, but could\nfind none.\n\n\"They ought to run more cars on this train,\" he muttered, to Roger.\n\"It's a beastly shame to make a fellow stand up.\"\n\n\"Better write to the president of the railroad company about it, Nat,\"\nanswered the senator's son, dryly.\n\n\"Maybe there is a seat in the next car,\" suggested Phil.\n\nNat Poole shuffled off, looking anything but pleased. Hardly had he gone\nwhen several came in from the car ahead, also looking for seats. Among\nthem was Isaac Pludding. He had had a seat near a door, but had given it\nup to look for something better, and now he had nothing. He glanced\nbitterly at the students as he passed, then came back and leaned heavily\nagainst the seat Dave and Roger were occupying. In doing this he almost\nknocked Dave's hat from his head.\n\n\"I'll thank you to be a little more careful,\" said Dave, as he put his\nhat into place. He felt certain that Isaac Pludding had shoved against\nhim on purpose.\n\n\"Talking to me?\" growled the stout man.\n\n\"I am. I want you to stop shoving me.\"\n\n\"I've got to stand somewhere.\"\n\n\"Well, you quit shoving me, or you'll get the worst of it,\" answered\nDave, decidedly.\n\nAt that moment the car lurched around a curve and Isaac Pludding bumped\nagainst Dave harder than ever. Thoroughly angry, the youth arose and\nfaced the stout man.\n\n\"If you do that again, I'll have you put off the train,\" he said.\n\n\"That's right, Dave, don't let him walk over you,\" added Roger.\n\n\"If he doesn't know his place, teach it to him,\" was Phil's comment.\n\n\"Have me put off the train?\" cried Isaac Pludding. \"I'd like to see you\ndo it! I want you to know I am a stockholder of this line.\"\n\n\"Then it's a shame you don't provide seats for all your passengers.\"\n\n\"That's true, too,\" remarked a gentleman who was standing close by.\n\n\"I don't believe he owns more than one share of stock,\" observed Sam.\n\"And that he most likely inherited from his great-granduncle.\"\n\n\"I own five shares!\" howled Isaac Pludding. \"And I want you to know----\"\n\nWhat he wanted the boys to know they never found out, for at that moment\nthe train gave another lurch. It came so suddenly that the stout man was\ntaken completely from his feet and sent sprawling in the aisle on his\nback. A valise from a rack over a seat came tumbling down, and, not to\nget it on his head, Roger shoved it aside and it struck Isaac Pludding\nfull on the stomach, causing him to gasp.\n\n[Illustration: Roger shoved it aside and it struck Isaac Pludding full\non the stomach.--_Page 25._]\n\nThe boys uttered a shout of laughter, and many other passengers joined\nin. The floor of the car was wet from snow, and when Isaac Pludding\nscrambled up he was covered with dirt. Dave caught up the valise and\nturned it over to Sam, to whom it belonged.\n\n\"Who threw that valise on me?\" demanded the stout man, eyeing the boys\nin rage.\n\nTo this there was no answer.\n\n\"I guess you threw it,\" went on Isaac Pludding, and caught Dave by the\narm.\n\n\"Let go of me,\" said Dave, eyeing the man steadily. \"I did not throw it.\nLet go.\"\n\nIsaac Pludding wanted to argue the matter, but there was something in\nDave's manner that he did not like. He dropped his hold and drew back a\nlittle.\n\n\"Don't you dare to shove me again--not once,\" continued the youth. \"If\nyou do you'll regret it. I have stood all from you that I am going to\nstand.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're no good,\" muttered the stout man, lamely, and passed on to\nthe end of the car.\n\nThe train was coming to a halt at a place called Raytown. They were now\nbut eight miles from Oakdale, and the students began to wonder if\nanybody would be at that station to meet them.\n\n\"If Horsehair comes down with the carryall, he'll have all he can do to\nget through the snow,\" said Dave.\n\n\"Perhaps he'll come down with four horses,\" suggested Roger.\n\n\"One thing is certain, Doctor Clay will see to it that we get to Oak\nHall somehow,\" said Ben.\n\n\"What a rickety old railroad this side line is!\" declared Phil, as the\ncar gave several lurches. \"It's a wonder they don't fix the track.\"\n\n\"Not enough traffic to make it pay, I fancy,\" answered Dave. \"They carry\nmore milk and cattle than they do passengers.\"\n\nIt was growing dark and still snowing briskly. The car was cold, and\nmore than one passenger had to stamp his feet to keep them warm. On they\nplunged, through the snow, until of a sudden there came a lurch and a\njerk and then a series of bumps that caused everybody to jump up in\nalarm. Then the train came to a stop.\n\n\"What's the matter now?\"\n\n\"I think we must be off the track.\"\n\n\"It's a wonder the train didn't go over.\"\n\n\"It couldn't go over, for we are down in a cut.\"\n\nAs one end of the car was up and the other down, the boys knew something\nserious was the matter. Taking up their hand baggage, they followed some\nof the passengers outside and jumped down in the snow.\n\nIt did not take long to learn the truth of the situation. A turnout on\nthe track had become clogged with ice, and the locomotive and two cars\nhad jumped the track and bumped along the ties for a distance of two\nhundred feet. Nobody had been hurt, and even the train was not seriously\ndamaged, although one pair of car-trucks would have to be repaired.\n\n\"I don't believe they can get the cars and the locomotive back on the\ntrack right away,\" said Dave. \"They'll have to have the wrecking train\nand crew down here.\"\n\nWhen appealed to, the conductor said he did not know how soon they would\nbe able to move again. Probably not in three or four hours, and maybe\nnot until the next morning.\n\n\"I'll have to walk back to Raytown and telegraph to headquarters,\" he\nexplained.\n\n\"We are in a pickle, and no mistake,\" was Roger's comment. \"I must say I\ndon't feel like staying on the train all night--it's too cold and\nuncomfortable.\"\n\nIn the group of passengers was Isaac Pludding, storming angrily at\neverything and everybody.\n\n\"It's an outrage!\" he declared, to a bystander. \"I must get to Oakdale\nby seven o'clock. I've got a business deal for some cattle I must close.\nIf I don't get there, somebody else may buy the cattle.\"\n\n\"I hope he gets left,\" said Phil, softly.\n\n\"So do I,\" returned Dave.\n\n\"If we could only hire a big sleigh and some horses, we might drive to\nOakdale,\" suggested Ben.\n\n\"Hurrah, that's the talk!\" cried Dave. \"There must be some farmhouse\nnear here.\"\n\n\"Say, if you can get a sleigh, I'll pay my share, if you'll take me\nalong,\" put in Nat Poole, eagerly. He hated to think of being left\nbehind.\n\n\"All right, Nat, I'm willing,\" said Dave, generously.\n\n\"We've got to find the sleigh first,\" added the senator's son.\n\n\"And see if we can get horses enough to pull it,\" said Ben. \"Some\nfarmers won't let their horses out in such a storm as this--and you\ncan't blame 'em much, either.\"\n\n\"If we can't get a sleigh, perhaps we can stay at some farmhouse all\nnight,\" suggested Sam.\n\nAll of the party climbed through the snow to the top of the railroad cut\nand then looked around for some buildings.\n\n\"I see a light!\" cried Phil, and pointed it out, between some bare\ntrees.\n\n\"It's a house; come on,\" replied Dave, and set off without delay, the\nothers following. \"Who knows but that somebody else may want to ride,\nand if so, we want to be first to get a sleigh.\"\n\nIt was rather a toilsome journey to the farmhouse. Between them and the\nplace were a barn and a cow-shed, and just as they passed the former\nthere arose a fierce barking, and three big black dogs came bounding\ntoward the students.\n\n\"Look out! The dogs will chew us up!\" yelled Nat Poole, in terror, and\nstarted to retreat.\n\n\"Down!\" called out Dave, who was still in advance. \"Down, I say!\nCharge!\" But instead of obeying, the big dogs continued to approach\nuntil they were within a dozen feet of the students. Then they lined up,\ngrowled fiercely, and showed their teeth.\n\n\"Let us get into the barn,\" suggested Roger, and flung open a door that\nwas handy. Into the building they went pell-mell, Dave being the last to\nenter. One dog made a dart at the youth's leg, but Dave gave him a kick\nthat sent him back. Then the door was slammed shut and latched, and the\nstudents found themselves in utter darkness.\n\n\"Wonder if they can get in any other way?\" asked Phil, after a second of\nsilence, during which they heard the dogs barking outside.\n\n\"I doubt if any of the doors are open in this storm,\" answered Shadow.\n\n\"Let us get up in--in the loft!\" suggested Nat Poole. He was as white as\nthe snow outside and his teeth were chattering from something else\nbesides the cold.\n\n\"That's a good idea,\" said Dave. \"But we must have a light to learn\nwhere the loft is. Anybody got a match?\"\n\nNobody had such an article, and a groan went up. Nat Poole was appealed\nto, for the others knew he had been smoking on the train.\n\n\"My matchbox is empty,\" said he. \"I am going to hunt for the loft ladder\nin the dark.\"\n\n\"Be careful, or you may run into some troublesome horse,\" cautioned\nDave.\n\nThe boys moved slowly around in the dark. They could hear the sounds of\nseveral horses feeding and the barking of the dogs. Then, quite\nunexpectedly, came the cracking of a board, a yell of alarm from Nat\nPoole, and a loud splash.\n\n\"Help! I am drowning! Save me!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nWHAT HAPPENED AT THE BARN\n\n\n\"Nat has fallen into the water!\"\n\n\"Where is he? I can't see a thing.\"\n\n\"He must have gone down in some cistern.\"\n\nThese and other cries rang out, and all of the boys of Oak Hall were\nfilled with consternation. Dave had located the splash fairly well, and\nas quickly as he could he felt his way in that direction.\n\n\"Nat, where are you?\" he called out.\n\n\"Here, down in a cistern! Help me out, or I'll be frozen to death.\"\n\nDave now reached the edge of the cistern. Two of the boards which had\ncovered it had broken, letting Nat down quite unexpectedly. Fortunately\nthere was only three feet of water in the cistern, so there was no fear\nof drowning. But the water was icy and far from agreeable.\n\nAs Dave leaned down to give Poole his hand, the door of the barn was\nflung open and a farmer strode in, a lantern in one hand and a stout\nstick in the other. The man held the light over his head and looked\naround suspiciously.\n\n\"Wot yeou fellers doin' here?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Come here with the light--one of our party has fallen into the\ncistern!\" cried Dave.\n\n\"Into the cistern, eh? Mebbe it serves him right. Ain't got no business\nin my barn,\" answered the farmer, as he came closer.\n\n\"We ran in because your dogs came after us,\" explained Roger.\n\n\"An' where did yeou come from? Ye don't belong around here, I know.\"\n\n\"We came from the train--it's off the track,\" said Dave. \"But help us\nget this boy out first and then we'll explain.\"\n\n\"Train off the track? Well, I snum!\" cried the farmer. Then he set down\nthe lantern and aided in bringing Nat Poole to the flooring of the barn.\n\"Putty cold, I'll bet a quart o' shellbarks,\" he added, grinning at the\nlad's wet and shivering figure.\n\n\"Can't we get him into the house by the fire?\" asked Ben. \"We'll pay you\nfor your trouble.\"\n\nNow if there was one thing Shadrach Mellick loved, it was money, and at\nthe mention of pay he was all attention. He asked a few questions, and\nthen led the way out of the barn and towards his house. The dogs wanted\nto follow, but he drove them back.\n\n\"Their bark is worse nor their bite,\" he explained. \"They wouldn't hurt\nyeou very much.\" Then he asked about the train, and the students gave\nhim the particulars of the mishap. In the meantime Mrs. Mellick bustled\naround and got Nat Poole some dry clothing and allowed him to change his\ngarments in a side room that chanced to be warm.\n\nThe boys soon learned that Shadrach Mellick owned a sleigh large enough\nto accommodate the entire party, and also four good, strong horses. For\nten dollars he agreed to take them to Oak Hall, stopping at Oakdale on\nthe way, to see if the school sleigh was waiting for them.\n\n\"The sooner we start the better,\" said Dave. And then he added in a\nwhisper to Roger and Phil: \"If we don't, some other passengers from the\ntrain may come up here and offer him more money for his turnout.\"\n\n\"Let us pay him part and bind the bargain,\" suggested the senator's son.\n\n\"I'll do it,\" answered Dave, and gave Shadrach Mellick two dollars.\n\n\"Good enough--thet binds the bargain,\" said the close-fisted farmer.\n\nNat Poole was a sight to behold in a well-worn suit several sizes too\nbig for him, and the boys could not help but laugh when he made his\nappearance.\n\n\"That's a real swagger suit, Nat!\" cried Sam Day. \"Won't you give me\nthe address of your tailor?\"\n\n\"Nat can't do that,\" added Ben. \"He wants the artist all to himself.\"\n\n\"Which puts me in mind of a story,\" broke in Shadow Hamilton. \"A\ncountryman went into a clothing store to buy a suit and----\"\n\n\"Wow!\" came from several of the students in a chorus.\n\n\"That story is a hundred and fifty years old.\"\n\n\"It's full of moth-holes, Shadow.\"\n\n\"It isn't--I've only told it about----\"\n\n\"Two hundred and eleven times,\" finished Dave. \"Shadow, you really must\nget a new joke-book to read.\"\n\n\"Never mind my clothing,\" grumbled Nat Poole. \"I couldn't help it that I\nfell in the cistern. The farmer had no right to cover it with rotten\nboards.\"\n\n\"Yeou had no right to be in the barn,\" answered Shadrach Mellick, with a\ngrin. \"Howsomever, we'll let it pass. I'm satisfied ef yeou air.\"\n\nThe sleigh was soon ready, and the students bundled in, making\nthemselves as comfortable as possible. Nat Poole's wet clothing was\nplaced in a sack and tied on behind. Then the farmer mounted to the\nfront seat.\n\n\"All ready?\" he queried.\n\n\"All ready--let her go!\" sang out several of the lads.\n\nAt that moment the dogs began to set up another bark, and then came a\ncall from the darkness.\n\n\"Hi, there, wait a minute!\"\n\n\"Who is that?\" questioned Dave. \"Hullo, if it isn't the stout man!\"\n\nIt was Isaac Pludding, true enough. He had been walking rapidly and was\nnearly out of wind.\n\n\"Whe--where are you going?\" he panted, to the farmer.\n\n\"Goin' to take these chaps to Oakdale.\"\n\n\"That is where I want to go.\" Isaac Pludding glared at the students. \"I\ndon't like to ride with those boys, but I suppose I can stand it. Got\nroom for another passenger? I suppose they told you how the train broke\ndown.\"\n\n\"They did,\" answered Shadrach Mellick. \"Reckon I can carry one more,\" he\nadded. \"But yeou'll have to pay me. These boys are paying me ten dollars\nfor the trip.\"\n\n\"How much do you want?\" demanded Isaac Pludding.\n\n\"About a dollar, I guess.\"\n\n\"It's enough, but I'll go you,\" answered the stout man, and prepared to\nclimb into the big sleigh.\n\nAs soon as Isaac Pludding appeared, Dave held a whispered conversation\nwith Roger and some of the others. Now he turned to Shadrach Mellick.\n\n\"Excuse me, Mr. Mellick, but we don't propose to take another\npassenger,\" he said, decidedly. \"At least, not this man.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No, sir. We hired this sleigh for ourselves alone.\"\n\n\"And paid part of the money to bind the bargain,\" added Phil.\n\n\"What! do you mean to say I can't ride if I want to?\" cried the stout\nman, as unreasonable as he had been on the train.\n\n\"You can't ride with us,\" said Roger.\n\n\"What do you say?\" asked Isaac Pludding of the farmer.\n\nShadrach Mellick scratched his head.\n\n\"A bargain is a bargain, Mr. Mellick,\" said Dave, hastily. \"We hired\nthis sleigh, and that is all there is to it.\"\n\n\"That is true, but--er----\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you rather earn ten dollars than one or two?\" asked Ben. \"If\nthat man is to ride we won't.\"\n\n\"So say we all of us!\" came from a number of the others.\n\n\"Then I can't take yeou,\" said the farmer to Isaac Pludding. \"These\nyoung fellers come fust.\"\n\n\"It's an outrage!\" cried the stout man. \"I'll--I'll have the law on you\nfor it.\"\n\n\"Guess yeou air a fool,\" muttered Shadrach Mellick, in disgust. \"Git\nalang there, ye lazy critters!\" And with a crack of his whip he sent the\ndouble team on their way, leaving Isaac Pludding standing by the\ngateway, shaking his fist at the vanishing students.\n\n\"He is mad now, if he never was before,\" observed Phil.\n\n\"I wonder if we'll see any more of him,\" said Ben.\n\n\"I don't want to see him again,\" answered Dave.\n\nThe wagon-road to Oakdale did not run near the railroad, so they saw\nnothing of the train passengers as they moved along. Luckily the\nsnowstorm was letting up, so the ride was not as disagreeable as they\nhad anticipated. In spite of the delay the boys were in excellent\nspirits, the single exception being Nat Poole, who sat huddled in a seat\ncorner, saying nothing. The boys sang songs, told funny stories, and\n\"cut up\" generally, and thus, almost before they knew it, they drew up\nalongside of the railroad station at Oakdale.\n\nThere was no turnout there to meet them, and from the station master\nthey learned that Jackson Lamond, the Hall driver, had been down with\nthe carryall, but had gone back when he had learned that the train had\nbroken down and would not arrive until morning.\n\n\"Well, it doesn't matter,\" said Dave. \"We've hired our driver to take us\nto the Hall, anyway.\"\n\n\"All hands off for a hot soda!\" cried Phil, as they rounded the\ndrug-store corner, and the sleigh was stopped and they rushed in to get\nthe refreshment. They treated Shadrach Mellick to two glasses, which put\nthe old farmer in fairly good humor.\n\n\"I don't blame ye for not wanting thet man,\" said he, after he had heard\ntheir story about Isaac Pludding. \"Guess he's about as mean as they make\n'em.\"\n\n\"He said he had some cattle deal on in Oakdale,\" said Dave. \"Perhaps you\nknow something about that?\"\n\n\"Oh, mebbe I do. There's a city consarn buying cattle up here,\nnow--started last fall. They're tryin' to do old Joe Parker out o' his\nbus'ness. Mebbe this fat feller is the city company's agent. If he is,\nold Joe Parker won't want him up here.\"\n\n\"Where does Joe Parker live?\" asked Dave, with interest.\n\n\"We'll pass his house in a minit. There it is--over yonder, by the\nwiller trees.\"\n\n\"Let me off a minute at that place,\" went on Dave.\n\n\"That's the talk!\" cried Roger, catching Dave's idea. \"We'll put a\nspoke in Pludding's wheel--if he is the rival cattle dealer.\"\n\nArriving at the Parker cottage, Dave and Roger leaped down in the snow\nand knocked on the door. A heavy-set and rather pleasant-looking man\nanswered their summons.\n\n\"Is this Mr. Joseph Parker?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"That's my handle, lad. What can I do for you? Will you come in?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Parker--I haven't time. I wanted to ask you, do you know a Mr.\nIsaac Pludding?\"\n\nAt this question the brow of Joe Parker darkened.\n\n\"I certainly do.\"\n\n\"He is working for some opposition in the cattle line, isn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, and trying his best to do me out of my little income,\" was the\ngrumbled-out answer.\n\n\"Well, I thought I might do you a favor,\" went on Dave, and then told of\nhis meeting with the cattle agent, and of how Pludding was trying to\nreach Oakdale without delay.\n\n\"Is that possible!\" cried Joseph Parker. \"If it is, I'll have to get a\nhustle on me, I'm thinking. I told Farrington I'd let him know about\nthose cattle to-day or to-morrow. I'll go right over and close the deal\nnow--before Pludding gets here. It's Farrington's cattle he is after. I\nam very much obliged to you.\"\n\n\"You are welcome,\" said Dave.\n\n\"I only hope you get the better of the fat man,\" added the senator's\nson; and then he and Dave went back to the sleigh, and the journey to\nOak Hall was resumed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nBACK TO OAK HALL\n\n\nAs my old readers know, Oak Hall was an up-to-date structure built of\nbrick and stone. Its shape was that of a broad cross, with its front\nfacing the south. On that side, and to the east and west, were the\nclassrooms, while the dining-hall and kitchen and laundry were on the\nnorth. Around the school was a broad campus, running down to the Leming\nRiver in the rear. Great clumps of oaks were scattered around, giving to\nthe institution its name.\n\n\"Hurrah! I see the school!\" cried Sam Day, who sat in front with the\nsleigh driver.\n\n\"So do I!\" cried Roger.\n\n\"Boys, let's give them a song when we drive up!\" suggested Dave. \"It\nwill prove that we are not quite frozen to death.\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" responded Shadow Hamilton. \"Now then, all together!\"\nAnd he started up the school song, sung to the tune of \"Auld Lang\nSyne\":\n\n \"Oak Hall we never shall forget,\n No matter where we roam,\n It is the very best of schools,\n To us it's just like home.\n Then give three cheers, and let them ring\n Throughout this world so wide,\n To let the people know that we\n Elect to here abide!\"\n\nThis was sung with great gusto and immediately following came the\nwell-known Hall rally:\n\n \"Baseball!\n Football!\n Oak Hall!\n Has the call!\n Biff! Boom! Bang! Whoop!\"\n\n\"That's the way to do it!\" sang out Dave, and then, as the sleigh drew\nup to the front door of the academy, he started some doggerel also sung\nto the tune of \"Auld Lang Syne\" and just then becoming popular:\n\n \"We're here because we're here because\n We're here because we're here!\n We're here because we're here because\n We're here because we're here!\n We're here because we're here because\n We're here because we're here!\n We're here because we're here because--\n _We're nowhere else just now!_\"\n\nThe boys sang as loudly as they could, and kept it up until the front\ndoor of the Hall opened and Job Haskers appeared, attired in a\ndressing-gown and wearing slippers.\n\n\"Here! here! stop that racket!\" cried the teacher who could never see\nany fun in anything. \"Do you want to awaken the entire Hall?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Mr. Haskers; we only thought we'd let you know that we had\narrived,\" answered Dave, sweetly.\n\n\"Well, there's no need to act like a lot of hoodlums,\" growled Job\nHaskers. \"I thought you were all storm-bound at Raytown,\" he went on.\n\"Lamond brought in word that the train had broken down.\"\n\n\"It did break down, but we hired this sleigh to bring us over,\" answered\nRoger. \"We said the man could put up here over-night and go back in the\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Ahem! I don't know about that. We are not in the habit----\" began the\nteacher, when somebody caught him by the arm and came to the front. It\nwas Doctor Clay, also in a dressing-gown, and smiling broadly.\n\n\"How do you do, boys?\" he said, cheerily. \"Glad to see you! So you\nthought you couldn't stay away, even if the train did break down? I\nrather suspected some of you would try to get a sleigh over. Come right\nin. You must be rather cold--or did the singing keep you warm?\"\n\n\"How do you do, Doctor Clay?\" was the answering cry, and all of the boys\nbounced out of the turnout, ran up the steps, and shook hands. Job\nHaskers was \"left in the cold,\" so to speak, and stood in the background\nin disgust. He thought it was \"bad discipline\" to treat the scholars too\ngood-naturedly. \"Hold them down with a rod of iron,\" was his motto, and\nthe boys knew it only too well.\n\nMatters were speedily explained to the master of the school, and he\ndirected Job Haskers to call Lamond and have the horses and the sleigh\ntaken care of, and then told Shadrach Mellick to come in and he would be\ngiven a room for the night and his breakfast in the morning. The farmer\nwas paid off and was well pleased over the treatment received.\n\n\"You appear to be the only one who has suffered,\" said Doctor Clay to\nNat Poole. \"But a good night's sleep will probably fix you up, and the\nhousekeeper can look after your clothing.\"\n\n\"I have plenty of other clothing in my trunk,\" answered Poole, and then\nwent off to the dormitory he occupied with Gus Plum and a number of\nothers.\n\nDave and his chums occupied Dormitories Nos. 11 and 12, and there they\nfound several of the other students awaiting them, including Luke\nWatson, who was noted as a singer and banjo-player, Bertram Vane, always\ncalled \"Polly,\" because his manner was so girlish, and little Chip\nMacklin, who had been the school sneak but who had now turned over a new\nleaf.\n\n\"It does my heart good to set eyes on you fellows again!\" cried Luke\nWatson. \"If it wasn't so late I'd get out my banjo and sing a song in\nyour honor.\"\n\n\"Yes, and have old Haskers up here, giving us extra work for to-morrow,\"\nanswered Ben. \"No, thank you, Luke, not so early in the season, please.\"\n\n\"Delighted to see you all,\" lisped Polly Vane. \"I trust you all had a\nreal nice time.\"\n\n\"I certainly did,\" answered Dave. \"How about you, Polly? Did they invite\nyou to any molasses-pulls or pink teas?\"\n\n\"Oh, I had a glorious time, Dave. My two cousins visited us--splendid\ngirls--and they had some other girls come in, and we----\"\n\n\"All played blindman's-buff and hunt-the-slipper,\" finished Sam. \"Wasn't\nthat too delicious for anything!\" and he said this in such a feminine\ntone that everybody but Polly laughed. The girlish student looked a bit\ndoubtful, but was not offended.\n\nThe cold ride had made the boys sleepy, and all were glad to undress and\ngo to bed. Dave was tired out, having put in an extra-long day, and the\nmoment his head touched the pillow he sailed off into the land of dreams\nand did not awaken until the morning bell was clanging in his ears.\n\nThe storm had passed away, and outside it was as clear as crystal. The\nsun shone brightly, and this helped to put all the boys in good humor,\nfor a gray day at Oak Hall was not to their liking. All were soon\ndressed, and Dave, Roger, and Phil started to go below together.\n\nIn the upper corridor they came face to face with Gus Plum, the former\nbully. Plum looked rather pale and thin and his eyes were somewhat\nsunken. That the exposure of his wrongdoings had caused him much worry\nthere could be no doubt.\n\n\"How do you do, Gus?\" said Dave kindly, and stepping closer he shook a\nhand that was almost as cold as ice. Phil and Roger merely nodded.\n\n\"Oh, I'm pretty well,\" answered Gus Plum. \"How are you?\"\n\n\"First-rate--that is, I would be if I could only get some word from my\nfather and sister.\"\n\n\"It's too bad that you don't get some kind of message.\" Plum lowered his\nvoice. \"I'd like to see you alone this noon or to-night. I--er--want to\ntalk something over with you,\" he whispered.\n\n\"All right, Gus--I'll try to see you this noon,\" replied Dave, in a low\ntone; and then all the students passed down to the dining-hall.\n\n\"Plum has certainly got something on his mind,\" was Roger's comment.\n\n\"Well, that exposure was a terrible thing for him,\" returned Phil. \"Of\ncourse what he did wasn't as bad as what was done by Nick Jasniff and\nthose two robbers, but it was bad enough. I'd hate to have such a black\nmark against my name.\"\n\nThe Thanksgiving holidays had been rather short, and those pupils who\nlived a long distance from Oak Hall had remained at that institution;\nconsequently the routine of studies was taken up that day without much\ntrouble. Fortunately Dave was now placed under Andrew Dale, the first\nassistant, a teacher loved by all the scholars.\n\n\"I know I shall learn faster than ever,\" said Dave to Roger. \"Mr. Dale\nknows just how to bring out all there is in a fellow.\"\n\n\"I wish the doctor would get rid of old Haskers,\" returned the senator's\nson. \"I simply can't bear him.\"\n\n\"Haskers is under contract, so I've been told, Roger. Maybe he'll be\ndropped when the contract runs out.\"\n\nJust before the bell rang for the morning session Shadrach Mellick drove\noff in his big sleigh. The schoolboys gave him a parting salute of\nsnowballs which the farmer tried in vain to duck.\n\n\"Hi, yeou!\" he roared. \"Want to knock the top of my head off? Stop it!\"\nAnd then, to escape his tormentors, he whipped up his horses and dashed\nout of the Hall grounds at top speed. It was the last the boys saw of\nhim for a long time.\n\nIt was not until after the day's sessions were over that Dave got a\nchance to see Gus Plum alone. The two met in the upper hallway and\nwalked to the dormitory the former bully occupied, and Plum locked the\ndoor.\n\n\"Sit down, Dave, I want to talk to you,\" said Plum, and motioned Dave to\nthe easiest chair the dormitory contained. Then he sank on the edge of a\nbed close by.\n\n\"All right, Gus, fire away,\" answered Dave, and he wondered what was\ncoming next.\n\n\"I--er--I don't know how to say it--how to begin,\" stammered the former\nbully, and his face showed a trace of red in it. \"But I've made up my\nmind to speak to you, and ask your advice. You saved me from a terrible\ndisgrace, Dave, and I know you'll tell me the best thing to do.\"\n\n\"What about?\"\n\n\"Well--about everything. First of all, about staying here. At first I\nthought I could do it--that I could face the crowd and live it down. But\nnow--the way some of the boys treat me--and look at me--and the remarks\nmade behind my back! Oh, Dave, it's terrible,--you can't imagine how\nhard it is!\" And there was a quiver in Gus Plum's voice that meant a\ngreat deal.\n\n\"I am sorry to hear of this, Gus. But you must live it down, there is\nnothing else to do.\"\n\n\"I can go away--my folks are ready to send me to another school.\"\n\n\"Don't do it--stay here and fight it out. I know how you feel--I felt\nthat way when they called me 'a poorhouse nobody.'\"\n\n\"Oh, Dave, I did that! I am so sorry now!\"\n\n\"You are bound to win in the end--if you do what is fair and honest. So\nlong as Doctor Clay is willing to keep you, you'd better stay by all\nmeans.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know, but--but--there is something else.\" Plum dropped his\nhands in his face. \"I don't know how I am going to tell you, but I want\nto tell somebody. It's been on my mind ever since it happened.\" And\nthen, to Dave's amazement, Gus Plum threw himself across the bed and\nbegan to sob violently.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nGUS PLUM'S CONFESSION\n\n\nThat the former bully of Oak Hall was thoroughly broken-down there could\nbe no doubt, and Dave pitied him from the bottom of his heart. He\nwondered what Gus Plum would have to say next, and resolved to aid the\nlad as much as lay in his power.\n\n\"Come, Gus, you had better tell me your whole story,\" he said, kindly,\nand sitting on the bed he took one of the lad's hands in his own.\n\n\"Well, you know how I promised Doctor Clay I'd turn over a new leaf, and\nall that,\" began Plum. \"I haven't done it.\"\n\n\"Oh, Gus!\"\n\n\"I wanted to--but the force of circumstances, and my own weakness,\nwouldn't let me. Do you remember how I told you about my financial\naffairs--losing money on that football game and all that? Well, I\nlearned that I was deeper in debt than I thought I was. I paid what\ndebts I could and then found out that I still owed two men in Oakdale\nforty dollars. I didn't dare to write home for money, for after that\nexposure my father said he would only allow me five dollars a month\nspending money and not a cent more, for the next year. I met one of the\nmen in Oakdale the day before Thanksgiving--after you were away--and\nhe--oh, how can I tell it!--he got me to go to that tavern with him and\ngamble again, in the hope of winning the money I needed.\"\n\n\"And you gambled, Gus? That was too bad.\"\n\n\"At first I played cards for small amounts, but then the men\ntreated--they insisted upon my drinking--and then we made the stakes\nlarger, and when I came away, instead of winning back the forty dollars,\nI found myself owing them eighty-five dollars. And now they say if I do\nnot pay up at once they'll expose me to the doctor and my folks.\" Gus\nPlum heaved a deep sigh. \"Oh, I wish I was dead!\" he sobbed.\n\n\"Gus, I thought you were going to give up gambling and drinking?\"\n\n\"I was, but those men persuaded me before I was aware. If I ever get out\nof this you'll never catch me doing it again--never, as long as I live!\"\n\n\"You say you owe them eighty-five dollars?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Do you owe any more than that?\"\n\n\"They say I owe the tavern keeper two dollars. But I don't think so. I\ndidn't order anything.\"\n\n\"Have you any money at all?\"\n\n\"Three dollars and a half.\"\n\n\"Come to my room.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Never mind, come along--before any of the others come up.\"\n\nWondering what Dave had in mind to do, the former bully of Oak Hall\nfollowed Dave to Dormitory No. 12. Here Dave went straight to his trunk,\nbrought out a long flat pocketbook, and began to open it.\n\n\"Why, Dave, you don't mean to----\" began Gus Plum, his eyes opening\nwidely.\n\n\"Gus, I am going to lend you the money, but only under one condition,\"\nsaid Dave.\n\n\"Do you mean to say you have that much on hand?\" demanded Plum.\n\n\"Yes, I have exactly a hundred dollars in this pocketbook. It is a\nspecial sum that my uncle advised me to keep for emergencies. He says he\nmay go away some time and I may need money before he can send it to me.\nIt has nothing to do with my regular allowance. I will loan you the\neighty-five dollars on one condition--no, on two conditions.\"\n\n\"What are they?\"\n\n\"The first is, that you give me your word to cut out all drinking and\nall gambling from now on.\"\n\n\"I'll do that readily, Dave.\"\n\n\"And the second is, that you remain at Oak Hall and fight your way\nthrough in spite of what some of the fellows say. Show one and all that\nyou want to make a man of yourself, and sooner or later they will\nrespect you.\"\n\n\"It will be a terribly hard thing to do.\"\n\n\"Never mind, Gus, I will help you all I can, and I am sure some of the\nothers will help you, too.\"\n\nFor a full minute Gus Plum was silent, looking out of the long window at\nthe gathering darkness of the short winter day. Then he turned again to\nDave.\n\n\"All right, I'll take you up and stay, and I'll do my level best to\ndeserve your kindness, Dave,\" he said, in a husky voice.\n\n\"Good! Now here is the money, in five-dollar bills. If you don't mind,\nI'll go along when you pay those fellows. I want to see that you get a\nreceipt in full from them. As you say you owe them the money, we'll let\nit go at that, although it's more than likely they cheated you.\"\n\n\"Maybe they did, but I can't prove it.\"\n\nWith added thanks, Gus Plum took the eighty-five dollars and placed it\ncarefully away in an inner pocket.\n\n\"I'll write the men a note to meet me Saturday afternoon,\" said he.\n\"Will that suit you?\"\n\n\"Yes, but don't meet them at the tavern. The depot will be better.\"\n\n\"Very well, I'll make it the depot,\" answered the former bully. He was\nvery humble, and once more Dave had great hopes of his keeping his\npromises.\n\nSome of the other students were now coming up, and Dave brought out some\nbooks he had brought along from home, including a fine illustrated work\non polar exploration which Jessie Wadsworth had presented to him. She\nhad written his name and her own on the flyleaf, and of this inscription\nDave thought a great deal.\n\n\"I've read a part of it already,\" he said to Gus Plum. \"It's very\ninteresting. Some day I'll let you read it, if you wish.\"\n\n\"Thanks, perhaps I will, Dave,\" said the former bully, and then with a\nmeaning look at Dave he retired. He knew Dave had brought out the book\nmerely in order that the other lads would not ask embarrassing\nquestions.\n\n\"That is a great book,\" said Roger, looking it over. \"Say, it must be\nfine to travel in the land of perpetual snow.\"\n\n\"Providing you can keep warm,\" added Phil.\n\n\"Talking about keeping warm, puts me in mind of a story,\" began Shadow\nHamilton. \"Now, if you'll listen I'll tell it, otherwise I won't.\"\n\n\"How much to listen?\" asked Luke Watson, meekly.\n\n\"Nothing--this is free, gratis, for nothing.\"\n\n\"I mean, what are you going to pay us for listening, Shadow?\"\n\n\"Oh, you go to Jericho!\" growled the story-teller of the school. \"Well,\nthis is about two men who hired a room in a hotel. It was in the\nsummer-time and the room was very hot. They opened the window on the\ncourt, but it didn't let in enough air. In the middle of the night one\nof the men got up in the dark. 'What you doing?' asked the other man.\n'Looking for another window to open,' says the man who was up. Pretty\nsoon he touched a glass and found what he thought was a window opening\nsideways. 'There, that's fine!' he said. 'It's pretty breezy--guess I'll\npull up the cover a little,' said the other man, and then both slept\nwell until morning. When they got up they found that the one fellow had\nopened the door to an old bookcase in a corner.\"\n\n\"Very breezy story,\" was Roger's comment.\n\n\"Quite a refined air about it,\" remarked Ben.\n\n\"How did opening the bookcase make the room cooler?\" demanded Dave,\ninnocently.\n\n\"Why, it didn't. The man thought----\"\n\n\"But you said he was cooler. He even pulled up the cover on the bed!\"\n\n\"Certainly. He got the impression----\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"The man. He thought----\"\n\n\"How could he think if he was asleep, Shadow?\"\n\n\"I didn't say he thought in his sleep. I said----\"\n\n\"Well, he went to bed anyhow, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Of course. But when he opened the bookcase door----\"\n\n\"Oh, I see, it was a refrigerator in disguise. Why didn't you tell us\nthat before,--how the block of ice fell out on the man's left front toe\nand injured his spine so he couldn't sing any more?\" finished Dave, and\nthen a laugh arose, in the midst of which Shadow made a playful pass as\nif to box Dave's ear.\n\n\"The next time I have a good story like that to tell I'll keep it to\nmyself,\" he grumbled.\n\nTo change the subject, some of the boys asked Luke Watson to give them a\nsong. Luke was willing, and getting out his banjo, tuned up, and soon\nstarted a ditty about \"A Who Lived in the Moon,\" or something of\nthat sort. Then he began a breakdown, and, unable to resist, Sam Day got\nup and began to dance a step he had learned from his father's coachman\nat home.\n\n\"Good for you, Sam!\" cried Dave. \"That's fine!\"\n\n\"Sam, you ought to join the minstrels,\" added Roger, and began to keep\ntime with his hands, \"patting juba\" as it is termed down South.\n\nNot to be outdone by Sam, Ben joined in the dance, and several lads\nbegan to \"pat juba\" as loudly as possible. Growing very enthusiastic,\nBen leaped over a bed and back. Then Shadow Hamilton caught up a chair\nand began to gallop around, horseback fashion. The chair caught in a\nstand, and over it went, carrying a lot of books and poor Polly Vane\nwith it.\n\n\"Gracious, this won't do,\" murmured Dave, as he set to work to pick up\nthe books. \"Hi, stop that racket, Shadow!\" he called out. \"Do you want\nto get us all into trouble?\"\n\n\"Can't stop, I'm on the race-track!\" yelled Shadow. \"This is the last\nquarter. Bet I win!\" and around the dormitory he spun again. This time\nhe knocked over little Chip Macklin, sending him sprawling.\n\n\"Say, let up!\" called out Roger, and catching up one of the books he\ntook aim at Shadow. \"If you don't stop I'll throw this at your head.\"\n\n\"Can't stop--let her go--if you dare!\" called back Shadow.\n\nHardly had he spoken when the senator's son let the volume drive. As he\ndid so the dormitory door opened and Job Haskers appeared. The book\nmissed Shadow, who dodged, and struck the door, sending that barrier up\nagainst the teacher's nose so sharply that Job Haskers uttered a shrill\ncry of mingled pain and alarm.\n\n[Illustration: \"Can't stop, I'm on the race-track!\" yelled Shadow. _Page\n58._]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nHOW JOB HASKERS WENT SLEIGH-RIDING\n\n\nOn the instant the noise in Dormitory No. 12 came to an end. Shadow\nHamilton dropped the chair and sat upon it and Luke Watson swung his\nbanjo out of sight under a bedspread. Dave remained on one knee, picking\nup the books that had been scattered.\n\n\"You--you young rascals!\" spluttered Job Haskers, when he could speak.\n\"How dare you throw books at me?\"\n\nHe glared around at the students, then strode into the dormitory and\ncaught Dave by the shoulder.\n\n\"I say how dare you throw books at me?\" he went on.\n\n\"I haven't thrown any books, Mr. Haskers,\" answered Dave, calmly.\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"I threw that book, Mr. Haskers,\" said Roger, promptly. \"But I didn't\nthrow it at you.\"\n\n\"Ahem! So it was you, Master Morr! Nice proceedings, I must say. Instead\nof going to bed you all cut up like wild Indians. This must be stopped.\nEvery student in this room will report to me to-morrow after school. I\nwill take down your names.\" The teacher drew out a notebook and began to\nwrite rapidly. \"Who knocked over that stand?\"\n\n\"I did,\" answered Shadow. \"It was an--er--an accident.\"\n\n\"Who was making that awful noise dancing?\"\n\n\"I was dancing,\" answered Sam. \"But I don't think I made much noise.\"\n\n\"It is outrageous, this noise up here, and it must be stopped once and\nfor all. Now go to bed, all of you, and not another sound, remember!\"\nAnd with this warning, Job Haskers withdrew from the room, closing the\ndoor sharply after him.\n\n\"Now we are in a mess!\" muttered Roger.\n\n\"Isn't it--er--dreadful!\" lisped Polly Vane, who had taken no part in\nthe proceedings, but had been looking over Dave's book on polar\nexplorations.\n\n\"He'll give us extra lessons for this,\" grumbled Roger. \"Just wait and\nsee.\"\n\nThe next day the weather remained fine, and a number of the students\nwent out coasting on a hill running down to the river. Dave and his\nfriends wished they could go along, as both Sam and Ben had big bobs\ncapable of carrying six boys each. But after the school session they\nhad to report to Job Haskers, and he kept them in until supper-time,\ndoing examples in arithmetic.\n\n\"Say, Dave, we ought to square up for this,\" said Phil. \"See what a lot\nof fun coasting we've missed.\"\n\n\"Just what I say,\" added the senator's son. \"We must get even with old\nHaskers somehow.\"\n\n\"Remember the time we put the ram in his room?\" said Sam, with a grin.\n\n\"Yes, and the time we put the bats in,\" added Phil. \"My, but didn't that\ncause a racket!\"\n\n\"Let us put something else in his room this time,\" said Ben.\n\n\"Oh, that's old,\" answered Dave. \"We ought to hit on something new.\"\n\n\"If we could only play some joke on him outside of the academy,\" said\nthe senator's son.\n\n\"He is going to Oakdale to-night; I heard him mention it to Mr. Dale.\"\n\n\"Did he say when he would be back?\"\n\n\"Yes--not later than eleven o'clock.\"\n\n\"Maybe we can have some fun with him on his return,\" said Dave. \"I'll\ntry to think up something.\"\n\nThey watched and saw Job Haskers leave the Hall dressed in his best. He\ndrove off in a cutter belonging to Doctor Clay. But he had hardly\nreached the gateway of the grounds when he turned around and came back\nagain.\n\n\"Forgotten something, I suppose,\" said Dave, who had been watching.\n\nJob Haskers ran up the steps of the Hall and disappeared.\n\n\"Come, Roger, quick!\" cried Dave. \"We'll unhook the horse!\"\n\nThe senator's son understood, and in a trice he followed Dave outside.\nIt was rather dark, so they were unobserved. With great rapidity they\nunhooked the traces and unbuckled the straps around the shafts.\nFortunately the horse did not move.\n\n\"Wait, we'll fix up the seat for him,\" said Dave, and lifting the\ncushion he placed some snow and ice beneath. \"That will make things warm\nfor him.\"\n\n\"I'll put a cake of ice in the bottom, too, for his feet,\" said the\nsenator's son, with a grin, and did so, covering it partly with the\nlap-robe. Then the lads hurried into the school.\n\nSoon Job Haskers came from the Hall with a small packet in his hand. The\nboys watched from some side windows and saw him leap into the cutter. He\ntook up the reins.\n\n\"Get ap!\" he chirped to the horse, and gave a quick jerk on the lines.\n\nThe steed did as bidden and began to move out of the shafts of the\ncutter. At first Job Haskers could not believe the evidence of his\neyesight.\n\n\"Hi! hold up!\" he yelled. \"What the mischief! Who did----\" And then his\nremarks came to a sudden end. He tried to hold the horse back, but could\nnot, and in a twinkling he was dragged over the dashboard and landed\nhead first in the snow of the road. Then the horse, no doubt startled at\nthe unusual proceedings, started off on a trot, dragging the teacher\nafter him.\n\n\"Whoa, I say! Whoa there!\" spluttered Job Haskers. \"Whoa!\" and he tried\nto regain his feet, only to plunge down once more, this time on his\nface. Then he let go the reins and the horse trotted off, coming to a\nhalt near the campus gateway.\n\nIf ever there was an angry man that individual was Job Haskers. He had\nintended to make an evening call on some ladies, and had spent\nconsiderable time over his toilet. Now his beautiful expanse of white\nshirt front was wet and mussed up and he had a goodly quantity of snow\ndown his back.\n\n\"Who did this? Who did this?\" he cried, dancing around in his rage. \"Oh,\nif I only catch the boy who did this, I will punish him well for it.\"\n\nHe looked around sharply, and at that moment a student chanced to come\naround the corner of the Hall, on the way to the gymnasium building.\nJob Haskers leaped towards him and caught him roughly by the shoulder.\n\n\"Ha! I have you, you young imp!\" he cried. \"How dare you do such a thing\nto me! How dare you!\" And he shook the boy as a dog shakes a rat.\n\n\"St--top!\" spluttered the pupil, in consternation and alarm. \"Stop, I\nsay! I--I---- Oh, Mr. Haskers, let up, please! Don't shake me to\npieces!\"\n\n\"Well, I never!\" whispered Dave to Phil and Roger.\n\n\"Who is it?\"\n\n\"Nat Poole.\"\n\n\"Oh my! but he's catching it right enough,\" chuckled the senator's son.\n\n\"Will unharness my horse!\" went on Job Haskers. \"Will throw me on my\nhead in the snow! Oh, you imp!\" And he continued to shake poor Nat until\nthe latter's teeth rattled.\n\n\"I--I won't stand this!\" cried Nat at last, and struck out blindly,\nlanding a blow on the teacher's ear.\n\n\"Ha! so you dare to strike me!\" spluttered Job Haskers. \"I--I----\"\n\n\"Let go! I haven't done anything!\" roared Nat. \"Let go, or I'll kick!\"\n\nNow, the assistant teacher did not fancy being kicked, so he dropped\nhis hold and Nat Poole speedily retreated to a safe distance.\n\n\"You unharnessed my horse----\" began Job Haskers.\n\n\"I never touched your horse--I don't know anything about your horse,\"\nexploded Nat.\n\n\"Didn't I catch you?\"\n\n\"I just came from the library. I left a pair of skates in the gym., and\nI was going to get them. I've been in the library for half an hour,\"\nwent on the dude of the school. \"It's an outrage the way you've treated\nme. I am going to report it to Doctor Clay.\" And he started for the\nfront door of the school.\n\n\"Wait! Stop!\" called Job Haskers, in sudden alarm. \"Do you mean to say\nyou know absolutely nothing about this?\"\n\n\"No, I don't.\"\n\n\"Somebody came out here while I was in the Hall and unharnessed the\nhorse.\"\n\n\"Well, it wasn't me, and you had no right to pounce on me as you did,\"\ngrumbled Nat Poole. \"I am going to report it to Doctor Clay.\"\n\n\"Stop! I--er--if I made a mistake, Poole, I am sorry for it,\" said the\nteacher, in a more subdued tone. \"Have you any idea who could have\nplayed this trick on me?\"\n\n\"No, and I don't care,\" snorted the dudish pupil. \"I am going to report\nto the doctor and see if he will allow an innocent pupil to be handled\nlike a tramp.\" And off marched Nat Poole, just as angry as Job Haskers.\n\n\"Good for Nat,\" whispered Phil. \"I hope he does report old Haskers.\"\n\n\"We must look out that we are not caught,\" answered Dave. \"How funny it\ndid look when Haskers went over the dashboard!\" And he laughed merrily.\n\nThe boys took themselves to a safe place in the lower hallway. They saw\nNat Poole come in and march straight for Doctor Clay's office. The\nmaster of the Hall was in, and an animated discussion lasting several\nminutes took place. Then the doctor came out to interview Job Haskers,\nwho in the meantime had caught the horse and was hooking him up once\nmore.\n\n\"Mr. Haskers, what does this mean?\" asked the doctor, in rather a cold\ntone. \"Master Poole says you attacked him and shook him without\nprovocation.\"\n\n\"Somebody has been playing a trick on me--I thought it was Poole,\" was\nthe reply, and the teacher told what had happened. \"Just look at that\nshirt, and my back is full of snow!\"\n\nThe doctor looked and was inclined to smile. But he kept a straight\nface.\n\n\"Certainly nobody had a right to play such a trick,\" said he. \"But you\nshouldn't punish Poole for what he didn't do. You are altogether too\nhasty at times, Mr. Haskers.\"\n\n\"Am I? Well, perhaps; but some of the boys here need a club, and need it\nbadly, too!\"\n\n\"I do not agree with you. They like a little fun, but that is only\nnatural. Occasionally they go a little too far, but I do not look to a\nclubbing as a remedy.\"\n\n\"I wish I could find out who played this trick on me.\"\n\n\"Don't you think you owe Poole an apology?\"\n\n\"An apology?\" gasped Job Haskers. Such a thing had never occurred to\nhim.\n\n\"Yes. You are certainly in the wrong.\"\n\n\"I'll apologize to nobody,\" snapped the teacher.\n\n\"Well, after this you be more careful as to how you attack my students,\"\nsaid Doctor Clay, severely. \"Otherwise, I shall have to ask you to\nresign your position.\"\n\nSome sharp words followed, and in the end Job Haskers drove off feeling\ndecidedly humble. He could not afford to throw up his contract with the\ndoctor, and he was afraid that the latter might demand his resignation.\nBut he was very angry, and the discovery of the ice and snow in the\ncutter, later on, did not tend to make his temper any sweeter.\n\n\"I'll find out who did this!\" he muttered to himself. \"And when I do,\nI'll fix him, as sure as my name is Job Haskers.\" But he never did find\nout; and there the incident came to an end. The boys thought they had\nhad fun enough for one night, and so did not watch for the teacher's\nreturn to Oak Hall.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nA MYSTERIOUS LETTER\n\n\nIn the morning mail Gus Plum received a letter postmarked London which\nhe read with much interest. Then he called on Dave.\n\n\"I've just received a letter I want you to read,\" he said. \"It is from\nNick Jasniff, and he mentions you.\" And he handed over the\ncommunication.\n\nIt was a long rambling epistle, upbraiding Plum roundly for \"having gone\nback on him,\" as Jasniff put it. The writer said he was now \"doing\nEurope\" and having a good time generally. One portion of the letter read\nas follows:\n\n \"The authorities needn't look for me, for they will never find me.\n I struck a soft thing over here and am about seventy pounds to the\n good. Tell Dave Porter I could tell him something he would like to\n hear--about his folks--but I am not going to do it. I don't think\n he'll meet that father of his just yet, or that pretty sister of\n his either. She'd be all right if she didn't have such a lunkhead\n of a brother. Tell him that some day I'll square up with him and\n put him in a bigger hole than he got me into. If it wasn't for him\n I wouldn't have to stay away as I'm doing--not but what I'm having\n a good time--better than grinding away at Oak Hall.\"\n\nAs may be imagined, Dave read this letter with even greater interest\nthan had Gus Plum. What was said about his father and sister mystified\nhim.\n\n\"Can it be possible that Nick Jasniff has met them?\" he said.\n\n\"To me the letter reads that way, Dave,\" answered Plum. \"He mentions\nyour sister as being pretty and all right, and how could he do that if\nhe hadn't seen her? Yes, I think they must have met.\"\n\n\"Then perhaps my folks have been in London all this time--and I didn't\nknow it. Gus, I'd like to copy part of that letter and send it to my\nuncle.\"\n\n\"Very well--and I am going to show the letter to Doctor Clay,\" answered\nthe former bully of Oak Hall.\n\nDave copied that portion of the letter which interested him and\nforwarded it to Dunston Porter, along with a communication in which he\nasked his uncle about taking a trip to London. He said he was tired of\nwaiting and would like to start on a hunt for his father and sister\nwithout further delay. After sending the letter he talked the matter\nover with Roger.\n\n\"You can't imagine how impatient I am to meet my father and sister,\" he\nsaid. \"Why, some days I get so I can hardly fasten my mind on my\nstudies, and I go in for fun just to help me forget what is on my mind.\"\n\n\"I can appreciate your feelings, Dave,\" answered his chum, kindly. \"I'd\nfeel the same way if my folks were missing. If you go to London, do you\nknow I'd like first-rate to go with you.\"\n\n\"I'd like very much to have you, Roger. But how could you get away?\"\n\n\"Oh, I think I could manage that. My mother thinks I am pushing ahead\nalmost too fast in my studies--the doctor said I was growing too fast\nand studying too much at the same time. I think she'd be willing for me\nto take the trip,--and what she says, father always agrees to.\"\n\n\"Where are your folks--in Washington?\"\n\n\"Yes, they stay at a hotel there during the time Congress is in\nsession.\"\n\n\"Well, I will have to see what my uncle says before I make any move,\"\nsaid Dave; and there the talk came to an end.\n\nGus Plum had written to the men to whom he owed his gambling debt, and\nthey agreed to meet him at the Oakdale depot on Saturday afternoon at\nfour o'clock. They wrote that if he did not pay up at that time in full\nthey would expose him.\n\n\"I believe they are bluffing,\" said Dave, after he heard of this. \"They\nwill not expose you so long as they think there is any chance of getting\nmore money from you. I wish you could prove that you had been\nswindled,--then you wouldn't have to pay them a cent.\"\n\n\"Well, I can't prove that--although I think it,\" answered the former\nbully, with a long sigh.\n\nSaturday noon it began to snow, so that the majority of the students\nremained indoors or spent the time over at the gymnasium. Dave excused\nhimself to his chums and met Gus Plum at a spot agreed upon, and both\nset off for Oakdale on foot.\n\n\"I suppose I might have asked the doctor for a cutter,\" said Plum. \"But\nI was afraid he might ask embarrassing questions.\"\n\n\"We can walk it easily enough,\" answered Dave. \"The road is\nwell-broken.\"\n\n\"Dave, you are putting yourself out a good deal for me,\" answered Plum,\ngratefully. \"Somehow, I'd hate to meet those men alone.\"\n\n\"They must be scamps, or they wouldn't try to lead a student like you\nastray.\"\n\nOn and on the two boys went, past several places which were familiar to\nthem. The snow did not bother them much, and before long they reached\nthe outskirts of the village.\n\n\"There are the two men now!\" cried Gus Plum, and pointed across the way.\n\n\"They are not going to the depot,\" answered Dave. \"They are turning down\nMain Street. Supposing we follow them, Gus?\"\n\n\"I'm willing, but I don't see what good it will do.\"\n\n\"Well, it won't do any harm.\"\n\nThe two men were burly individuals who had evidently seen better days.\nEach was shabbily dressed and each had a nose that was suspiciously red.\nPlum said that one was named Blodgett and the other Volney.\n\n\"I believe they came here from Hartford,\" the big youth added. \"I wish I\nhad their record from that city.\"\n\nThe men turned into a resort that was half tavern and half restaurant.\nAt the doorway they met another burly fellow who had evidently been\ndrinking pretty freely.\n\n\"Hello, Blodgett!\" cried this man. \"Glad to see you again. Hello,\nVolney!\"\n\n\"How are you, Crandall,\" answered Blodgett, while Volney nodded\npleasantly. \"What brought you to town?\"\n\n\"Was looking for you two chaps.\"\n\n\"Why?\" questioned Volney, quickly.\n\n\"Oh, I've got news that will interest you.\"\n\n\"About Sadler?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Tell me about it,\" demanded Blodgett, hoarsely. \"What has he found\nout?\"\n\n\"A whole lot.\"\n\n\"Does he suspect us?\"\n\n\"I don't know as to that. He suspects somebody.\"\n\n\"You didn't tell him anything, did you?\" asked Volney, catching Crandall\nby the arm.\n\n\"No, but he is satisfied that he was swindled. He was going to the\nHartford police about it.\"\n\n\"Hang the luck!\" muttered Blodgett. \"Tell us the particulars.\"\n\n\"Come inside and I will--it's too cold out here,\" was the answer; and\nthen the three men entered the tavern.\n\nDave and Gus Plum had not heard all of the talk, but they had heard\nenough, and each looked at the other inquiringly.\n\n\"I believe they are thorough rascals,\" said Dave. \"I wish we could hear\nthe rest of what that Crandall has to say.\"\n\n\"Come with me--I've been in this building before,\" answered the former\nbully of Oak Hall.\n\nHe led the way to an alley halfway down the block. This ran to the rear\nof the tavern, where there was a door communicating with a hallway and\na back stairs. Under the stairs was a closet filled with discarded\ncooking utensils. The closet had two doors, one opening into a\ndrinking-room behind the main bar-room of the tavern.\n\nLooking through a crack of the door, they saw that the three men had\nseated themselves, the proprietor of the resort spending his time with\nsome men in front.\n\n\"Now give us the straight of the story,\" Blodgett was saying.\n\nThereupon Crandall launched into a tale that took him the best part of\nten minutes to relate. From his talk it was clear that a man named\nDodsworth Sadler, of Hartford, had met the three men at Albany and\ngambled with them on three different occasions. Sadler had lost several\nhundred dollars one night and nearly a thousand the next, and then\nBlodgett and Volney had come away. Now Sadler had discovered that marked\ncards were in use at the place he had visited, and he was satisfied that\nhe had been swindled, if not in all the games at least in some of them.\n\n\"Well, we did him up, that's certain,\" said Blodgett, with a coarse\nlaugh. \"But I don't want him to learn the truth if it can be helped.\"\n\n\"No, we want to keep him in the dark--hold him down like that\nboarding-school chap here,\" chuckled Volney.\n\n\"Never mind about that,\" said Blodgett, sharply.\n\n\"Got somebody else on the string here, eh?\" observed Crandall. \"You\nalways were the boys to keep things moving.\"\n\n\"Oh, this is only a small affair--mere pocket money,\" answered Blodgett.\n\nAt this point the conversation changed, and it came out that Crandall\nwas out of money and wanted a loan of fifty dollars.\n\n\"We can't give it to you now,\" said Volney. \"But wait till to-night and\nI'll let you have ten dollars.\"\n\n\"And I'll let you have the same,\" said Blodgett. \"We've got to collect a\ntrifle first.\"\n\n\"All right. Twenty is little enough, but it will tide me over until I\nhit my streak again,\" answered Crandall. And after a little more talk\nthe men arose and prepared to separate.\n\n\"We've heard enough,\" whispered Dave to Gus Plum. \"Come on,\" and he led\nthe way out of the building and down the alley.\n\n\"What do you think?\" demanded the former bully, when they were on the\nstreet again.\n\n\"Just as I suspected, Blodgett and Volney are nothing but sharpers. They\nundoubtedly swindled you. I shouldn't pay them a cent.\"\n\n\"But they may expose me to the doctor, Dave.\"\n\n\"I don't think they will--not after you talk to them.\"\n\n\"I hardly know what to say.\"\n\n\"Then suppose you let me do the talking, Gus?\"\n\n\"You?\"\n\n\"Yes, I fancy I know how to handle them,\" answered Dave, confidently.\n\n\"Well, I don't want to get into any hole,\" said the big boy, doubtfully.\n\n\"You won't get into any hole. When I get through with them, I'm sure\nthey will be only too glad to leave you alone.\"\n\nThe two boys talked the matter over, and at last Gus Plum agreed to let\nDave conduct the affair as he thought best. Then both walked to the\nOakdale depot, there to await the arrival of the two swindlers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nDAVE TALKS TO THE POINT\n\n\nIt was not long before Blodgett and Volney put in an appearance. They\nhad had several glasses of liquor at the tavern, and walked along as if\nvery well satisfied with themselves.\n\n\"So you are here,\" said Blodgett, striding up to Gus Plum and holding\nout his hand. \"Shake, my boy!\"\n\n\"I don't care to shake hands with you,\" replied the former bully of Oak\nHall.\n\n\"Oh, so that's your lay, is it?\" sneered the man. \"Very well--but I\nthought you were a better loser.\"\n\n\"Let us have this meeting over as soon as possible,\" put in Volney.\n\"Have you got the money?\"\n\nInstead of replying, Plum looked at Dave, and then for the first time\nthe two sharpers noticed that the lad they had come to meet was not\nalone.\n\n\"Who's your friend? Thought you'd come alone,\" said Blodgett, somewhat\nroughly.\n\n\"I believe your name is Blodgett,\" remarked Dave, drawing himself up and\nlooking as businesslike as possible.\n\n\"That's my name, yes. What of it?\"\n\n\"And your name, I believe, is Volney,\" went on Dave, turning to the\nsecond rascal.\n\n\"Yes. Who are you?\"\n\n\"Never mind that just now. Both of you come from Hartford; isn't that\nso?\"\n\n\"What if we do?\" asked Blodgett.\n\n\"Some time ago you got this young man to gamble with you, and he lost\nconsiderable money. Now you want him to pay up.\"\n\n\"Hadn't he ought to pay up?\" asked Volney. He was growing uneasy.\n\n\"He isn't going to pay you a cent.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" came quickly from Blodgett.\n\n\"I say he isn't going to pay you a cent, Mr. Blodgett. Is that plain\nenough for you to understand?\" answered Dave, sharply.\n\n\"Who are you, I'd like to know, to interfere with our dealings!\" cried\nJack Blodgett.\n\n\"Perhaps I'll tell you who I am later on. I found out about this just in\ntime, it seems. You came from Hartford, but you have been in Albany\nlately. While you were in Albany you swindled a man named Dodsworth\nSadler out of a large sum of money--at least twelve or fifteen hundred\ndollars.\"\n\n\"Say, look here----\" began Blodgett, and his tone became nervous.\n\n\"You used marked cards, just as you did when you played with this young\nman. I think when you find yourselves in the hands of the police---- Hi!\nstop, don't be going in such a hurry!\"\n\nFor, turning swiftly, Blodgett had rushed from the depot. Volney\nfollowed him.\n\n\"They are running away!\" cried Gus Plum. He could scarcely believe the\nevidence of his senses.\n\n\"Let us give them a good scare while we are at it,\" answered Dave, and\nhe ran outside and after the swindlers, who cut across the tracks and\nmade for the freight-house. Here a freight-train was just starting out,\nand the men hopped aboard and were soon out of sight.\n\n\"There, I guess you have seen the last of them, Gus,\" said Dave, when he\nand the big youth had given up the chase.\n\n\"Do you really think so?\"\n\n\"I feel sure of it.\"\n\n\"Maybe they took you for some officer of the law.\"\n\n\"I don't know as to that, but they were thoroughly scared. I don't\nbelieve they will ever show their faces near Oakdale again.\"\n\n\"But they may write to Doctor Clay.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't worry about that, Gus. They will make themselves as scarce\nas possible, for they will now know that Dodsworth Sadler is on the\nlookout for them.\"\n\n\"Don't you think we ought to let Dodsworth Sadler know about this? I\nmight write him an anonymous letter.\"\n\n\"You won't have to, Gus. I'll write him a letter, telling of what I\nheard. That won't bring you into it at all, and as I had nothing to do\nwith Blodgett and Volney, those fellows can't hurt me.\"\n\n\"Oh, Dave, what a head you've got for things!\" cried the former bully,\nadmiringly. \"I suppose you'll say you simply overheard the talk while\nyou were in Oakdale.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I'll add that when the swindlers found out I knew the truth,\nthey jumped on a freight-train and ran away.\"\n\nWhen the two boys returned to Oak Hall, Gus Plum felt in better spirits\nthan he had for a long time. He returned the money to Dave and thanked\nhim over and over for all he had done. Dave penned the letter to\nDodsworth Sadler without delay, and it was posted early Monday morning.\n\n\"I hope I get a letter from my uncle to-day,\" said Dave to Roger. But no\ncommunication came, for Dunston Porter had gone to Boston on business,\nand did not return to Crumville for several days.\n\nThe weather was now clear and bright and the wind had swept a good\nportion of the river clear of snow. As a consequence many of the boys\nwent out skating, while a few brought out the ice-boats they had\nconstructed.\n\nAmong the latter affairs was the _Snowbird_, built by two students named\nMessmer and Henshaw. It was not a handsome craft, but it could make good\nspeed, and that was what the boys wanted.\n\n\"Come on for a sail, Dave!\" called Henshaw, after school-hours on\nTuesday. \"It's just grand on the river.\"\n\n\"I was going skating with Roger and Phil,\" was the reply. \"Otherwise I'd\nlike to go first-rate.\"\n\n\"Tell them to come too,\" said Messmer, a lad who always liked to have\ncompany on his rides.\n\nThe matter was quickly arranged, and Shadow Hamilton was also included\nin the party. The ice-boat was rather crowded, but that only added to\nthe sport.\n\n\"Hold tight, everybody!\" cried Henshaw, as he raised the sail. There was\na good, stiff breeze, and in a minute the _Snowbird_ was bowling along\nin grand style, the students shrieking their delight as they passed\ntheir numerous friends on skates.\n\n\"Come along and race!\" cried Roger, to Sam Day.\n\n\"Give me a tow and I will,\" was the merry reply.\n\n\"Be sure to return when you get back!\" called out Ben Basswood, and this\nremark caused a general laugh.\n\n\"Do you remember the ice-boat race we had with the Rockville cadets?\"\nsaid Messmer.\n\n\"Yes, and the accident,\" replied Dave. \"We don't want to run into\nanything again.\"\n\n\"I say, fellows, let us visit that cabin on the island!\" cried Roger.\n\"Maybe we'll find out something more about Pud Frodel and that other\nfellow.\"\n\nThe senator's son referred to a cabin located on a lonely island some\ndistance from Oak Hall. Here it was that the lads had discovered the two\nrobbers with whom Nick Jasniff had been associated, and had given to the\nauthorities the information which had led to the rascals' capture.\n\n\"I'm willing to go,\" said Henshaw. \"Only we can't stay on the island too\nlong, for we'll have to get back before it gets too dark.\"\n\nAs the ice-boat swept along they passed quite a number of boys on\nskates. Presently they came to a crowd of six, all attired in neat\nsemi-military uniforms.\n\n\"Hello, Oak Hall!\" was the cry.\n\n\"Hello, Rockville!\"\n\n\"Where are you going with that tub?\"\n\n\"Looking for another Rockville boat to beat!\" sang out Henshaw. How he\nhad once won an ice-boat race against the military academy lads is\nalready known to my old readers.\n\n\"Go along, we're going to build a boat that will leave you away\nbehind,\" retorted one of the Rockville cadets.\n\n\"Brag is a good hoss, but Get-there takes the oats!\" cried Dave, and\nthen the _Snowbird_ swept out of hearing of the military academy lads.\n\n\"They didn't like it at all, that we beat them,\" was Roger's comment.\n\"Wonder if they will try to build a swifter boat?\"\n\n\"Let them come on,\" answered Dave. \"We can build another boat, too, if\nit's necessary.\"\n\n\"Say, their blowing puts me in mind of a story,\" came from Shadow\nHamilton. \"Two little boys----\"\n\n\"Oh, Shadow, another?\" groaned Messmer, reproachfully.\n\n\"Let him tell it, it will help to pass the time,\" remarked Henshaw. \"I\nknow it's all about two poor lads who were caught in a snowstorm and had\nto shovel their way out with nothing but toothpicks.\"\n\n\"No, it's about two boys who sold suspension bridges for a living,\"\ncried Dave, merrily. \"They sold as high as eighteen a day, and----\"\n\n\"Say, if you want to hear this story, say so,\" demanded Shadow. \"These\nlittle boys got to bragging what each could do. Says one, 'I kin climb\nour apple tree clear to the top.' Says the other, 'Huh! I can climb to\nthe roof of our house.' 'Hum,' says the first boy, 'I can climb to the\nroof of our house, an' it's higher'n yours.' 'No, 'taint.' 'It is\nso--it's got a cupola on top.' 'I don't care,' cried the other boy.\n'Our's is higher. It's got a mortgage on it--I heard dad say so!'\" And a\nsmile went the rounds.\n\nNot having any other name, the boys had christened the place for which\nthey were bound, Robber Island. It was a lonely spot, rocky in some\nplaces and covered with woods and underbrush in others. The shore was\nfringed with bushes, through which the driven snow had sifted to a depth\nof two feet and more.\n\n\"Here we are!\" cried Dave, as they came in sight of one end of the\nisland. \"Lower the sail, or we'll be sliding into the trees and rocks.\"\n\nThey made a safe landing, and then prepared to walk to the cabin, which\nwas some distance away. Henshaw looked doubtfully at the ice-boat.\n\n\"Think she'll be all right?\" he asked, of Messmer.\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"Oh, sure she'll be all right, with the sail down,\" added Roger.\n\n\"Wonder if there are any wild animals on this island?\" questioned\nShadow.\n\n\"Might be an elephant or two,\" answered Dave, \"or half a dozen royal\nBengal tigers.\"\n\n\"Quit your fooling, Dave. I reckon you wouldn't want to meet a bear or\na wildcat any more than myself.\"\n\n\"No bears around here,\" said the senator's son. \"Might be a wildcat\nthough, or a fox. I'm going to get a good stick.\"\n\nEach student provided himself with a stout stick, and then the whole\ncrowd moved forward in the direction of the cabin in the center of the\nisland, never dreaming of the astonishing adventure in store for them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nAN ADVENTURE ON ROBBER ISLAND\n\n\nThe way to the lonely cabin was not an easy one. There was no path, and\nthey had to scramble over rough rocks and across fallen trees and\nthrough thick masses of brushwood. They forgot about the gully, and only\nremembered it when they found themselves floundering in snow up to their\nwaists.\n\n\"For gracious' sake!\" cried the senator's son, as he crawled out the\nbest way he could. \"I fancied the bottom had dropped out of everything!\"\n\n\"I remember this hollow now,\" answered Dave. \"We haven't got much\nfurther to go.\"\n\nIt was a clear December day and quite light under the leafless trees.\nThere were a few evergreens scattered about, but not many, and these\nhung low with their weight of snow. All was intensely silent.\n\n\"This ought to be lonely enough to suit anybody,\" observed Henshaw. He\nturned to Roger. \"How would you like to come out here some dark night\nall alone?\"\n\n\"None of that for me,\" was the quick answer.\n\n\"Might meet a ghost,\" said Dave, with a smile.\n\n\"Talking of ghosts puts me in mind of a story,\" said Shadow. \"A boy once\nhad to go through a dark woods all alone----\"\n\n\"Shadow wants to get us scared,\" interrupted Dave. \"Oh, Shadow, I didn't\nthink it of you! It's bad enough as it is,\" he went on, in seeming\nreproach. \"Don't you know this island is haunted by the man who\ncommitted suicide here?\"\n\n\"A suicide, Dave?\" cried the school story-teller, forgetting all about\nthe tale he had been on the point of relating.\n\n\"Sure. That man tried to kill his wife and seven children, and then hung\nhimself from a tree not far from here. They say that twice a month his\nghost appears.\"\n\n\"It's about time for the ghost now,\" added Roger, scenting fun. \"Listen!\nDidn't I hear a groan!\"\n\n\"Must have been that,\" went on Dave. \"There it is again!\"\n\n\"I--I didn't hear anything,\" faltered Shadow. He was not an excessively\nbrave lad at the best.\n\n\"It's getting pretty dark,\" continued Dave. \"That is when the ghost\nshows itself, so I've been informed. If we---- Look! look!\" he yelled,\npointing over Shadow's left shoulder.\n\nThe story-teller gave a leap forward and glanced around hastily. Dave\nwas pointing to a clump of bushes.\n\n\"Wha--what did you see?\" asked Shadow, in a shaking voice.\n\n\"I don't know. It was tall and white----\"\n\n\"The ghost! The ghost!\" yelled Roger. \"It's coming for us!\" And he began\nto run back.\n\nShadow gave a scream of terror and started to run also. As if by\naccident, Dave allowed his foot to trip the boy up, and down went the\nstory-teller of the Hall on his face in the snow.\n\n\"Hi! hi! Don't leave me behind!\" he bawled, as the others all ran.\n\"Don't leave me!\" and he scrambled up and tore along through the\nbrushwood as if possessed. The others speedily halted and set up a shout\nof laughter, at which Shadow looked very sheepish.\n\n\"I--I only ran for the fun of the thing,\" he explained, lamely. \"I knew\nall along there wasn't a ghost.\"\n\n\"Shadow shall lead the way,\" said Dave. \"Go ahead, old fellow.\"\n\n\"I--er--I don't know the path,\" was the quick excuse. \"You go on.\" And\nShadow dropped behind once more and stuck there during the remainder of\nthe trip.\n\nThe cabin was built of rough logs. It had been put up by some hunters\nyears before, but the sportsmen, owing to the scarcity of game, did not\ncome to the place any more. It was in a dilapidated condition, and the\nsnow had driven in through the broken-out window and open doorway.\n\n\"Not a very cheerful place,\" observed Dave, as he led the way inside.\n\"Let us light a torch, so we can see things.\"\n\nThey procured several pine sticks and soon had them lit, and holding\nthese aloft surveyed the scene. All was very much as it had been during\ntheir former visit.\n\n\"Nothing new, so far as I can see,\" was Roger's comment.\n\n\"Here are some footprints in the snow,\" came from Messmer. \"We didn't\nmake those.\"\n\n\"Those are the footprints of some animal!\" cried Dave. \"Maybe there's a\nbear here after all.\" He smiled as he made the remark.\n\n\"Looks to me more like the tracks of a horse,\" answered Henshaw. \"Maybe\nsomebody came over here from the shore on horseback.\"\n\n\"You want to be careful--it may be a wild beast after all,\" observed\nShadow, nervously.\n\nAt that moment came a queer sound from outside of the cabin, which\ncaused all of the lads to start. Messmer, who had the best of the\ntorches, dropped it, leaving them almost in darkness.\n\n\"Why, I declare----\" began Dave, when a form darkened the doorway and\nthe next instant a big, bony mule entered the old cabin and stood among\nthem. Some of the boys were frightened and started to retreat.\n\n\"It's only a mule!\" cried Dave. \"I don't think he'll hurt anybody. But\nhow in the world did he get here?\"\n\n\"His halter is broken,\" declared Roger. \"He must have run away from\nsomewhere.\"\n\n\"I know that mule,\" declared Shadow. \"He belongs to Mike Marcy.\"\n\nThe man he mentioned was a farmer, living in the Oakdale district. Marcy\nwas a close-fisted fellow who never wanted the schoolboys to have any of\nhis fruit, and Dave, through no fault of his own, had once had\nconsiderable trouble with the fellow.\n\n\"I think Shadow is right,\" said Dave. \"I saw that mule around Marcy's\nplace. If he ran away we ought to take him back to where he belongs.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you'd have some fun trying to ride him,\" suggested Henshaw.\n\n\"Oh, pshaw! anybody could ride that mule,\" declared Roger. \"Why, riding\na mule is as easy as riding a horse. All mules don't love to kick.\"\n\n\"Roger shall have the honor of riding him home,\" said Messmer. \"Think of\nwhat a reward Mike Marcy will give you,\" he added, with a grin.\n\n\"Catch Marcy giving a reward,\" said Dave, laughing. \"Why, he wouldn't\nfork over so much as a sour apple.\"\n\n\"He'd want to charge Roger for the ride.\"\n\n\"We can take the mule to the Hall and let Marcy come and get him,\"\nsuggested Messmer.\n\nIn a spirit of mischief Shadow had taken his stick and rubbed it over\nthe mule's hind legs. There was a sudden snort and up came the beast's\nfeet. Bang! crack! bang! they sounded on the wall of the dilapidated\ncabin, and Shadow leaped for his life.\n\n\"Look out, he's in action!\"\n\n\"Clear the deck for his muleship!\"\n\n\"He'll have the cabin down next!\" called out Dave. \"Take care!\"\n\nThe mule continued to kick, and, standing at his head, Dave and Roger\ntried in vain to quiet him. Then of a sudden came a crack of another\nkind and the wall of the rotted cabin fell outward and the roof began to\nsag.\n\n\"Out of this, all hands!\" yelled Dave, and let go the mule. Roger did\nthe same, and both ran out through the open doorway. Shadow was already\noutside, and Messmer and Henshaw started to follow. Then the mule\nturned, knocking Messmer down, and made a dash for liberty.\n\nThe cabin swayed and groaned and began to settle rapidly. Henshaw leaped\nout in the nick of time, one heavy log scraping his shoulder. Messmer\nwas half dazed by the sudden turn of affairs, and before he could arise\nsome of the roof beams began to settle across his back.\n\n\"Help! help!\" he wailed. \"The roof is coming down on me!\"\n\nHis cry of assistance struck terror to the hearts of some of his\nfriends, and for the moment they did not know what to do. Dave was the\nonly one of the party who remained cool, and he rushed in and caught\nhold of one of the falling timbers.\n\n\"Prop them up!\" he called. \"Put your sticks under them--anything! If we\ndon't, Messmer may be crushed to death!\"\n\nRoger came forward first and the others quickly followed, the mule\nbeing, for the time, forgotten. They took their heavy sticks and set\nthem up under the falling timbers, and Henshaw rolled in a stone that\nchanced to be handy. These things kept the roof from coming down\nfurther, but poor Messmer was held as if in a vise and could not be\nextricated.\n\n\"We've got to pry the logs up a little,\" said Dave. \"Here is a log to\nwork with,\" and he pointed to one which had fallen out of the side wall.\n\nOnly one torch remained lighted, and this had to be swung into a\nlivelier blaze, so that they could see. Then they had to start\noperations with care, for fear they might do more harm than good.\n\n\"If th--the logs co--come down on me they will ki--kill me!\" gasped the\nunfortunate lad under the ruins.\n\n\"We'll not let them come down,\" answered Dave. \"Keep perfectly still\ntill I tell you to move.\"\n\nMessmer did as directed, and Dave and the others inserted the loose log\nunder one end of the ruins. A flat stone was used for the fulcrum, and\nthey bore down slowly but steadily until the larger portion of the ruins\nwas raised several inches.\n\n\"It's coming!\" cried Dave. \"Don't go too fast. Can you loosen yourself\nnow, Messmer?\"\n\n\"A little. Go a bit higher,\" was the reply.\n\nThey went up two inches more, but now the log began to crack, for the\nstrain upon it was tremendous. Messmer heard the ominous sound, and,\nwith a twist, loosened himself and began to crawl forth. Dave caught him\nby the arms.\n\n\"Out you come,\" he said, and gave a strong pull. And out Messmer did\ncome, and a moment later the lever snapped in two and the ruins settled\nback into their former position.\n\n\"I--I think I've had a narrow escape,\" faltered the lucky youth, when he\ncould speak. \"Much obliged to you, Dave, for hauling me out.\"\n\n\"Talk about a mule kicking!\" declared Henshaw. \"He brought this cabin\ndown quick enough.\"\n\n\"The old place was about ready to fall down,\" answered the senator's\nson. \"I think I could have shoved it down myself, had I tried. But I\nwonder what made the mule start kicking so suddenly. He acted as if a\nhornet had stung him.\"\n\n\"I guess I was to blame,\" replied Shadow, sheepishly. \"I rubbed him in\nthe rear with my stick. He didn't appreciate the handling.\"\n\n\"By the way, where is his muleship?\" cried Dave, looking around in the\nsemi-darkness.\n\n\"Guess he's taken time by the forelock and run away,\" answered the\nsenator's son.\n\nThey looked around, but could see nothing of the animal. Some marks were\nin the snow, losing themselves on the rocks, and that was all.\n\n\"It's time to get back to the Hall,\" observed Henshaw. \"I am not going\nto lose time looking for a mule. Come on.\"\n\n\"We can send Mike Marcy word that his mule is on the island,\" suggested\nDave. \"That wouldn't be any more than fair. If left here alone the\nanimal may starve to death.\"\n\n\"Mules don't starve so easily,\" answered Shadow. \"I am not going to look\nfor him any more,\" he added.\n\nThey were soon on their way back to the shore where they had left the\n_Snowbird_. The short winter day was drawing to a close, and it was\ngetting colder. They walked briskly, for they feared the wind would be\nagainst them on the return to Oak Hall, and they did not wish to be\nlate for supper, for that, at the very least, would mean a lecture from\nJob Haskers.\n\nHenshaw was in the lead, and presently he came out on the shore, looked\naround in dazed fashion, and uttered a cry of dismay. And not without\ngood reason.\n\nThe ice-boat had disappeared.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nA HUNT FOR AN ICE-BOAT\n\n\n\"It's gone!\"\n\n\"Where in the world could it have gone to?\"\n\n\"It was too far on the shore to be blown away.\"\n\n\"Can anybody have stolen the craft?\"\n\nSuch were some of the words uttered as the students stood on the shore\nof the lonely island, gazing first in one direction and then in another.\nDarkness had now settled down, and they could see but little at a\ndistance.\n\n\"I really believe somebody took the ice-boat,\" remarked Dave. \"As the\nsail was down I don't see how she could budge of herself.\"\n\n\"Exactly my way of thinking,\" answered Roger. \"And I've got an idea who\ntook the craft, too.\"\n\n\"Those Rockville cadets?\" queried Henshaw.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"They wouldn't be above such a piece of mischief,\" said Messmer. \"They\nfeel mighty sore over the way we outsailed them that time we raced.\"\n\n\"They'll be likely to sail the boat to our dock and leave her there,\"\nsaid Shadow. \"Puts me in mind of a story I once heard about----\"\n\n\"I don't want to listen to any stories just now,\" grumbled Henshaw. \"I\nwant to find that ice-boat. If we can't find her we'll have to walk\nhome.\"\n\n\"What a pity we didn't bring our skates!\" cried Dave. \"The wind is very\nlight, and if we had them we might catch up with whoever took the craft.\nI am by no means certain the Rockville cadets are guilty. When we met\nthem they were going home, and they didn't know we were coming here.\"\n\n\"Nobody knew that,\" said Messmer.\n\n\"Who was the last person we met on the river before landing?\" questioned\nthe senator's son.\n\nAll of the boys thought for a minute.\n\n\"I saw Link Merwell,\" said Shadow.\n\n\"Yes, and Nat Poole was with him,\" answered Henshaw. \"Merwell has become\nquite a crony of Nat Poole's since Gus Plum dropped out.\"\n\nLink Merwell was a new student, who had come to Oak Hall from another\nboarding school some miles away. He was a tall, slim fellow with a\ntremendously good opinion of himself, and showed a disposition to \"lord\nit over everybody,\" as Sam Day had expressed it. He was something of a\ndude, and it was their mutual regard for dress that caused him and Nat\nPoole to become intimate.\n\n\"Then I believe Poole and Merwell are the guilty parties,\" declared\nDave. \"They must have seen us land, and Poole, I know, is itching to pay\nus back for the way we have cut him.\"\n\n\"All of which doesn't bring back the ice-boat,\" observed Messmer. \"The\nquestion is, What are we to do?\"\n\n\"Hoof it back to Oak Hall--there is nothing else,\" answered the\nsenator's son, sadly.\n\nHardly had Roger spoken when Dave heard a peculiar sound on the rocks\nbehind the crowd. He looked back and saw Mike Marcy's mule, nibbling at\nsome bushes.\n\n\"The mule--I'm going to catch him!\" he ejaculated, and made a leap for\nthe animal. Just as the mule turned he caught hold of the halter.\n\n\"Whoa there! Whoa, you rascal!\" he cried, and then, watching his chance,\nhe flung himself across the mule's back. The animal pranced around in a\nlively fashion.\n\n\"Look out, Dave, he'll throw you!\"\n\n\"He'll kick you to death if he gets a chance!\"\n\n\"Remember, he's a vicious beast!\"\n\nThe mule continued to dance about and kicked high in the air, throwing\nDave well forward. But the boy who had been brought up on a farm clung\non, grasping the mule's ears to steady himself. Then of a sudden the\nmule turned and dashed away through the bushes.\n\n\"He's running away with Dave!\"\n\n\"Look out for the tree branches!\"\n\nDave paid no attention to the cries. He had all he could do to keep from\nfalling under the animal. Away went boy and mule, over the rough rocks\nin a fashion which nearly jounced the breath from the rider's body.\nThen, just as they came close to some low-hanging trees where Dave felt\ncertain he would be hurt, the mule turned again, leaped for the shore,\nand sped out on the ice of the river.\n\n\"So that's your game!\" cried Dave, between his set teeth. \"All right; if\nyou want to run you can carry me all the way to Oak Hall!\"\n\nAway went the mule, as if accustomed to run over the ice all his life.\nHe was a sure-footed creature and took only one or two slides, which\namounted to nothing. The boys on the shore saw Dave and mule disappear\nin the darkness and set up a cry of wonder.\n\n\"Hi! come back here, Dave!\" sang out Roger.\n\n\"If you are going to ride to the Hall take us with you!\" yelled Shadow.\n\n\"He won't stop till he's tired out,\" said Henshaw. \"And goodness only\nknows where he'll carry Dave.\"\n\n\"Trust Dave to take care of himself,\" answered the senator's son. \"I\nnever saw him get into a hole but that he managed to get out again.\"\n\n\"I hope the mule doesn't land him in some crack in the ice,\" said\nMessmer.\n\nOn and on through the gathering darkness sped the mule, with Dave\nclinging to his back with a deathlike grip. The animal was young and\nfull of go and seemed thoroughly to enjoy the run.\n\n\"Talk about mules being slow,\" panted the boy. \"The chap who thinks that\nought to be on this steed. Why, he'd win on a race-track sure!\"\n\nA half-mile was quickly covered, and then the mule neared the bank of\nthe river, where the latter made a long curve. Here there was a\nfair-sized creek, and up this the animal dashed, in spite of Dave's\nefforts to stop him or get him to keep to the river proper.\n\n\"Whoa, you rascal!\" sang out the youth for at least the fiftieth time,\nand then he caught sight of a white sail just ahead of him. The next\nmoment the mule bumped into the edge of the sail, shied to one side, and\nsent Dave sprawling on the ice. Then the animal steadied himself and\nmade tracks for the road which led to Mike Marcy's farm. Evidently he\nwas tired of roaming around and of being ridden, and was now going home.\n\n[Illustration: The mule shied to one side and sent Dave sprawling on the\nice.--_Page 101._]\n\nSomewhat dazed, Dave picked himself up and gazed at the ice-boat. It was\nthe _Snowbird_, and on it were Nat Poole and Link Merwell.\n\n\"Hullo, if it isn't Dave Porter!\" muttered Poole, in amazement.\n\n\"Where did he get that mule?\" questioned Merwell.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know. But this makes a mess of things. I didn't want\nthat crowd to know we had taken the ice-boat,\" went on the dudish youth.\n\nDave picked up the cap which had fallen on the ice and ran up to the\nice-boat. Those on board had run into the creek by mistake and were\ntrying to turn the _Snowbird_ around.\n\n\"What are you doing with that craft?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"That's our business,\" retorted Nat Poole.\n\n\"I think it is my business. That boat belongs to Messmer and Henshaw.\"\n\n\"We found it, and we are going to have a sail back to Oak Hall,\" said\nLink Merwell.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" answered Dave, decidedly.\n\n\"What's that?\" cried Merwell, sharply. He was a fellow used to having\nhis own way.\n\n\"I want that boat. I was with Messmer and Henshaw, and we left the craft\non the shore of an island. It's my opinion you two chaps ran off with\nher.\"\n\n\"See here, do you take me for a thief?\" cried Link Merwell. And in his\naggressive fashion he swaggered up to Dave.\n\n\"Not that, Merwell, but I think you took the ice-boat. I am going to\ntake her back, so I can get our crowd aboard.\"\n\n\"And what do you expect me to do?\" asked Nat Poole.\n\n\"You can skate back to the Hall.\"\n\n\"I lost one of my skates.\"\n\n\"Then let Merwell tow you on one foot.\"\n\n\"Oh, you needn't boss us around, Porter,\" growled Link Merwell. \"I'm not\nused to it, and I won't stand for it. Poole and I are going to the Hall\non the ice-boat, and that is all there is about it.\"\n\nHe drew himself up to his full height--he was four inches taller than\nDave--and glared down defiantly. This gave Nat Poole a little courage,\nand he ranged beside Merwell, and both doubled up their fists.\n\nThey fancied they could make Dave back down, but they were mistaken. The\nlad who had been brought up on a farm faced them fearlessly.\n\n\"There is no use of fighting about it,\" he said, as calmly as he could.\n\"You have no right to this ice-boat, and you know it. If you don't give\nit up perhaps I'll report you.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're a squealer, are you?\" sneered Link Merwell. \"It's about what\nI would expect from a boy brought up in a poorhouse.\"\n\nAt this uncalled-for and cutting remark Dave's face flamed. He took one\nstep forward and caught the tall youth by the arm, in a grip that seemed\nto be of steel and made Merwell wince.\n\n\"Are you going to bring that up?\" he asked, in a low voice. \"I should\nhave thought your friend Poole would have cautioned you that it wasn't\nhealthy to do so.\"\n\n\"Let go of my arm, Porter,\" and Merwell tried to pull himself free, but\nin vain. Dave's eyes were blazing like two stars and seemed to look the\ntall youth through and through.\n\n\"I am not letting go just yet, Merwell. I want you to answer my\nquestion.\"\n\n\"If you don't let go I'll knock you down!\" cried Link Merwell, in a\nrage.\n\n\"If you do, you'll get well punished for it. I allow nobody to talk to\nme as you have done.\"\n\n\"Want to fight?\"\n\n\"No; but I can defend myself--I guess Nat Poole knows that.\"\n\n\"Don't soil your hands on him, Link,\" said Poole. Even though they were\ntwo to one, he knew Dave's power and was afraid of him.\n\n\"He can't come it over me,\" answered Merwell. \"Let go!\" and then he\nhauled off and tried to hit Dave in the face.\n\nThe boy from the country was on guard, and ducked with a quickness that\nsurprised his antagonist. Then he gave Merwell's arm a twist that sent\nthe tall youth sprawling on the ice.\n\nThe new pupil was amazed, and it took him several seconds to recover\nhimself. He had not dreamed that Dave was so powerful, yet he threw\nprudence to the winds and rushed in, trying again to reach Dave's face\nwith his fist. But Dave skipped to one side, put out his foot, and again\nMerwell went down, on his hands and knees.\n\n\"I'll fix you!\" he roared, scrambling up, his face red with rage. \"I'll\nshow you what I can do! How do you like that, you poorhouse rat!\"\n\nThis time he hit Dave in the breast. The blow was a heavy one, but it\ndid not hurt nearly as much as did the words which accompanied it. They\nmade Dave shiver as if with ague, and, all in a blaze he could not curb,\nhe sprang towards Link Merwell. Out shot first one fist and then the\nother, the blows landing on the eye and chin of the tall youth. They\nmade him stagger back against the ice-boat. Then came a third blow, and\nMerwell gave a gasp, swayed from side to side, and would have fallen had\nnot Nat Poole caught him as he was going down.\n\n\"Stop, Porter; don't hit him again!\"\n\n\"Merwell, do you take back what you just said?\" demanded Dave, paying no\nattention to Nat Poole's remark.\n\nThere was an instant of silence. Link Merwell wanted to answer, but was\ntoo dazed to do so. Slowly and painfully he stood erect. His head was in\na whirl and one eye was rather rapidly closing.\n\n\"Merwell, are you going to take back what you said?\" demanded Dave,\nagain. And he held his fist ready to strike another blow.\n\n\"Ye--yes,\" stuttered Link Merwell. \"Do--don't hit me again!\" And then he\ncollapsed in a heap at Dave's feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE MEETING OF THE GEE EYES\n\n\nWhen Link Merwell went down again Dave looked at Nat Poole, thinking\nthat lad might possibly attack him. But the dudish fellow was too scared\nto do anything but back away to a safe distance.\n\n\"Don--don't you dare to hit me, Porter!\" he cried, in a trembling voice.\n\"Don't you dare! If you do I'll tell Doctor Clay!\"\n\n\"If you behave yourself I'll not lay my fingers on you, Nat Poole,\" was\nthe reply. \"Merwell brought this on himself--you know that as well as I\ndo.\"\n\n\"He's pretty badly hurt, I fear.\"\n\n\"Oh, he'll come around all right,\" answered Dave. \"You had better see to\nit that he gets to the Hall safely.\"\n\n\"Are you going to leave me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I want to find Henshaw and the others.\"\n\nNat Poole wanted to argue, but he did not dare. Dave waited until Link\nMerwell sat up and opened his eyes. Then he leaped on the ice-boat and\nflung off the three skates he found there.\n\n\"Going away?\" mumbled Merwell, when he could speak.\n\n\"Yes, and after this, Link Merwell, see that you keep a civil tongue in\nyour head,\" answered Dave, and then he trimmed the sail of the ice-boat,\nshoved the craft around, and started for the river.\n\nDave was a good deal \"worked up,\" but he had not deemed it wise to let\nhis enemies see it. To be called a \"poorhouse rat\" had stung him to the\nquick, and once again when touched on that subject he had found his\ntemper as ungovernable as ever.\n\n\"It's no use, I can't stand it,\" he told himself. \"If they want me to\nlet them alone they have got to cut that out.\"\n\nIt was now so dark that but little could be seen on the broad river.\nDave turned the craft towards Robber Island and made a long tack. He was\njust coming around on the other tack when there came a shout out of the\ndarkness.\n\n\"Don't run us down! Why, it's Dave!\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" was the reply. Then he saw Roger and the others, who\nhad started to walk to Oak Hall. They were soon beside the _Snowbird_,\nand the craft was headed for the school.\n\n\"So Poole and Merwell had her,\" observed Messmer, on the way. \"Did you\nhave any trouble making them give her up?\"\n\n\"Just a little,\" answered Dave, modestly.\n\n\"Tell us about it, Dave!\" cried the senator's son. \"Somebody told me\nMerwell was of the scrappy kind.\"\n\n\"I really don't like to talk about it,\" said Dave, his face clouding. \"I\nhad some words with Merwell and I knocked him down. Then he and Poole\nwere willing enough to let me take the ice-boat.\"\n\n\"You knocked Merwell down!\" exclaimed Henshaw. \"He's a big fellow.\"\n\n\"Dave isn't afraid of anybody,\" said Roger, in a tone of pride.\n\nIn the end Dave was compelled to tell his story, to which the others\nlistened with deep interest. They understood the boy from the country\nperfectly, and said the treatment received had served Link Merwell\nright.\n\nWhen they reached Oak Hall they were nearly an hour late. They expected\nJob Haskers would lecture them and give them extra lessons to do, but\nfortunately they found Andrew Dale, the head teacher, in charge. He\nlistened to their explanations with a smile.\n\n\"After this you mustn't go so far, or else start earlier,\" said the\ninstructor, and let them go in to supper.\n\n\"Gracious! what a difference between Mr. Dale and old Haskers,\" was\nDave's comment.\n\n\"I wish all the teachers were like Mr. Dale--and Doctor Clay,\" returned\nRoger.\n\nThe party were just finishing their evening meal when Nat Poole and Link\nMerwell slunk in. The tall youth had one eye nearly closed by the blow\nDave had delivered. He glared savagely at Dave, but said nothing.\n\n\"He'll chew you up--if he gets the chance,\" whispered Roger to Dave.\n\n\"Then I won't give him the chance,\" answered the other, with a quiet\nsmile.\n\nThe story soon circulated among the students that Merwell and Dave had\nhad a fight and the tall boy had gotten the worse of it. To this Dave\nsaid nothing, but Merwell explained to his friends that Porter had hit\nhim foul, taking him completely off his guard.\n\n\"The next time we meet you'll see him go down and out,\" added the tall\nboy. \"He won't be in it a minute after I once get at him.\"\n\nWord was sent to Mike Marcy about his mule, and the farmer sent an\nanswer back that the mule was now at home again, safe and sound. The\nmean fellow did not add one word of thanks for the information given to\nhim.\n\n\"That's like Marcy,\" said Dave. \"If he thanked me for anything I think\nI'd drop dead.\"\n\n\"Some men hardly know how to be civil,\" answered Phil.\n\nDuring the next few days word also came from Dodsworth Sadler that he\nwas on the trail of Blodgett and Volney and hoped to catch them before\nmany days. He added that he had evidence to convict the swindlers if he\ncould only lay his hands on them.\n\n\"That lets you and me out,\" said Dave to Gus Plum. \"I don't think you'll\never hear another word from the two rascals.\"\n\n\"If it hadn't been for you I should have paid them that money,\" said the\nformer bully, gratefully. \"And they would have kept me in their power if\nthey could.\"\n\nDave was anxiously awaiting a letter from his uncle, and when it came he\ncould scarcely take time to tear open the communication, so eager was he\nto know its contents. The letter was very brief and simply asked the boy\nto come home on the following Saturday, and added that if he really\nwanted to go to London he could do so. Dave was to show the letter to\nDoctor Clay, in order to get the necessary permission to leave the Hall.\n\n\"I shall be sorry to have you go, Master Porter,\" said the principal of\nthe academy. \"But I can understand how you feel about your father and\nsister, and it will perhaps be better for you to go in search of them\nthan to sit down here and be on pins and needles over it;\" and Doctor\nClay smiled kindly.\n\n\"Then you are really going to London!\" cried Phil, when he heard the\nnews. \"Wish I was going, too!\"\n\n\"So do I, Phil,\" answered Dave. \"We'd have as good a time as we did on\nyour father's ship in the South Seas.\"\n\n\"I am going to write to my folks about this at once,\" said Roger. His\nheart was set on going to England with his chum.\n\nAs soon as Dave's friends heard that he was going away once more,\nseveral began to plan a celebration for him.\n\n\"Let us hold a special meeting of the Gee Eyes, for Dave's benefit,\"\nsaid Sam Day; and so it was voted.\n\nThe Gee Eyes, as my old readers know, was a secret organization that had\nexisted at Oak Hall for a long time. The words stood for the two letters\nG and I, which in turn stood for the name of the club, Guess It. The\nclub was organized largely for fun, and this fun consisted mainly in the\ninitiation of new members.\n\nAt one time Gus Plum had been at the head of a rival organization called\nthe Dare Do Anything Club, but this had been broken up by Doctor Clay\nbecause of the unduly severe initiation of a small boy, named Frank\nBond, who had almost lost his reason thereby. Now Gus had applied for\nmembership in the Gee Eyes and had said that he would stand for any\ninitiation they offered.\n\n\"I have half a mind to take Plum up,\" said Phil Lawrence, who was the\nHonorable Muck-a-Muck, otherwise president, of the club. \"He deserves to\nbe put through a strong course of sprouts for what he did to Frank\nBond.\"\n\n\"All right, I am willing for one,\" said Buster Beggs, who was the\nsecretary, under the high-sounding title of Lord of the Penwiper. \"But\nwe will have to ask the others first.\"\n\nA canvass was made and it was decided to initiate Gus Plum on Friday\nnight, after which the club was to celebrate the departure of Dave in as\nfitting a style as the exchequer of the organization permitted. Plum was\nduly notified, and said he would be on hand as required. \"And you can do\nanything short of killing me,\" he added, with a grin.\n\n\"It will make Plum feel better if he suffers,\" said Dave. \"He hasn't got\nFrank Bond off his mind yet.\" Which statement was true. Plum and Bond\nhad made up, and the former bully now did all in his power to aid the\nsmall, timid fellow in his studies and otherwise.\n\nThe club met in an old boathouse down the river. It was a bright\nmoonlight night and about twenty members were present, all attired in\ntheir red robes and black hoods with yellow tassels. As before, some of\nthe members had wooden swords and others stuffed clubs. Around the\nboathouse were hung a number of pumpkin lanterns, cut out in imitation\nof skulls.\n\nFor the initiation of Gus Plum one of the club members had composed a\nnew chant, which was sung slowly and impressively as the former bully of\nOak Hall was led in by Buster Beggs and Sam Day.\n\n \"Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly dall!\n Here's the victim, see him fall!\n Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly dees!\n Down upon his bended knees!\n Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly deet!\n Bind his hands and bind his feet!\n Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly dive!\n Let us cut him up alive!\n\n \"Punch him, crunch him, smash him up!\n Let him drink the poison cup!\n Let him groan and let him rave\n As we put him in his grave!\"\n\nAs this strange doggerel was sung the masked students danced\nfantastically around Gus Plum, slapping him with their swords and clubs.\nThen of a sudden he was tripped up, bound hands and feet, and marched\nout of the boathouse. Here a bag was tied over his head, so that he\ncould not see a thing, although the bag had holes in the rear, so that\nhe would not be suffocated.\n\n\"To the river with him!\" came the loud command. \"An icy bath will do him\na world of good.\"\n\nNow if there was one thing Gus Plum hated, it was ice-cold water for\nbathing purposes, and the suggestion of such a bath, in the open air,\nwith the thermometer below the freezing point, caused him to shiver.\n\n\"Now, see here----\" he began, and then shut his lips tightly. Come what\nmight he resolved to utter no complaint.\n\n\"What sayest thou?\" demanded a voice by his side.\n\n\"Wouldst thou beg off?\" demanded another.\n\n\"No, I'll take my medicine, no matter what it is,\" answered the former\nbully, doggedly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nAN INTERRUPTED INITIATION\n\n\n\"He's full of grit this time,\" whispered Phil to Dave.\n\n\"Oh, Plum isn't the boy he used to be, I am certain of that,\" was the\nlow answer.\n\nBefore long the students reached a point on the river front where there\nwas a heavy clump of bushes. In a hollow between the bushes a fire had\nbeen built, and on the bushes had been hung some horse blankets, to keep\noff the wind.\n\nAs the members of the Gee Eyes reached the hollow they saw two boys\nwrapped up in overcoats stealing away into the woods close by.\n\n\"Hello, who are those chaps?\" cried Roger.\n\n\"One of them looked like Nat Poole to me,\" answered Dave.\n\n\"Wonder what they are doing here?\"\n\n\"Came to see what was going on, I suppose.\"\n\n\"I don't like fellows like Nat Poole to be hanging around,\" remarked\nBuster Beggs.\n\nThe fire had been burning low, but now it was stirred up and more dry\nbranches were piled on top, creating a roaring blaze. By the flickering\nglare the masked figures looked decidedly fantastic.\n\nUp to that moment the club members had been undecided what to do with\nGus Plum. Some were in favor of taking off his shoes and socks and\nletting him down into the river through a hole in the ice, wetting him\nup to his knees. Others wanted him to crawl on his hands and knees to\nanother spot on the river, quarter of a mile away. Still others wanted\nto make a snow house and shut him inside for awhile, letting him breathe\nthrough a piece of gaspipe which had been brought along. Others wanted\nhim to make a ten minutes' speech on \"What Mackerels Have Done for\nAstronomy,\" or some subject equally \"deep.\"\n\n\"Let us have the speech, at least first,\" suggested Dave.\n\n\"All right, give us the subject,\" answered Phil, after a consultation\nwith the other officers.\n\n\"All right, I will,\" answered Dave, after a moment's thought. \"Better\ntake the bag off his head first.\"\n\nThis was quickly removed, and Gus Plum was made to stand up on a rock\nclose to the fire.\n\n\"Wretch, listen!\" came from one of the masked figures. \"It is decreed\nthat thou must speak for ten minutes by the second-splitting watch on a\nsubject that shall be given to thee. Shouldst thou fail, it will be a\nwhacking with staves for thine. Dost thou agree?\"\n\n\"Speak on what?\"\n\n\"Here is the subject,\" said Dave, in a disguised voice that was thin and\npiping: \"If a Pail Lets Out Water When it Leaks, Why Doesn't a Boat Do\nthe Same Thing?\" And a snicker went round at this question.\n\n\"Thou hast heard the subject. Art prepared to discourse?\" asked one of\nthe Gee Eyes.\n\n\"Sure thing,\" answered Gus Plum, after a moment of thought. He struck an\nattitude. \"My subject is a most profound one, first broached by Cicero\nto Henry Clay, during the first trip of the beloved pair to Coney\nIsland.\"\n\n\"Hurrah! Hooroo!\" came from one of the club members.\n\n\"Cicero had been speaking to just such a crowd of convicts as I am now\naddressing--thieves, murderers, and those who had failed to shovel the\nsnow from their sidewalks during the months of July and August,\"\ncontinued Gus Plum.\n\n\"Convicts is good,\" murmured Roger.\n\n\"The boat running to Coney Island had slowed up to a walk, which caused\nCicero to grow impatient, as he wanted a ride on the shoot-the-chutes.\nHenry Clay, along with Napoleon and a Roman sausage-maker named\nHannibal, were in the bow of the craft trying to solve the fifteen\npuzzle by the aid of a compass and a book on etiquette. Suddenly a\ngreat commotion arose to a height of a mile or more. The boat sank to\nthe bottom of the sea, turned over three times, and came to the surface\nagain. A shriek arose from one of the ladies, Cleopatra's waiting-maid:\n'I have lost my knitting overboard.' 'Man the pumps!' cried Cicero, and\nthen tied his sandals around his neck for a life-preserver. Henry Clay\ndrew a Henry Clay from his pocket and began to smoke vigorously.\nHannibal said he would turn cannibal if the boat went down again.\nCleopatra said she would die happy if only they would start up the\nphonograph, and Homer did so, with that beautiful ode entitled, 'Why Eat\nTurkey When Corned Beef Is So Cheap?'\"\n\n\"Where's the pail that leaked?\" came from the crowd.\n\n\"Stick to the subject.\"\n\n\"Is the boat leaking yet?\"\n\n\"Be not afraid,\" answered Gus Plum, solemnly. \"By the chronometer I have\nstill seven minutes before the boat and pail sink out of sight forever.\nHowever, the pail was there, sitting, like a hen, on the larboard mast,\nfilled with gooseberries, which Pocahontas had picked at dawn, in\ncompany with General Grant and King Henry the Sixty-second. Looking at\nthis pail, John Paul Jones slapped his sailor thigh and asked, 'Why is a\ngooseberry?' a question which has come resounding down the ages---- Oh,\nthunder! Do you want to blow me to pieces!\"\n\nCrack! bang! crack! boom! came four loud reports, and the fire was\nscattered in all directions. _Bang!_ came another report, and Dave\nreceived some burning fagots in the face. Gus Plum was hurled from the\nrock upon which he had been standing. _Boom!_ came a report louder than\nany of the rest, and what was left of the camp-fire flew up in the air\nas if a volcano were under it.\n\n[Illustration: What was left of the camp-fire flew up in the air. _Page\n120._]\n\nAll of the club members were dumbfounded, for nobody had expected\nanything of this sort. Half a dozen of the boys had gone down and in a\ntwinkling the robes Roger and Ben wore were in flames. The fire lay in\nall directions, and now came two smaller reports and Dave saw a\nfair-sized fire-cracker fly apart.\n\n\"Somebody put fire-crackers under the fire,\" he cried. \"Big ones and\nlittle ones.\" And then, seeing Ben in flames, he rushed to the\nassistance of his chum.\n\nIt was no easy matter to put out the fire, and before Ben was out of\ndanger Dave got a blister on one hand. In the meantime Gus Plum had\nleaped towards Roger.\n\n\"Roll over!\" he cried, and tripped the senator's son up. Then he began\nto beat the flames out with his hands and with the bag that had been\nover his head. Roger had gotten some hot ashes in his face, and he\nwas confused and half blinded thereby.\n\nThe excitement lasted nearly five minutes, and when it was over the boys\nstood there with their hoods and robes off, gazing at each other\nnervously.\n\n\"Who did this?\" demanded Phil.\n\n\"That was too much of a good thing,\" said Shadow. \"Why, some of us might\nhave been burned to death.\"\n\n\"Kind of rough initiation,\" remarked Gus Plum, dryly. \"But I didn't\ncatch it as much as Roger and Ben.\"\n\n\"That wasn't down on the programme,\" returned Dave. \"At least, it wasn't\nso far as I am concerned.\"\n\n\"I didn't know of it!\" cried Buster Beggs.\n\n\"Nor I!\" \"Nor I!\" came from one after another of the other members of\nthe Gee Eyes.\n\n\"Who started the fire?\" asked Phil.\n\n\"I did,\" answered Sam Day. \"I just got some wood together and lit it,\nthat's all.\"\n\n\"Was there anything on the ground?\"\n\n\"Not a thing, so far as I noticed.\"\n\n\"Here is part of a big cannon cracker,\" said Dave, holding up the still\nburning paper. \"That was big enough to blow off a fellow's hand or\nfoot.\"\n\n\"Say, don't you remember those fellows we saw running away!\" exclaimed\nRoger.\n\n\"To be sure!\" was the quick answer. \"Nat Poole was one.\"\n\n\"Who was the other?\"\n\n\"He looked like Link Merwell to me,\" said Buster Beggs.\n\n\"Then we've got an account to settle with Poole and Merwell,\" said\nRoger. \"Just look at how my hands and my neck are blistered!\"\n\n\"And my hand,\" said Ben. \"Oh, how it smarts! I'll have to put some oil\nand flour on it.\"\n\n\"Let us declare Plum's initiation finished,\" said Phil. \"Then we can\nhunt up those fellows who played this dirty trick on us.\"\n\nPhil's suggestion was at once adopted, and the club members scattered\nthrough the woods, to look for those who had hidden themselves. In a\nvery few minutes Sam Day set up a shout:\n\n\"Here is one of them!\"\n\n\"And here is the other!\" called out Gus Plum and Ben, simultaneously.\n\n\"You let go of me, Sam Day!\" came in the voice of Nat Poole. \"I didn't\ndo anything! Let me go!\"\n\n\"You come along with me, Nat Poole,\" answered Sam, sternly. \"Just look\nhow that hand is burnt!\" And in his anger Sam gave the other boy a smart\nbox on the ear.\n\n\"Oh! Don't, please don't.\"\n\n\"You'll yell worse than that when we are through with you,\" answered\nSam.\n\n\"You bet he will,\" said Buster Beggs. \"I got a hot cinder in my right\neye.\"\n\n\"Don't, please don't!\" shrieked Nat Poole. He was a coward at heart, and\nthe attitude of those around filled him with sudden terror. \"I didn't do\nit, I tell you.\"\n\n\"Then who did?\" demanded Dave.\n\n\"Oh, I--I can't tell you. I--I----\"\n\n\"Yes, you can tell,\" said Shadow, and gave Poole's ear a twist. The\nstory-teller of the school had gotten some hot ashes in his mouth, which\nhad put him in anything but a gentle humor.\n\n\"It was Link Merwell. He put the crackers under the fire and let the\nfuses stick up,\" said Poole.\n\n\"You're a fine sort to blab!\" sneered Merwell. \"Since you're willing to\ntell so much, I'll tell something too. He bought the fire-crackers.\"\n\n\"Is that true, Poole?\" questioned Roger.\n\n\"Ye--yes, but I--I didn't know----\"\n\n\"He knew what I was going to do with them,\" broke in Link Merwell. \"It\nwas only a joke.\"\n\n\"So is that a joke, Merwell,\" answered Roger, and hauling off he boxed\nthe tall youth's right ear. \"If you want to make anything out of it, do\nso. Look at my hands and neck. You went too far.\"\n\nMerwell's face blazed and he looked as if he wished to annihilate the\nsenator's son.\n\n\"Humph! I suppose you think you can do as you please, with your own\ncrowd around you,\" he muttered. \"You don't know how to take a joke.\"\n\n\"I can take a joke as well as anybody, but not such a perilous trick as\nthat.\"\n\n\"It's on a par with the joke of the fellow who put gunpowder in a poor\nIrishman's pipe,\" broke in Shadow. \"It put the Irishman's eyes out. I\ndon't see any fun in that.\"\n\n\"I think we ought to give them both a good licking!\" cried a boy named\nJason, and without more ado he took his wooden sword and gave Poole a\nwhack across the back. Then he turned and whacked Merwell.\n\nIt was a signal for a general use of the wooden swords and stuffed\nclubs, and in a moment the two unlucky students were surrounded, and\nblows fell thick and fast. Poole yelled like a wild Indian, but Merwell\nset his teeth and said nothing, only striking back with his fists when\nhe got the chance. Dave took no part in the onslaught, nor did Ben and\nPhil. As soon as he saw a chance Nat Poole ran for his life. Link\nMerwell stood his ground a little longer, then he too retreated, shaking\nhis fist at the members of the Gee Eyes.\n\n\"Just wait!\" he fairly hissed. \"I'll get square for this, if it takes me\na lifetime!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nGOOD-BYE TO OAK HALL\n\n\n\"I'll wager Merwell is the maddest boy Oak Hall ever saw!\" said Shadow,\nwhen the excitement had subsided.\n\n\"Poole is a sneak, and no mistake,\" said Sam. \"I wonder if he'll go and\ntell old Haskers or Doctor Clay?\"\n\n\"He won't dare--for he is afraid we will tell about the fire-crackers,\"\nanswered Dave. \"Yes, he is a sneak.\"\n\n\"I don't see, now, how I could ever make a friend of him,\" declared Gus\nPlum. \"Now, in one way, I like Merwell--he's a fighter and he doesn't\ncare who knows it.\"\n\n\"Yes, but he's got a wicked temper,\" observed Roger. \"He reminds me of\nNick Jasniff. They would make a team.\"\n\n\"Where did he come from, anyway?\" questioned Messmer.\n\n\"From some ranch out West. His father is a big cattle-owner. He is used\nto life in the open air, and one of the fellows says he can ride like\nthe wind.\"\n\n\"We must watch him,\" declared Phil.\n\n\"I can't do that--since I am going away,\" answered Dave. \"I'll have to\nleave you chaps to fight it out.\"\n\n\"Do you think they'll come back or send Haskers?\" asked Buster Beggs.\n\n\"It might be wise to leave this spot,\" answered Phil. \"There are plenty\nof places we can go to.\"\n\nIt was decided to move, and several baskets which had been stored away\nin the bushes were brought forth.\n\n\"I've got an idea!\" cried Henshaw. \"Let us go to that old barn on the\nBaggot place. Nobody will disturb us there.\"\n\n\"I want to fix up my burns first,\" said Roger.\n\n\"So do I,\" said Ben. \"Come on to the Hall--we can join the crowd later.\"\n\nSo it was arranged, and while the senator's son and Ben went off in one\ndirection the remaining members of the Gee Eyes took another, which led\nthem over a small hill and through an old apple orchard.\n\nThe Baggot place had not been used for several years. The house was\nnailed up, but the big barn stood wide open and had often been the\nresort of tramps. But during the hunt for the robber, Pud Frodel, and\nhis tool, all the tramps had been rounded up and driven away.\n\nSeveral of the students had brought their pumpkin lanterns with them,\nand these were hung up on convenient nails.\n\n\"Say, a small stove wouldn't go bad,\" suggested Messmer. \"It's mighty\ncold in here.\"\n\n\"Let us settle down in some hay,\" suggested Phil. \"That will keep us\nwarm, especially if we shut the doors and windows tight.\"\n\nThe baskets which had been brought along were filled with good things,\nand these were speedily passed around. The boys fell to eating with\navidity, for the adventures of the evening had made them hungry. Then\nDave was called upon for a speech.\n\n\"I hardly know what to say, fellow-students,\" he began, after a cheering\nand hand-clapping. \"You have treated me royally to-night, and I do not\nintend to forget your kindness. I am sorry that I am going to leave you,\nbut you all know what is taking me away----\"\n\n\"We do, and we hope you'll find your folks,\" put in Phil.\n\n\"So say we all of us!\" sang out Henshaw.\n\n\"If I am successful in my search perhaps I'll return to Oak Hall before\na great while,\" continued Dave. \"In the meantime I trust you all have\ngood times, and that you may have no more trouble with our enemies. More\nthan this, as I expect to be away during the holidays, I wish each one a\nMerry Christmas and a Happy New Year!\"\n\nAs Dave concluded there was a round of applause, and the club members\ndrank his health in lemon soda and sarsaparilla. Then some nuts and\nraisins were passed around, and all prepared to return to Oak Hall.\n\n\"We've got to go in quietly, or else there may be trouble,\" said Phil.\n\"Remember, we don't know what Merwell and Poole will do.\"\n\nThere was no trouble, however, for which Dave was thankful, since he\nwished to leave the Hall with a clean record. As soon as he reached his\ndormitory he went to bed, and so did the other occupants of the\napartment. And thus his schooldays, for the time being, came to an end.\n\nHe was up bright and early and by nine o'clock was ready to enter the\nsleigh that was to take him to Oakdale station. The boys gathered around\nto see him off.\n\n\"I wish I was going with you,\" said Phil. \"You must write me regularly.\"\n\n\"I'll do that, Phil. And you must tell me all about what happens here.\"\n\n\"Remember, Dave, I'll join you if I possibly can,\" said Roger. \"Let me\nknow where I can telegraph or telephone you.\"\n\n\"Sure, Roger, and if you can join me I'll like it first-rate.\"\n\nAn hour later Dave was on the train and speeding towards Crumville. He\nhad sent word ahead when he would arrive, and at the station he found\nthe Wadsworth sleigh, with Caspar Potts and Jessie Wadsworth awaiting\nhim. The old professor looked hale and hearty, although his form was\nslightly bent and his hair was gray and white. Jessie, round-cheeked and\nrosy, was the picture of health and beauty.\n\n\"There he is! There's Dave!\" cried the miss, and leaped to the sidewalk\nto shake hands.\n\n\"Why, how tall you are getting, Jessie,\" said the boy, and then blushed,\nfor the handshake she gave him was a very cordial one. \"How do you do,\nProfessor?\" And he shook hands with the man who had done so much for him\nin his younger years.\n\n\"I am very well indeed, Dave,\" answered Professor Potts. \"Will you sit\nup here by me, or with Miss Jessie?\"\n\n\"Dave must come in with me,\" said Jessie, promptly.\n\n\"Did my Uncle Dunston come?\" questioned the boy, looking around, for he\nhad fully expected to see his relative.\n\n\"No, he has a touch of rheumatism in his left knee,\" answered Caspar\nPotts.\n\n\"That's too bad.\"\n\nDave assisted Jessie to a seat and then got in beside her, and tucked in\nthe handsome fur robe. Off went the team at a spanking gait, past the\nstores of the town and then in the direction of the Wadsworth mansion.\nMany looked at Dave as he rode by and thought him a lucky boy--and he\ncertainly was lucky, and thankful for it.\n\nThe mansion reached, Dave was warmly greeted by Mrs. Wadsworth, and,\nlater on, by Mr. Wadsworth, who had been to his large jewelry works on\nbusiness. The lad found his Uncle Dunston in his room, in an easy-chair,\nwith his rheumatic leg resting on a low stool.\n\n\"It's not so very bad, Dave,\" said Dunston Porter, after their greeting\nwas over. \"I hope to be around again before long. But it is too bad it\nshould come on at this time, when I had hoped to go to London with you.\"\n\nDave sat down, and a conversation lasting the best part of an hour\nensued. The boy told all he knew about Nick Jasniff, and showed the\nletter which Gus Plum had received. Dunston Porter said he had sent\nseveral cablegrams to London, but so far had heard nothing of\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"I even sent a money order to this Nick Jasniff, thinking he might try\nto get it cashed, but the order has not been called for. The money was\ncabled to London and then put in a letter for the General Delivery\ndepartment. Evidently this Jasniff is keeping shady, or otherwise he has\nleft the city or is living under an assumed name.\"\n\n\"I know pretty much the sort of a chap he is,\" said Dave. \"He likes to\ngo to the theater, and he was a great chap to bowl. If I go over there I\nam going to hunt up the bowling places, if there are any, and take a\nlook in at the different theaters. If he is in London I ought to run\nacross him some day. And I'll try finding him by letter and by a notice\nin the newspapers, too.\"\n\nDave was a very busy boy for the next few days, perfecting his plans to\nvisit England. Yet he managed to spend several happy hours with the\nothers and especially with Jessie, who now acted more like a young lady\nthan a girl. Truth to tell, Dave thought a great deal of the rich\nmanufacturer's daughter, and Jessie seemed always to want him around,\nthat they might sing together, or play games, or go out for a\nsleigh-ride.\n\n\"You mustn't forget us when you are in London,\" said Jessie. \"I want you\nto send me some postal cards--the picture kind.\"\n\n\"I'll send you one every day,\" replied Dave. \"The very nicest I can\nfind.\"\n\n\"With pictures of the places you visit?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then you must tell me about the places in your letters.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to write?\"\n\n\"Of course, and I'll write too,\" said Jessie, and gave him one of her\nsunniest smile. Dave thought of that smile long afterwards--when he was\nin London and in the far northland--and it always brightened him in\nspirits.\n\nOn the day before his departure Dave received a telegram from Roger. It\nwas short and characteristic:\n\n \"Hurrah! Engage stateroom for two. What steamer?\"\n\n\"Good for Roger!\" cried Dave, as he showed the message to his uncle. \"He\nhas permission to go with me. Now I won't be lonely.\"\n\n\"I am glad to know he is going along,\" said Dunston Porter. \"Not but\nthat I know you can take care of yourself, Dave.\"\n\nDave at once sent word to New York, to the steamship office, and by\nnight the matter of a stateroom for two was arranged. Then he sent word\nto Roger where his chum could meet him.\n\nHe spent a quiet evening at the Wadsworth mansion. Jessie and the others\ndid what they could to cheer him, but they realized what was on his\nmind.\n\n\"Oh, Dave, I do so hope you will find your father and your sister!\" said\nJessie, on bidding him good-night. \"I want to know Laura; I know I shall\nlove her--for your sake!\" And then she ran off. Dave watched her mount\nthe stairs and disappear in her room, and then he retired to his own\napartment, more thoughtful than ever, yet with a warm feeling in his\nheart that was peculiar to itself, for it only came when he saw Jessie\nor was thinking of her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nDAVE AND ROGER IN LONDON\n\n\n\"Off at last!\"\n\n\"Yes, Roger, and I am not sorry for it.\"\n\n\"And just to think, Dave, inside of a week we'll be in England! It\ndoesn't seem possible.\"\n\nThe two boys were standing on the deck of the great steamer, watching\nthe last sight of New York City as it faded from view. Mr. Wadsworth and\nCaspar Potts had come down to see them off, and all had had a fine meal\ntogether at the old Astor House.\n\nIt was a clear, cold day, and the boys were glad enough to button their\novercoats as they remained on deck watching the last bit of land\ndisappear from view. Then they swept by the Sandy Hook lightship and out\ninto the broad Atlantic, rolling majestically in the bright sunlight.\n\nBy good luck Dave had managed to obtain a first-class stateroom, and the\nchums felt very comfortable when they settled down in the apartment. But\nthey did not know a soul on board, and it was not until the second day\nout that they made a few acquaintances.\n\n\"I think we are going to have a fine trip over,\" said the senator's son,\non the evening of the second day. \"Don't you think so, Dave?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you better when we reach the other side,\" answered the boy\nfrom the country, with a laugh. \"I don't know much about the Atlantic.\nWhen we were traveling on the Pacific I know the weather changed very\nquickly sometimes.\"\n\nThat very night came a heavy blow and by morning the seas were running\nhigh. The air was piercing cold, and everybody was glad enough to remain\nin the cabins. Dave, returning from the ship's library with a volume on\ntravels in England, found Roger had gone to their stateroom.\n\n\"Seasick, I'll wager a new hat,\" he said to himself, and hurried to the\napartment. Sure enough, the senator's son was on his berth and as pale\nas death.\n\n\"Can I do anything?\" asked Dave, kindly.\n\n\"Nothing,\" groaned Roger. \"Only make the boat stop for a minute--just\none minute, Dave!\"\n\n\"I would if I could, Roger. But maybe you'll get over it soon,\" he\nadded, sympathetically.\n\n\"Perhaps--after my insides have had their merry-go-round ride,\" was the\nmournful reply.\n\nFortunately the heavy blow did not last long, and by the morning of the\nfourth day the Atlantic was comparatively calm. Dave had not been\nseasick in the least, and he was glad to see his chum come around once\nmore. Roger greeted him with a faint smile.\n\n\"I was going to fight against it,\" said the senator's son. \"But when it\ncaught me I had to give in first clip. O dear! I don't see what\nseasickness was invented for!\" And he said this so seriously that Dave\nwas forced to laugh outright.\n\nAs soon as it had been decided that he was to go to London, Dave had\nbegun to study up about the place, so that he might not be \"too green\"\nwhen he arrived there. He had two guide-books, and on the steamship he\nmet several people who were only too willing to give him all the\ninformation at their command.\n\n\"London isn't New York, my boy,\" said one old gentleman to whom he\nspoke. \"It's larger and it's different. But if you're used to big cities\nyou'll soon find yourself at home there.\"\n\nSoon the two boys were watching for a sight of land, and when it came\nthey learned that they were in the English Channel and nearing the Isle\nof Wight. Here there was plenty of shipping, from all parts of the\nworld, and they passed several other big liners, bound for Boston, New\nYork, Philadelphia, and Southern ports.\n\n\"This is certainly the age of travel,\" was Dave's comment, as they\nwatched the boats pass. \"Everybody seems to be going somewhere.\"\n\nBy the time they reached Southampton there was great bustle on board.\nCustom House regulations had to be met, after which Dave and Roger took\ntheir first ride in an English railway coach and soon reached the\ngreatest city of the world. They had brought with them only their\nlargest dress-suit cases, and these they carried.\n\nThey had already decided to go to a small but comfortable hotel called\nthe Todham. A cabman was handy, who had their dress-suit cases almost\nbefore they knew it.\n\n\"What's the fare to the hotel?\" demanded Dave.\n\nThe Jehu said several shillings, but when Dave shook his head the fellow\ncut the price in half and they sprang in and were off. The brief ride\nwas an interesting one, and they could not help but contrast the sights\nto be seen with those of New York and Chicago.\n\n\"It's certainly different,\" said Roger. \"But I guess we can make\nourselves at home.\"\n\nThe hotel was in the vicinity of Charing Cross, and the two boys\nobtained an elegant apartment looking down on the busy street. They were\nglad to rest over Sunday, only going out in the morning to attend\nservices at one of the great churches.\n\n\"Well, Dave, now you are here, how are you going to start to look for\nNick Jasniff?\" questioned Roger. \"It seems to me that it will be a good\ndeal like looking for a needle in a haystack.\"\n\n\"I am going to advertise and then try all the leading hotels,\" was the\nanswer. \"I have a list of them here. If you want to help, you can visit\none group of them while I visit another.\"\n\nThe senator's son was willing, and they started off without delay.\nDuring the day Dave rode around to exactly twenty-two places, but at\neach hostelry was met with the reply that no such person as Nicholas\nJasniff had registered there.\n\n\"One day wasted,\" he sighed, but altered his opinion when he rejoined\nhis chum.\n\n\"Jasniff was at the Hotel Silverin,\" said Roger. \"But he left there a\nlittle over two weeks ago.\"\n\n\"Did he leave any directions for forwarding mail?\"\n\n\"Yes, here is the address.\" The senator's son drew a notebook from his\npocket. \"43, Pulford Road, Noxham.\"\n\n\"Let us look up the place,\" went on Dave, eagerly, and got out his map\nof London and its suburbs. It was in the northern end of the metropolis,\nand they found a railway running in that direction.\n\n\"We can't go to-night very well, but we can try it the first thing in\nthe morning,\" said Dave; and so it was decided.\n\nOn arriving in the vicinity of 43, Pulford Road, the two youths found\nthe neighborhood anything but first-class. The houses were old and\ndirty-looking and had about them a general air of neglect.\n\n\"What do you want?\" demanded the tall and angular woman who answered\ntheir summons at the door.\n\n\"Good-morning, madam,\" said Dave, politely. \"I am looking for a young\ngentleman named Nicholas Jasniff. I believe he boards here.\"\n\n\"Oh, so that's it,\" said the woman. She eyed Dave and Roger in a\nsuspicious manner. \"Who told you he was boarding here?\"\n\n\"We heard so down at our hotel.\"\n\n\"He isn't here--he went away last week--owing me one pound six,\" was the\nspiteful answer. \"I wish I had my hands on him. It's Kate Clever would\nteach him a lesson, the scamp!\"\n\n\"So he ran away owing you some board money?\" said Roger.\n\n\"He did that.\"\n\n\"And you haven't any idea where he is?\"\n\n\"I have and I haven't. Are you friends of his?\"\n\n\"Not exactly, but we wish very much to find him.\"\n\n\"I am not the one to do him a favor--after him treating me so shabbily,\"\nsaid the woman, spitefully.\n\n\"You'll not be doing him a favor,\" returned Dave. \"To tell you the\ntruth, I want to catch him for some other wrong he's been doing.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's it, is it?\" The woman became more interested. \"You are from\nthe States, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He was from the States. He pretended that he wasn't, but I knew\ndifferently. He got letters from America--I saw one of them.\"\n\n\"And where did he go, if you please?\" asked Dave.\n\nThe tall woman drew up her angular shoulders and pursed up her thin\nlips.\n\n\"If you'll pay that board money I'll help you to find him.\"\n\n\"Very well, if we find him I'll pay you the one pound and six\nshillings,\" answered Dave. He did not wish to waste time that might be\nvaluable.\n\n\"Come in the parlor and I'll tell you what I know,\" said Kate Clever.\n\nThey entered the little musty and dusty parlor, with its old haircloth\nfurniture and its cheap bric-a-brac. The woman dusted two of the chairs\nwith her apron and told them to be seated.\n\n\"I am a poor widow,\" she explained. \"I have to make my living by taking\nboarders. This Jasniff paid me only one week's board. He said he\nexpected to get some money, but while I was waiting he took his bag and\nbox and slipped away one day when I was to market.\"\n\n\"I thought he had plenty of money,\" said Roger. \"He ran away with\nenough.\"\n\n\"Ran away with enough? Was he a thief?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"O dear! Then I am glad he is out of my house. Really! we might all have\nbeen murdered in our beds!\" And the woman held up her thin hands in\nhorror.\n\nAfter that she told what she could of Nick Jasniff. She said he had\nspent a good part of his time, both day and night, down in the heart of\nLondon, visiting the theaters and other places of amusement. Once he had\ncomplained of being robbed of his pocketbook on a tram-car, and again he\nhad lost himself in Cheapside and fallen in with some thugs who had\ntried to carry him into an alleyway. In the fight that followed he had\nhad an eye blackened and the sleeve torn from his coat. She had sewed on\nthe sleeve again, but he had paid her nothing for the work.\n\n\"He spoke once of visiting an old friend named Chesterfield, who lived\nin Siddingate,\" said the woman. \"He said he might meet his father there.\nMaybe if you can find this Chesterfield you'll find him.\"\n\n\"We can try, anyway,\" answered Dave. \"Is that all you can tell about\nhim?\"\n\n\"I don't know of much else, Mr.---- I haven't learned your name yet.\"\n\n\"My name is David Porter. This is my friend Roger Morr.\"\n\n\"Porter? Why, I've heard that name somewhere.\" The woman mused for a\nmoment. \"Why, yes, Nicholas Jasniff had a friend by that name--a\ngentleman much older than you.\"\n\n\"A friend!\" gasped Dave. \"Oh, that can't be true, Mrs. Clever!\"\n\n\"Well, I heard him say something about a man named Porter. They had met\nsomewhere--I think in London. The man had a daughter named Laura, and I\nthink this Jasniff had been calling upon her.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nSOME IMPORTANT INFORMATION\n\n\nDave felt like groaning when he heard Mrs. Clever's words. Then what\nJasniff had written in the letter to Gus Plum was true--he had met Mr.\nPorter and Laura. Had he tried to set himself up as a friend? It was\nmore than likely.\n\n\"And father and Laura don't know what a rascal he is,\" Dave murmured to\nhis chum. \"Oh, I feel as if I could wring his neck! For all I know, he\nhas been making himself agreeable to my sister. Isn't it enough to make\none's blood boil?\"\n\n\"It certainly is, Dave. But I fancy your sister will soon be able to\nsize up such a fellow as Jasniff.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, although he can be very oily when he wants to be. Oh, if only\nI knew where my folks were!\" sighed the boy from the country.\n\nMrs. Clever could tell nothing more about Nick Jasniff or about the\nPorters. But she promised to send Dave word if she heard anything, and\nseeing that she was poor Dave paid her the money out of which Jasniff\nhad swindled her, about six dollars and a half. Then the two youths took\ntheir departure, stating they might call again.\n\n\"Let me know beforehand,\" said Mrs. Clever, \"and I'll treat you\nhandsome-like.\" She offered them some cakes and ale, but they politely\ndeclined the refreshments.\n\nFrom the woman they learned the easiest way to reach Siddingate, and\narrived at that London suburb shortly after the dinner-hour. Here they\nprocured a hearty meal at the leading hotel and from a directory learned\nthat six Chesterfields lived in that vicinity--one an ironmonger,\notherwise a hardware dealer; another a draper, that is, a dry-goods\nmerchant; and a third a stoker, which meant that he was a locomotive\nfireman. The other three were not put down as in business.\n\n\"I don't think we'll try to hunt up the stoker,\" said Dave. \"Most likely\nhe's off on a run. We can try the storekeepers and then the others.\"\n\nThe ironmonger, a burly, red-faced man, had never heard of Jasniff, but\nthe draper, while he did not know anybody of that name, said that one of\nthe other Chesterfields, whose first name was Philip, had some relatives\nin the United States, including some folks who were now traveling either\nin England or Scotland.\n\n\"Thank you; we'll hunt him up,\" said Dave. \"Where does he live?\"\n\n\"Any cabman can tell you,\" was the answer. \"Better ride out--it's a cold\nwalk.\"\n\nIt was cold, with the snow covering the ground to the depth of two\ninches or more. The air was very raw, and a regular London fog was\nsettling down over the land.\n\nA cabman was readily found, and inside of a few minutes they were on\ntheir way to the Philip Chesterfield estate. From the driver they\nlearned that this Chesterfield was an old man, rather peculiar in his\nways, and that he entertained visitors but seldom.\n\n\"It would be queer for Nick Jasniff to visit such a man,\" remarked Dave.\n\"But I don't want to let any chance of locating him slip by.\"\n\n\"Nick may be glad enough to get a roof over his head, if his money is\ngone,\" answered Roger.\n\nThe cab presently turned up a side road and approached the stone wall of\na fair-sized estate, the mansion of which stood back in a patch of old\ntrees. As they entered the gateway Dave saw a door open and a boy came\nout on a veranda.\n\n\"There he is!\" he gasped. \"There is Nick now!\"\n\n\"You're right!\" exclaimed the senator's son. \"This is luck, and no\nmistake.\"\n\nAs the cab came closer Nick Jasniff gazed at it curiously, to see whom\nit might contain. Not to be recognized too quickly, Dave kept his face\naverted and cautioned his chum to do the same.\n\n\"Say! I say----\" began the youth who had run away, when Dave leaped out\nand confronted him. \"Whe--where did you come from?\"\n\n\"From Oak Hall,\" answered Dave, coolly. \"I fancy you didn't expect to\nsee me so soon, Jasniff.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" The runaway boy did not know what to say. \"I--er---- Been\nfollowing me up, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"You didn't expect me, did you?\" put in Roger, with a grin.\n\n\"I didn't,\" growled Nick Jasniff. \"Any more?\" and he gazed anxiously\ninto the cab, half expecting an officer of the law to put in an\nappearance.\n\n\"No more just now,\" said Dave, with peculiar emphasis.\n\n\"What do you want?\" Jasniff was gradually regaining his self-possession.\n\n\"I want a whole lot of things,\" answered Dave. \"Do you want to do your\ntalking here or in the house?\" And he glanced at the cab driver, who was\nstaring at the boys with his mouth open in curiosity.\n\n\"You can come in, if you wish,\" was the awkward answer; and Nick Jasniff\nled the way into the old mansion, which was semi-dark and not more than\nhalf warmed. \"Do you know who lives here?\" he continued.\n\n\"Your relative, Philip Chesterfield,\" answered Roger.\n\n\"Humph! He's a great-uncle of mine and very old. He is down with gout.\nCome into the library. We needn't disturb him.\"\n\nThey filed into the apartment mentioned, a long, low room, the walls of\nwhich were lined with shelves filled with musty volumes. Dave kept his\neyes on Jasniff, and this the runaway noticed.\n\n\"Think I'm going to skip?\" he queried, sourly.\n\n\"I'll not give you the chance,\" was the ready answer.\n\n\"You think you've got me foul, don't you?\"\n\n\"Doesn't it look like it?\"\n\n\"You can't make me go back to the United States.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I can.\"\n\n\"My folks have settled up that Pud Frodel affair for me--did it only a\nfew days ago.\"\n\n\"But they didn't settle up with Mrs. Clever. She was swindled out of\nsome board money.\"\n\n\"I--er--I was going to send her that money to-day.\"\n\n\"Then you had better pay me, for I settled the account,\" answered Dave.\n\"But let us drop this talk for the present, Jasniff. I want you to tell\nme all you know about my father and my sister.\"\n\n\"Humph! I haven't got to tell you anything if I don't want to.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have got to!\" cried Dave. A dangerous gleam came into his\neyes. \"Out with it at once. Where is my father?\"\n\n\"See here, Porter, I don't propose to be bullied. I----\"\n\n\"You answer my question, Nick Jasniff. If you don't I'll call in an\nofficer at once and have you placed under arrest.\"\n\n\"You can't do it.\"\n\n\"I can and will. If I can't have you held on one charge I'll have you\nheld on another. I want the truth from you, and I want it right away.\"\n\nDave had followed Nick Jasniff to a window, and faced the runaway with\nsuch sternness and determination that the latter cowed before him.\n\n\"I--er--that is, your father went north, last week.\"\n\n\"Where to?\"\n\n\"He said he was going to Christiania, Norway.\"\n\n\"Christiania, Norway?\" repeated Dave. He knew there was such a place,\nbut that was all. \"What for?\"\n\n\"Oh, he was interested in an expedition that was going to the upper\ninterior--some kind of a scientific expedition, I think. He was full of\nit--said they hoped to make all kinds of discoveries.\"\n\n\"Whose expedition was it?\"\n\n\"It was gotten up by two men named Lapham and Hausermann.\"\n\n\"I read about that expedition!\" cried Roger. \"There was an account of it\nin this morning's _Times_.\"\n\n\"When was it to start?\" asked Dave, anxiously.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Do you know, Jasniff?\"\n\n\"Not exactly--some time this week, I think.\"\n\n\"Was my sister Laura going with my father?\" went on Dave, anxiously.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Where is she?\"\n\n\"I give it up.\"\n\n\"Jasniff, tell me the truth!\" And again Dave looked at the runaway\nsternly.\n\n\"I don't know where she is.\"\n\n\"You met her.\"\n\n\"Certainly--half a dozen times.\"\n\n\"How did you get acquainted with my folks?\"\n\n\"Oh, I met them by accident, and as soon as I learned who they were I\nintroduced myself and said I knew your uncle Dunston Porter.\"\n\n\"What did you say about me?\" and now Dave was more anxious than ever.\n\n\"I--er--I----\"\n\n\"Come, out with it, and tell the exact truth, Jasniff, or it will be the\nworse for you.\"\n\n\"I--er--I didn't mention you,\" stammered the runaway. He could scarcely\nbring himself to speak the words.\n\n\"You didn't!\"\n\n\"What! do you mean to say you met Mr. Porter and his daughter and didn't\nlet them know that Dave was alive and that he was looking for them?\"\ndemanded Roger.\n\n\"It wasn't my business to tell them,\" answered Jasniff, doggedly.\n\n\"Nick Jasniff, you are the meanest fellow I ever met in my whole life!\"\nburst out the senator's son. \"For two pins I'd give you the worst\nthrashing you ever received. Didn't you know how happy it would make Mr.\nPorter and his daughter to know that Dave was alive?\"\n\n\"I--er--that wasn't my business. Dave was no friend of mine--why should\nI put myself out to do him a good turn? If he wants to find his father\nand his sister let him do it.\"\n\n\"Did you become well acquainted with my sister?\" asked Dave, after a\npause.\n\n\"Fairly well, yes.\"\n\n\"Did you take her out anywhere?\"\n\n\"No--er--she wouldn't go with me.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it. You say you have no idea where she is now?\"\n\n\"Not exactly. There was an American family named Endicott over here.\nThey came from somewhere out West. They had a daughter about Laura's\nage, and the two were chums. I think your sister sailed with the\nEndicotts for the States.\"\n\n\"Did they write to my uncle?\"\n\n\"I don't know, but I think not, for they thought your uncle was still\nknocking around the South Sea Islands.\"\n\n\"And you wouldn't tell them a word!\" cried Dave, bitterly. \"Jasniff, I\nnever supposed any fellow could be so cruel and hard-hearted.\"\n\n\"Humph! I haven't forgotten what I had to suffer,\" muttered the runaway.\n\n\"You brought all that on yourself. You had no business to go in with\nthose two thieves. If you had remained honest there would have been no\ncall for you to run away.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't preach, Dave Porter.\"\n\n\"What Dave says is true, Jasniff,\" said Roger. \"If you have suffered, it\nis all through your own dishonesty.\"\n\n\"Who says a relative of mine is dishonest!\" came a loud, harsh voice\nfrom the doorway of the library, and turning quickly Dave and Roger\nfound themselves confronted by an old man, white with sudden rage, and\nbrandishing a heavy cane in his hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nON THE NORTH SEA\n\n\nBoth Dave and his chum were startled by the sudden interruption, and for\nthe moment did not know what to say. They looked at the old man and then\nat Nick Jasniff. The latter turned pale and seemed thoroughly ill at\nease.\n\n\"Who says a relative of mine is dishonest?\" repeated the old man, and\nnow he strode up to Dave and raised the cane over the youth's head.\n\n\"If you refer to this boy as your relative, I say he is dishonest,\"\nanswered Dave, stoutly.\n\n\"And so do I,\" added the senator's son.\n\n\"Nicholas dishonest! It cannot be! There must be some mistake.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for you, sir, but there is no mistake,\" returned Dave.\n\n\"Who are you, sir?\"\n\n\"My name is David Porter. I come from the United States. Nicholas and\nmyself and my friend here all attended the same boarding school.\"\n\n\"The place called Oak Hall?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. I presume you are Mr. Philip Chesterfield.\"\n\n\"I am, and I am a great-uncle to Nicholas.\" The old man lowered his\ncane. \"What do you know of Nicholas?\" he questioned, curiously.\n\n\"I know a great deal, Mr. Chesterfield. If you care to hear the story I\nwill tell it to you.\"\n\n\"Don't you listen to him, Uncle Phil,\" stormed Nick Jasniff, in\nincreasing fear. \"He'll tell you nothing but a bundle of lies.\"\n\n\"I can prove every statement I make,\" answered Dave.\n\n\"Dave will tell you nothing but the truth,\" added Roger.\n\n\"Who are you, young man?\"\n\n\"My name is Roger Morr.\"\n\n\"He is the son of United States Senator Morr,\" added Dave.\n\n\"Ah, indeed!\" The fact that Roger's father occupied a high political\nposition seemed to have considerable effect on Philip Chesterfield.\n\n\"They are a couple of fakirs!\" cried Nick Jasniff. He knew not what else\nto say.\n\n\"Nicholas, be silent. I will listen to their story, and then you can\nhave your say.\"\n\n\"If you are going to listen to them, I'll get out,\" stormed the runaway,\nand edged for the door.\n\n\"No, you don't; you'll stay here!\" exclaimed Dave, and blocked the way.\n\"I came all the way from America to catch you, and you are not going\nuntil I get through with you.\"\n\nA brief war of words followed, which came to an end when the old\ngentleman locked the door. Then he had Dave and Roger tell their tale in\nfull, after which he asked a number of questions. Nick Jasniff wanted to\nbreak into the conversation a number of times, but was not permitted to\ndo so.\n\n\"Nicholas, if this is true, you are a young scoundrel, and I do not want\nyou in my house another day!\" exclaimed Philip Chesterfield. \"I shall\nsend a telegram to your father at once, asking him to come on.\"\n\n\"Where is Mr. Jasniff?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"In Italy--he went there for his wife's health.\"\n\n\"Did Nicholas tell you anything about my folks?\" went on Dave.\n\n\"Nothing excepting that he had met a Mr. Porter and his daughter, and\nthat the father had sailed for Norway and the daughter for the States.\"\n\n\"Then that news must be true,\" said Roger. \"Dave, the best thing you can\ndo is to go to Christiania at once.\"\n\n\"Exactly my way of thinking, Roger.\"\n\n\"And about Nick----?\"\n\n\"You shan't do anything to me!\" roared the runaway. \"I won't stand for\nit.\"\n\n\"I shall notify the authorities in America where you are,\" answered\nDave. \"Then they can do as they please in the affair.\"\n\nA little later Dave and Roger left the mansion, Philip Chesterfield\nbidding them a formal good-bye. Nick Jasniff was sullen and looked as if\nhe wanted to kill both boys.\n\n\"He'll get back at us some day, if he can,\" observed the senator's son,\nas they drove back to Siddingate.\n\nArriving at the town, the two youths took the first train back to London\nproper. Here they found that to get to Christiania they would have to\ntake a train to Hull and from there try to obtain passage on some vessel\nbound for the Norwegian capital.\n\n\"It's only a four hours' ride to Hull,\" said Dave, consulting a\ntime-table. \"I can get there to-night, if I wish.\"\n\n\"All right, let us take the first train.\"\n\n\"Do you want to go to Hull to see me off, Roger?\"\n\n\"I am not going to see you off, Dave.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I am going with you--if you'll have me.\"\n\n\"To Norway?\"\n\n\"Sure--anywhere.\"\n\n\"But what will your folks say?\"\n\n\"They won't mind--so long as I keep out of trouble. I told father we\nmight go further than England.\"\n\n\"I'll be pleased to have you along.\"\n\nThey settled up at the hotel, and quarter of an hour later were at the\nstation. At the \"booking office,\" as it is called in England, they\nprocured tickets for seats in a first-class coach, and soon the train\ncame along.\n\n\"It seems funny to be locked up in such a coach as this,\" remarked Dave.\n\"I must say, I like our style of open car best.\"\n\nThey were soon leaving the smoky and foggy city of London behind and\nrushing northward. Only two stops were made, one at Leicester and the\nother at Sheffield.\n\n\"Here is where the celebrated Sheffield cutlery comes from,\" observed\nRoger, as the last stop was made. \"If we were going to stop over I'd buy\na pocket-knife for a souvenir.\"\n\n\"Remember, we must get some picture postals at Hull,\" answered Dave, who\nhad not forgotten the promise made to Jessie. He had already sent her\nover a dozen cards.\n\nHull is one of the main seaports of England, and ship-building and\nsail-making are great industries there. In the harbor were a great many\nsteamers and sailing vessels, bound for ports all over the world.\n\nDave was in a fever of anxiety. He had been unable to ascertain when\nthe expedition in which his father was interested was to start northward\nfrom Christiania, and, as a consequence, he wanted to reach the\nNorwegian capital city with the least possible delay.\n\n\"It will be just my luck to arrive there after the expedition has left,\"\nhe half groaned to his chum.\n\n\"Let us hope for the best, Dave.\"\n\nAs late as it was, the two youths skirmished around and finally learned\nthat a steamer would leave Hull for Christiania two days later. On this\nthey booked passage, and then Dave hurried to the nearest telegraph\noffice and sent a cablegram to Christiania, addressed to his parent. The\nmessage ran as follows:\n\n \"Wait until I reach you. Your long-lost son,\n\n \"DAVID PORTER.\"\n\n\"That ought to hold him,\" said he to Roger.\n\n\"Of course it will--if he gets it, Dave.\"\n\nThe message sent, the two boys looked around for a hotel, and then\nobtained a decidedly late supper. When they retired, Roger slept \"like a\ntop,\" as he expressed it, but Dave lay awake for hours, wondering what\nthe future held in store for him. Now that he seemed so close to his\nfather he could scarcely wait for the time to come when they should meet\nface to face.\n\nRoughly estimated, the distance from Hull to Christiania is about six\nhundred miles. As it was winter, the harbor of the Norwegian capital was\nfrozen up, so the steamer could not go further than Drobak, a seaport\neighteen miles south of the capital. Owing to the wintry weather Dave\nlearned that it would take three full days to make the voyage.\n\nIt was not particularly cold on leaving Hull, but as soon as the steamer\nstruck the full sweep of the winds on the North Sea the thermometer went\ndown rapidly.\n\n\"Phew! but this is cold!\" ejaculated Roger, as he buttoned his coat\ntightly. \"It's like being down on the coast of Maine.\"\n\n\"Just wait until we get to Norway--there is where you'll find it cold,\"\nwas Dave's reply. \"Maybe we'll have to invest in fur overcoats.\"\n\n\"Well, I am willing,\" answered the senator's son, with a laugh.\n\nFortunately, both boys had been supplied with considerable cash and\nample letters of credit, so that monetary matters did not bother them.\nBefore leaving Hull, Dave supplied himself with an English-Danish\nSelf-Educator, and on the ship both he and Roger studied the volume with\ninterest.\n\n\"I want to know a few words,\" said the senator's son. \"It is awful to\nbe in a country when you're not able to speak a word of the language.\"\n\nOn the second day of the voyage the two boys got something of a scare.\nThey heard an explosion and then a great cloud of steam spread over the\nvessel.\n\n\"Something has burst, that's certain!\" cried Dave. \"Let us go on deck\nand see what is wrong.\"\n\nThey hurried out on the main deck and there found a great number of\npassengers, all in a state of excitement. A few were on the point of\nleaping overboard, thinking the ship was going to sink. But the officers\nwere cool and collected, and did all in their power to restore\nconfidence.\n\n\"Nothing serious has occurred,\" was the announcement one of the officers\nmade, in the presence of Dave and his chum. \"A steam-pipe burst and one\nof the engineers was scalded, that is all. The pipe will be repaired as\nquickly as possible.\"\n\n\"Will this delay us much?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"That I cannot say,\" was the answer.\n\nThe rest of the day passed quietly enough. The steamer moved along\nslowly, for the engines were badly crippled. Dave, thinking only of the\ntime in which he might reach his destination, walked the deck\nimpatiently.\n\n\"I'll wager this means another day,\" said he to his chum.\n\n\"More than likely,\" was the reply. \"Well, since it can't be helped\nyou'll have to make the best of it.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, Roger, but I'd give almost anything to be in Christiania\nnow.\"\n\n\"I can appreciate how you feel. I'd be the same way, if I were in your\nplace, Dave,\" was the kindly answer of the senator's son.\n\nThat night a heavy snowstorm came on, and by morning all around the ship\nwas completely shut out of sight. The steam-pipe had now been mended,\nbut the engines had to be kept down at a low speed for fear of running\ninto some other craft. The foghorn was blown constantly, and\noccasionally came an answering sound from another vessel. Once they ran\nclose to a three-masted schooner, and then the bell on that ship was\nrung with a loud clamor.\n\n\"That was a narrow escape,\" said Dave, after the schooner had drifted\nfrom sight.\n\nTowards night the snowstorm increased in violence. The wind piped\nmerrily over the deck of the steamer and the boys were glad to remain\ninside. They turned in early, since there was nothing else to do.\n\n[Illustration: Once they ran close to a three-masted schooner.--_Page\n160._]\n\nDave could not sleep at first, but presently dropped into a light doze.\nWhen he awoke he sat up with a start. He had heard a strange noise,\nbut now all was silent. He called to Roger, but received no reply. Then\nhe called again and got up and lighted the room.\n\n\"Roger, where are you?\" he repeated, and then looked toward his chum's\nberth. To his amazement the berth was made up as if it had never been\noccupied, and Roger was gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nIN NORWAY AT LAST\n\n\nThere is no denying the fact that Dave was startled. It was one thing to\nhave Roger missing, it was quite another to have his chum gone and have\nthe berth made up as if it had never been occupied.\n\n\"He went to bed--I saw him go,\" muttered the boy from the country to\nhimself. \"Am I dreaming, or what can the matter be?\"\n\nThe more Dave thought over the affair the more was he puzzled. As\nquickly as he could, he put on some of his clothing and slipped on his\nshoes. Then he opened the stateroom door and stepped out into the\npassageway leading to the main saloon.\n\nThere was a dim light burning outside, and nobody appeared to be in\nsight. Dave looked up and down the passageway eagerly, and even stepped\nto one of the corners. Then he walked to the main saloon, with its big\nsofas and easy-chairs, and its grand piano. Not a soul was in sight\nanywhere.\n\n\"Well, if this isn't the queerest yet,\" he murmured, and pinched\nhimself, to make certain that he was not dreaming. He walked to one end\nof the saloon and then to the other, and then started for the stairs\nleading out on deck.\n\nAt that moment there came an extra-heavy gust of wind and the steamer\nrocked violently. Dave was thrown on his side and fell headlong over the\nend of a sofa. As he went down he heard several cries, one in a voice\nthat sounded familiar to him.\n\n\"That must have been Roger,\" he told himself. \"Where can he be?\" And\nthen he called out loudly: \"Roger! Roger Morr! Where are you?\"\n\nThe boat continued to toss and pitch, and now Dave had all he could do\nto keep his feet. When he reached the entrance to the main deck he was\nstopped by one of the under officers.\n\n\"Too rough to go out there.\"\n\n\"I am looking for my friend,\" answered Dave, and told of the\ndisappearance of the senator's son.\n\n\"Perhaps he's walking in his sleep,\" suggested the officer.\n\n\"That may be it!\" cried Dave. \"Queer I didn't think of it. He told me he\ngot up once in a great while.\"\n\n\"If he was walking in his sleep the lurching of the boat must have\nawakened him--if he cried out. Maybe he went back to his stateroom,\"\ncontinued the ship's official.\n\n\"I'll go back and see.\"\n\nNot without some difficulty Dave returned to his stateroom. The steamer\nwas pitching and tossing dreadfully, and the wind made a wild whistling\nsound overhead. He heard the overturning of a table or a chair and the\ncrash of glassware.\n\n\"We are going to have a tough night of it,\" he reasoned. \"Guess further\nsleep will be out of the question.\"\n\nHoping he would find his chum in the stateroom, Dave returned to the\napartment. Here another surprise was in store for him. The door was\nlocked from the inside. He rapped loudly several times.\n\n\"Hello! Who's there?\" came in a sleepy voice.\n\n\"Roger, is that you? Let me in.\"\n\n\"Dave, I declare! Why, I thought you were in your berth.\"\n\nThe senator's son came to the door and opened it. Dave entered the\nstateroom, which was dark.\n\n\"Roger, where have you been?\" he demanded.\n\n\"So you knew I went out, did you?\" asked the senator's son, in a voice\nthat showed he was vexed. \"I thought I went out and came back without\nyour knowing it. I thought you were still in your berth.\"\n\n\"I got up, made a light, and found you gone--and the berth made up as if\nyou hadn't used it.\" Dave paused and looked at his chum, who had just\nlit up.\n\n\"Well--er--I might as well tell you. I must have been walking in my\nsleep,\" stammered Roger, and got red. \"I'm as bad as Shadow Hamilton.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope you didn't steal anything, as he did,\" added Dave hastily,\nreferring to an unfortunate incident already well known to my old\nreaders.\n\n\"I don't think I did--but I don't know where I went.\"\n\n\"You made up your bed, too.\"\n\n\"Did I? That's queer.\"\n\n\"And you don't know where you went at all, Roger?\"\n\n\"No, I haven't the slightest idea.\"\n\n\"Were you dreaming?\"\n\n\"I think I was--I'm not sure. It was something about Nick Jasniff--he\nwas trying to take something from me and I got afraid of him. That is\nall I can remember.\"\n\n\"I thought I heard you scream--when the vessel gave that awful lurch a\nfew minutes ago.\"\n\n\"That woke me up, and I found myself in one of the passageways not far\nfrom here. I was dazed by the tumble I received, but got back here all\nright.\"\n\n\"After this you had better tie yourself to the bed,\" was Dave's final\nremark, and then he turned in again and the light was again\nextinguished.\n\nBut anything more than fitful dozes could not be had. The North Sea is\nwell known for its violent storms during the winter months, and this one\nproved to be a \"corker,\" as Dave called it afterwards. The waves were\nlashed into a tremendous fury, and some broke over the steamer's deck\nwith terrific force, one carrying away a twenty-foot section of the\nforward rail. The high wind was accompanied by a snow that was as fine\nand hard as salt, and this sifted through every crack the windows and\ndoors afforded.\n\n\"No port to-day,\" said Dave; and he was right. To run close to the\nNorwegian coast in such a high wind, and with so much snow flying, was\ndangerous, and they had to remain for twenty-four hours longer at the\nentrance to Christiania Fjord--_fjord_ being the local name for bay.\n\nBut at last the snow stopped coming down and the wind subsided a little,\nand the steamer headed up the bay to Drobak, located on the east shore\nof the harbor. Here there was a good deal of floating ice, and plowing\namong it were vessels of all kinds and sizes, all covered with ice and\nsnow.\n\n\"It's wintry enough up here, goodness knows,\" remarked Roger. \"I wonder\nhow far north Christiania is?\"\n\n\"I was looking it up on the map,\" answered Dave. \"It is located about\nsixty degrees north, which is just about the latitude of the lower coast\nof Greenland.\"\n\n\"What, as far north as that! No wonder it is cold.\"\n\n\"Don't forget, Roger, that Norway is the Land of the Midnight Sun. At\nthe far north they have a night lasting about three months.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want such a night as that, just yet.\"\n\n\"No--you might do too much sleep-walking,\" and Dave grinned.\n\n\"Oh, cut that out!\" and the face of the senator's son grew red.\n\n\"I shan't mention it again.\"\n\nDrobak is but a small place, containing less than twenty-five hundred\ninhabitants, but during the winter all the shipping of the fjord\ncongregates there, and as a consequence the scene was a lively one. The\nboys were quickly landed, and then from one of the dock officials\nlearned where they could get a train running to the capital. Their\nbaggage had been examined and passed upon by the usual custom officials.\n\n\"Well, this is certainly a second-rate railroad,\" was Dave's comment, as\nthey seated themselves in the stuffy coach and had the door locked upon\nthem. Then the train moved off at a slow rate of speed that was\ntantalizing to both. With half a dozen stops, it took them nearly an\nhour to reach Christiania, only eighteen miles away. Looking out of the\nwindow, the landscape was a dreary one, of marshland on one side and\nrocks on the other, all covered with ice and snow. The coach had no heat\nin it, and Roger declared that his feet were half frozen.\n\n\"Puts me in mind of the time I visited a lumber camp in upper Maine,\" he\ntold his chum. \"It was in the winter-time, and they only ran one train a\nday, of two cars, a freight and a combination of everything else. We\nwere delayed on the road, almost snowed in, and I didn't thaw out for a\nweek afterwards.\"\n\nAt the railroad station in Christiania they had some trouble passing the\nguard. Again their baggage was looked over, and they were taken to an\noffice and asked a dozen or more questions by a man who looked as if he\nmight be a police-inspector. What it was all about they could not make\nout, but at first the officer was not inclined to let them go.\n\n\"Perhaps you had better go back to where you came from,\" said the man to\nDave.\n\n\"Why, what's the trouble?\" demanded the youth. \"I am sure I have done no\nwrong.\"\n\n\"What brought you to Norway?\"\n\n\"I am looking for my father. His name is David Porter, like my own. He\nhas joined the Lapham-Hausermann Expedition, bound for the interior of\nNorway.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" and the officer looked wise. \"Who is this young man?\"\n\n\"This is my friend, Roger Morr. He is traveling with me for company.\"\n\n\"You are very young to be traveling alone.\"\n\n\"I can't help that. I want to find my father, and do it as soon as I\ncan.\"\n\n\"Is he expecting you?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I sent him a cablegram, but I do not know if he received\nit.\"\n\n\"That expedition--do you know anything about it?\" asked the officer,\nshrewdly.\n\n\"No, sir--nothing more than what I saw in the English papers.\"\n\n\"Didn't your father tell you anything about it?\"\n\n\"No, he couldn't.\" And Dave hesitated.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because--well, he doesn't know me--that is, he doesn't know I am\nalive.\"\n\n\"This is extraordinary, young man!\" exclaimed the officer of the police,\nfor such the man was. \"I think you had better explain.\"\n\n\"I am in a great hurry, sir,\" pleaded Dave.\n\n\"He wants to catch his father before the expedition leaves Christiania,\"\nput in Roger.\n\n\"Before it leaves?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe police official drew up his shoulders and made a wry face.\n\n\"Has it left already?\" questioned Dave, eagerly.\n\n\"To be sure--four days ago,\" was the answer, which filled Dave's heart\nwith fresh dismay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nOFF TO THE NORTHWARD\n\n\nDave and Roger were told to follow the police officer, and did so, to a\nlarge stone building, located on one of the principal streets of the\nNorwegian capital. As they walked along many gazed at the American boys\nwith interest.\n\nConducted into a plainly furnished office, the boys were told to sit\ndown. Then they were asked if they had any objection to their baggage\nbeing examined.\n\n\"Not the slightest,\" answered Dave, and Roger said the same.\n\n\"At the same time I wish you to understand one thing,\" went on Dave's\nchum. \"I am the son of a United States senator, and if I have to suffer\nany indignity at your hands you'll hear from it later, through the\nproper authorities.\"\n\n\"A United States senator's son!\" murmured the police official. \"Ah!\" He\ntook a long breath. \"I shall not detain you a second longer than is\nnecessary, sir,\" he went on, more civilly.\n\nAfter that Dave and Roger were asked a great number of additional\nquestions, and Dave had virtually to tell his story from beginning to\nend. Several officials listened with interest, but whether they believed\nhim or not the boy could not tell.\n\n\"I am afraid you will have hard work finding your parent,\" said the\npolice officer, at the conclusion of the interview.\n\n\"He must have left some directions behind--for forwarding mail, and the\nlike.\"\n\n\"Possibly, but I doubt it. The expedition was bound up into the\nmountains,--so it was said. The means of communication are very poor at\nthis time of year.\"\n\nThe baggage was gone over with care, and the examination was evidently a\ndisappointment to those who made it. A long talk in Norwegian followed\nbetween several police officials, and then Dave and Roger were told that\nthey could go.\n\n\"Would you mind telling me what it is all about?\" questioned Dave, when\nhe was ready to leave.\n\n\"You will have to excuse me, but I am not permitted to answer that\nquestion,\" said the man who had brought them in, gravely. \"If we have\ndetained you without just cause, we are very sorry for it.\" And that was\nall he would say.\n\n\"It's mighty queer, to say the least,\" observed Roger, after they had\ntaken their departure. \"Dave, what do you make of it?\"\n\n\"I think they took us to be some foreigners who had come to Norway for\nno good purpose. You must remember that throughout Europe they have\ngreat trouble with anarchists and with political criminals who plot all\nsorts of things against the various governments. Maybe they took us to\nbe fellows who had come here to blow somebody up.\"\n\n\"They ought to know better than that. I don't think we look like\nanarchists.\"\n\n\"Since that uprising in Russia, and the attempt on the king in Italy,\nevery nation over here looks with suspicion on all foreigners. But there\nis something else to it, I imagine,\" went on Dave, seriously. \"Those\nfellows acted as if they didn't think much of this expedition which my\nfather has joined. Maybe that is under suspicion, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, I noticed that--and if it is true, your father may have some\ntrouble before he leaves Norway.\"\n\n\"I wish I could get to him at once. I could warn him.\"\n\nFrom an Englishman on the steamer the boys had learned of a good hotel\nwhere English was spoken, and there they obtained a good room for the\nnight. Before going to bed Dave mailed several postals to Jessie, and\nalso a letter to his Uncle Dunston and another to Phil Lawrence, for the\nbenefit of the boys at Oak Hall.\n\nIt was not difficult in Christiania to find out when the\nLapham-Hausermann Expedition had left the capital, or what had been its\nfirst stopping-place. It had taken a railroad train to Pansfar and then\ngone northward to the mountain town of Blanfos--so called because of the\nwaterfall in that vicinity--a waterfall being a _fos_ in the native\ntongue.\n\n\"I don't see anything to do but to journey to Blanfos,\" said Dave. \"I\npresume it will be a mighty cold trip, and you needn't go if you don't\nwish to, Roger.\"\n\n\"Didn't I say I'd go anywhere you went--even if it's to the North Pole?\"\nwas the answer. \"Come on,--I'm ready to start any time you are.\"\n\n\"I don't think we'll get to the North Pole, but we may get to the North\nCape. But we can't start until we've got those fur overcoats we talked\nabout.\"\n\nAt several of the shops in Christiania they procured all the additional\nclothing they thought they needed. Some of their lighter-weight stuff\nthey left behind, not wishing to be encumbered with too much baggage.\nThey booked for Pansfar at the railroad station, and by the middle of\nthe afternoon of the second day in Norway were bound northward.\n\n\"There is that police official, watching us!\" cried Roger, as the train\nwas about to depart. He was right--the man was in sight, but he quickly\nlost himself in a crowd, and whether he got on the train or not they\ncould not tell.\n\nThe train was but scantily filled, and only four people occupied the\ncoach with the young Americans. One couple was evidently a newly married\npair who had been on a wedding trip to Christiania, and they were very\nretired and shy. The other pair were a burgomaster and his wife, from\nsome interior town. The burgomaster--who held a position similar to that\nof a mayor in an American city--wanted everybody to know who he was, and\nwas thoroughly disagreeable. He crowded Dave into a corner until the\nyouth could hardly get any air.\n\n\"I'll thank you not to crowd so much--there is plenty of room,\" said the\nboy.\n\nThe Norwegian did not understand, and continued to crowd the youth. Then\nDave grew thoroughly angry and crowded back, digging his elbow well into\nthe burgomaster's fat ribs. This caused the man to glare at the young\nAmerican. Nothing daunted, Dave glared back.\n\n\"What do you do that for?\" demanded the burgomaster, sourly.\n\n\"I don't speak Norwegian,\" answered Dave, brokenly, for that was one of\nthe native phrases he had picked up. \"But I want you to quit crowding\nme,\" he added, in English, and moved his elbows to show what he meant.\n\nThe burly Norwegian had supposed he would daunt Dave by his looks, and\nwhen he saw that the young American was unmoved he was nonplussed. He\ngrowled out something to his wife, who grumbled something in return. He\ndid not budge, and Dave continued to hold his elbow well in the fellow's\nribs. The situation had its comical side, and it was all Roger could do\nto keep from laughing.\n\n\"If you don't stop that, I'll have you put off the train!\" roared the\nburgomaster.\n\nAs Dave did not understand, he said nothing.\n\nA few minutes passed, and the train came to a halt and the door was\nunlocked. Nobody got out, but a round and ruddy-faced man got in and\nnodded to all those present.\n\n\"Guard! guard! Come here!\" roared the burgomaster, but even as he spoke\nthe door was closed and locked again, and the train moved off. Then of a\nsudden the Norwegian grabbed Dave by the shoulder.\n\n\"Let go there!\" cried the youth, and took hold of the man's fat wrist.\nHe gave such a tight squeeze that the burgomaster was glad enough to\nrelease his hold.\n\n\"I say, what's the matter here?\" demanded the man who had just come in,\nand spoke in a distinctly English tone of voice.\n\n\"He's been shoving me into a corner and I told him to quit,\" answered\nDave, glad to be able to make himself understood to somebody besides\nRoger.\n\nThe Englishman looked at the Norwegian and gave a grunt of disgust.\n\"Can't you let the lad alone?\" he demanded, in Norwegian. \"He's not\nhurting you any, is he? What's the use of acting as if you owned the\nwhole coach?\"\n\nThe burgomaster attempted to answer, but the Englishman would scarcely\nlisten. He liked Dave's looks, while he could readily see that the\nNorwegian was nothing but a bully. He said he didn't care if the man was\na burgomaster, if Dave wasn't doing anything wrong he must be let alone,\nand a good deal more to the same effect. He and the Norwegian got into a\nspirited argument, but finally the burgomaster cooled down a bit, got up\nand bounced down on another seat, and his wife followed him.\n\n\"Some of these blooming chaps are as overbearing as they can be,\"\nremarked the Englishman, after matters had quieted down. \"Now this\nfellow is the burgomaster of some small town up here in Norway, and on\nthat account he thinks he can treat folks as he pleases. I am glad to\nknow you stood up for your rights. Never let them walk over you. Old\nEngland every time, say I!\" And he smiled broadly.\n\n\"I am much obliged to you for what you did,\" answered Dave, smiling\nback. \"A fellow is at a disadvantage when he can't speak the language.\"\n\n\"That's true, lad. What part of our country do you come from?\"\n\n\"I come from the United States, and so does my friend here,\" and the\nyoung American introduced himself and Roger.\n\n\"Well now, isn't that strange!\" exclaimed the newcomer. \"And I took you\nto be English lads sure. Well, next to being English I'd prefer to be an\nAmerican. My name is Granbury Lapham.\"\n\n\"Granbury Lapham!\" cried Dave, quickly. \"Not the Lapham of the\nLapham-Hausermann Expedition?\"\n\n\"No, not exactly that, lad, but close to it. That Lapham is my brother\nOscar. He is younger than I and daffy on the subject of investigations.\nAs soon as I heard he had started for the mountains of Norway I came\nover to find out just what he was doing. I don't want him to investigate\nsome high mountain in a snowstorm, fall over some precipice, and kill\nhimself.\"\n\n\"You are going to join the expedition?\"\n\n\"Yes, if I can find it. But what do you know about it?\"\n\n\"I am going to join it also, and so is my friend,\" and then Dave had to\ngive his reasons. Granbury Lapham listened with many a nod to the\nrecital.\n\n\"I declare, Master Porter, it sounds like a six-shilling novel, don't\nyou know,\" he said. \"So you haven't ever seen this father of yours?\nSmall wonder you're in a hurry to run across him. Well, I'll assist you\nall I can. I presume we had better travel together.\"\n\n\"With pleasure!\" cried Dave, and he and the Englishman shook hands. Then\nGranbury Lapham told something of himself, and thus the time passed\nuntil Pansfar was reached. Here they got out, the burgomaster scowling\nafter them as they departed.\n\nThe Englishman had visited Norway a number of times and spoke Danish and\nNorwegian very well. He led the way to a tavern, where all enjoyed a\nsmoking-hot meal, with some steaming coffee.\n\n\"In the parts of Norway where there are no railroads the stage and\nsleigh lines, so called, are under the control of the government. The\ndrivers are allowed to charge just so much for driving a person from one\nplace to another, and the road-houses along the way are also subject to\nofficial control, and you can always get your meals for a stated price.\"\n\n\"I suppose a fellow can get extras,\" suggested Roger.\n\n\"Certainly--whatever you pay for,\" answered Granbury Lapham, with a\nlaugh.\n\nHe said that the Lapham-Hausermann Expedition consisted of six members,\nincluding Mr. Porter. What the object was he did not particularly know,\nexcepting that his brother wanted to gather information concerning the\nhardy plants of Norway. He knew the party were going to keep to what was\nknown as the Sklovarak Highway as far as Fesfjor and then to a new road\nleading directly northward.\n\n\"I think the best thing we can do is to hire a good sleigh and a double\nteam of horses,\" said the Englishman. \"We'll want a good driver too, one\nwho knows all the roads.\"\n\nIt took them until the next day to obtain just what they wanted. The\nsleigh was a commodious one, and in it they placed such things as the\ndriver advised them to take along. Then, wrapped in fur overcoats and\nwearing fur caps, they set off, on a tour that was destined to be filled\nwith not a few perils and strange adventures.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nAN ENCOUNTER WITH WOLVES\n\n\n\"Well, this is certainly a strange Christmas day!\"\n\nIt was Dave who spoke. He stood in the doorway of a small log hut,\ngazing anxiously out at the landscape before him.\n\nHe was in the very heart of Norway, and on every side loomed the\nmountains with their covering of ice and snow. Just behind the hut was a\npatch of firs, the only trees growing in that vicinity. In front was\nwhat in summer was a mountain torrent, now a mass of irregular ice, the\nhollows filled with snow.\n\nThe party had arrived at this place the night before, after four days of\nalmost constant traveling. But here a blinding snowstorm had brought\nthem to a halt, the driver of the sleigh refusing to trust himself and\nhis turnout on the mountain trail beyond.\n\n\"It is a bad road,\" said he to Granbury Lapham, in Norwegian. \"A slip\nand a slide and we should all be killed. We must wait until the storm\nis over.\" And so they put up at this hut by the roadside, and the horses\nwere stabled in a cow-shed in the rear.\n\nThe four days of traveling in the heart of Norway had been full of\ninterest to Dave and Roger. They had passed through half a dozen towns\nand as many more villages, and had met not a few people on the road,\nsome dressed like ordinary Europeans and others in the bright-\nclothing of their forefathers. They had had \"all kinds of meals, mostly\nbad,\" as Dave declared, and both boys longed for some \"United States\ncooking,\" as Roger said. But one thing pleased them--wherever they slept\nthe beds were good and the rooms as clean as wax.\n\nUp to the day previous they had heard a number of times about the\nscientific expedition, which was said to be just ahead. But then\nsomebody had sent them astray, and in trying to get on the right road\nthey had been caught in the snowstorm and been forced to take to the\nshelter as described.\n\n\"Too bad, Dave; especially when you hoped to meet your father by\nChristmas,\" said Roger. \"But shut the door--it is too cold for comfort\nout there.\"\n\n\"I opened it to get a whiff of fresh air,--it's vile inside, when the\ncooking is going on--they use so much fat for frying.\"\n\nThe hut was the property of a sturdy mountaineer, who possessed half a\ndozen cows and a large flock of sheep. He was a big fellow, all of six\nfeet four inches high, with yellowish hair and bright blue eyes. He was\ngenerally good-natured, but the boys once saw him give his oldest son a\nbox on the ear that sent the youngster rolling over and over on the\nfloor.\n\n\"He's got a hand on him like a ham,\" remarked the senator's son. \"I\nshouldn't want him to strike me.\"\n\n\"Most of these Norwegian mountain folks are big and strong,\" said\nGranbury Lapham. \"I fancy the puny ones die off young.\"\n\n\"What do they do for a living? They can't farm much around here,\" said\nDave.\n\n\"They raise sheep, goats, and cows, and a good many of them are\nwood-choppers. Norwegian lumber is a great thing in the market, and of\nlate years the paper mills are after wood-pulp, which they get from the\nsmall growth. Along the coast nearly all the inhabitants are fishermen.\"\n\nThe family of the hut-owner consisted of his wife and seven children.\nFor Christmas dinner there were a hare potpie, carrots and onions, and a\npudding with honey sauce. The children had a Christmas tree, brought in\nby their father from the forest, and this was decorated with\nfancy- papers, and rings, stars and animals, all made of a kind\nof ginger and spice dough and baked by the housewife. There were a few\npresents, and the boys and Granbury Lapham added to these by giving the\nchildren each a small silver piece, which delighted them hugely.\n\n\"I'll wager they are having a fine dinner at the Wadsworth home,\" said\nDave, with a sigh. In his mind's eye he could see Jessie, his Uncle\nDunston, and all the others, making merry around the board.\n\n\"Don't mention it, Dave,\" answered his chum. \"We generally have a\nbang-up time, too.\"\n\n\"What I miss most of all is my plum-pudding, don't you know,\" remarked\nGranbury Lapham. \"I've had plum-pudding for Christmas ever since I was a\nbaby.\"\n\n\"I'd like to know how my father is faring.\"\n\n\"And my brother,\" added the Englishman.\n\n\"Well, we are bound to catch up to them soon, so don't let us worry\nabout it any more,\" said the senator's son, cheerfully.\n\nThe mountaineer was something of a huntsman, and showed the boys his\nshotgun, a weapon they considered rather antiquated, yet one capable of\ndoing good service.\n\n\"He says he once brought down a bear with that gun,\" said Granbury\nLapham. \"It must have been at close quarters, for, as I understand it, a\nNorway bear is a pretty tough creature to kill.\"\n\n\"Do they have many wild animals up here?\" questioned Roger, with\ninterest.\n\n\"They have, besides bears, a good many wolves, some lynxes, and also red\ndeer, reindeer, hares, and a variety of small animals.\"\n\n\"We must go out hunting before we leave Norway!\" cried Roger, who liked\nthe sport very much.\n\n\"All right, I'm willing,\" answered Dave. \"But I should like to find my\nfather first,\" he added, hastily.\n\n\"Oh, of course.\"\n\nThe evening of Christmas Day was spent in watching the children around\nthe decorated tree, which was lit up with a dozen or more tiny candles,\nof home production. Then the boys turned in and Granbury Lapham\nfollowed.\n\nAbout the middle of the night came a great disturbance, and in a minute\nthe household was in an uproar. They heard the mountaineer call to his\nwife, and then, lantern in hand, he rushed outside and toward the\nsheepfold, back of the cow-shed.\n\n\"Some wolves have gotten among the sheep,\" explained Granbury Lapham,\nafter a few words with the woman of the hut. \"The man is going after\nthem with his gun.\"\n\n\"Let us see if we can aid him!\" exclaimed Roger, and slipped on such of\nhis clothing as he had taken off. He had a loaded pistol in his pocket.\n\n\"If you go out, I'll go too,\" answered Dave, and followed his chum to\nthe rear of the hut. He, too, had a pistol, purchased before going on\nthe journey in the sleigh, and now he looked to see that the weapon was\nin condition for use.\n\nOutside, they heard the mountaineer calling loudly, although they could\nnot make out what was being said. There was a commotion in the sheepfold\nand also in the cow-shed. Then came a crashing sound, and from the\ncow-shed came one of the horses.\n\n\"Hullo! one of the horses is running away!\" cried Dave. \"This won't do\nat all! Whoa! Whoa, there!\"\n\nBut the steed did not whoa--evidently not understanding such a command!\nOn it went, around the corner of the hut and along the snowy trail. The\nsleigh driver was up and after it, and set off on a labored run,\ncracking a whip as he went.\n\n\"I see a wolf!\" cried Roger. The beast had just left the sheepfold and\nwas carrying something in its mouth. Evidently it was nearly famished,\nor it would never have stopped to carry off such a burden.\n\n\"It's a sheep!\" said Dave.\n\nAs he spoke, the senator's son fired, and the bullet from his pistol hit\nthe wolf in the side. The beast staggered for a second and then kept on,\nstill carrying the sheep in its strong teeth.\n\n\"He's game, that's sure,\" said Dave, and now he, too, fired, running\nforward as he did so. Then came the roar of the shotgun from the\nsheepfold and out came another wolf, followed presently by a third. The\nfourth and last of the pack was instantly killed by the mountaineer, who\nliterally, at close range, blew the animal's head off.\n\nDave's shot caused the wolf with the sheep to falter, and presently it\ndropped its burden and limped away for the nearest patch of firs. As it\ndid this the second and the third wolf ranged up by the side of the two\nyoung Americans. Roger fired three shots in succession and Dave fired\ntwice, but the animals were so quick that but little damage was done.\nOne beast was hit in the tail and the other in the shoulder, and this\nmade them extremely ugly.\n\nGranbury Lapham had come out, but was at the sheepfold with the\nmountaineer. As a consequence the two boys faced the two wolves alone.\nOne was sniffing at the body of the dead sheep, and now it essayed to\nraise the carcass up.\n\n\"He's going to run off with that sheep!\" cried Roger.\n\n\"Not if I know it!\" answered Dave, and rushing closer, he took the best\naim the night afforded and blazed away. The wolf dropped the carcass,\ngave a vicious snarl, and turned abruptly.\n\n\"Look out!\" yelled the senator's son, and scarcely had he spoken when\nthe wolf was at Dave's very feet, glaring ferociously into the youth's\nface. Dave wanted to fire at the animal, but only a click of the hammer\nfollowed the pulling of the pistol's trigger.\n\nIt was a moment of peril, but Roger came to the rescue. Not to hit his\nchum, he ran around to the wolf's side and blazed away twice in rapid\nsuccession. This was too much for the wolf, and with only a grunt it\nrolled over and stretched out dead.\n\n\"Good for you, Roger!\" said Dave. \"If you hadn't---- Look out, here\ncomes the other wolf!\"\n\nDave was right: undaunted by the death of its mate, the last wolf--the\nlargest of the pack of four--had leaped up through the snow and\ndarkness. It was so hungry that the smell of blood maddened it beyond\nall endurance. It leaped so close to Dave it brushed his legs, then\ngrabbed the sheep and began to drag the carcass rapidly through the\nsnow.\n\n\"He's game, I must say!\" cried Roger, and reloaded his pistol, while\nDave did the same. Then came a shout from the sheepfold and the\nmountaineer put in an appearance, followed by Granbury Lapham.\n\nThe man of the place was angry, for three of his best sheep had been\nkilled. He blazed away as soon as he saw the wolf, but his aim was\npoor, and the snow, blown up by a sudden wind, almost hid the beast from\nsight. Then the Englishman fired, hitting the wolf in the right hind\nleg. The animal whirled savagely, dropped the sheep, gave a snarl of\nrage, and suddenly confronted Roger.\n\n\"Get back, you!\" yelled the senator's son, and fired point-blank at the\nwolf. He hit only one ear, and in a twinkling the wolf was on his\nbreast, trying his best to get at Roger's throat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nCAUGHT IN A WINDSTORM\n\n\nIt was an anxious moment for all, and the others expected to see poor\nRoger almost torn to pieces. The wolf was big and strong, and hunger and\nthe wounds it had received made it a formidable antagonist. Its eyes\ngleamed like those of a tiger.\n\n\"Help! help!\" cried Roger, and then his words were drowned in the crack\nof Dave's pistol. Taking the best aim he could, the youth fired three\ntimes, and the wolf was hit in the side and the rump. It fell to the\nground, whirled over and over in the snow, and started for Dave. Then\nGranbury Lapham fired, and the wolf fell over on its side. A moment\nlater the mountaineer rushed in, and with a club he had picked up at the\nsheepfold dashed out the brains of the creature; and thus the strange\nand unexpected encounter came to an end.\n\nRoger had suffered little more than a few scratches, yet he was so weak\nthat the others had to support him back to the hut.\n\n\"I--I felt it was my last minute on earth!\" he gasped. \"If that wolf had\nbeen left alone another ten seconds he would have bitten me in the\nthroat!\"\n\n\"He was certainly a savage beast,\" replied Dave. He, too, was trembling,\nin spite of all he could do to control himself.\n\nSeveral lights were now lit; and leaving Roger at the hut, the others\nwent around to view the damage done. The mountaineer mourned the loss of\nhis sheep, but was rejoiced to know so many wolves were dead.\n\n\"I know that big wolf,\" he told the Englishman. \"He had given me a great\ndeal of trouble. He was the leader of the pack. Now he is gone, perhaps\nI shall have peace for the rest of the winter.\"\n\nThe sleigh driver had returned with the runaway horse. The animal was\nhighly excited and the driver had all he could do to quiet the steed.\n\n\"I could tell a long story about this horse,\" said the sleigh driver.\n\"Once we were caught near Stamo in a great snow. The wolves came after\nus and this horse was bitten in the flank. That is what made him so\nafraid. The other horses do not know what wolves really are, and they\ndid not mind them any more than they would so many dogs.\"\n\n\"This is a Christmas night to remember,\" said Dave, when they finally\nturned in again. \"Roger, if this sort of thing keeps up, we are in for\na trip full of excitement.\"\n\n\"Thank you, I don't want to meet any more wolves,\" replied the senator's\nson.\n\nAll were worn out by what had happened and glad to sleep late the\nfollowing day. When they arose they found the storm had cleared away and\nit was as bright as could be expected at this time of year. Once more\nthe sleigh was brought forth and the double team harnessed up. From the\nmountaineer they obtained a few extra provisions, including a portion of\nthe mutton that had been killed. For this the man would take no pay, but\nthe boys made his wife a present of some silver that pleased the family\nvery much.\n\n\"And now to catch the exploring party!\" cried Dave. \"I don't think they\ntraveled any further than we did in that awful snowstorm.\"\n\n\"It all depends upon what road they were on, so Hendrik tells me,\"\nanswered Granbury Lapham. Hendrik was the sleigh driver, a good-natured\nman, although rather silent.\n\n\"Does he mean that they could travel on some of the roads, even if it\ndid storm?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, all we can do is to follow them the best we know how,\" said\nRoger.\n\nThe new fall of snow had made traveling very heavy, and by noon they had\ncovered only nine miles. Not a hut was in sight, and they made a\ntemporary camp at the edge of a pine forest, where the trees sheltered\nthem from the wind. A fire was built and they broiled a piece of mutton\nand made a large pot of coffee.\n\n\"What a sparsely settled country this is!\" remarked the senator's son.\n\"I declare, it looks like some spots in the far West of the United\nStates.\"\n\n\"Norway is the most thinly settled country of Europe,\" answered Granbury\nLapham. \"And instead of growing better it seems to grow worse. Many of\nthe peasants emigrate to Canada and the United States, where they can\nget productive farms without much trouble.\"\n\nIt was necessary to let the horses rest for an hour, and during that\ntime the two boys strolled around the vicinity. There was, however, not\nmuch to see, and once off the road they found walking uncertain and\ndangerous.\n\n\"I can now understand why the driver didn't want to go on in that\nstorm,\" was Dave's comment, when he pulled himself out of a gully\nseveral feet deep. \"A little more and I'd have gone heels over head, and\nwhat would happen to the turnout in such a place I don't know.\"\n\n\"If the sleigh breaks down, or we lose a horse, it will be very bad,\"\nanswered the Englishman, gravely. \"The further north we go the more\ncareful we must be, or we may not get back in safety. I think that\nexploring expedition was rather a foolhardy undertaking--at this season\nof the year.\"\n\n\"I believe I know what prompted my father to undertake it,\" said Dave.\n\"It was the spirit of adventure. My Uncle Dunston says my father loves\nan adventure of any kind.\"\n\n\"Do you take after him?\" asked the Englishman, with a twinkle in his\neyes.\n\n\"I think I must--otherwise I shouldn't be here,\" and Dave smiled\nbroadly.\n\nThe sleigh driver said that if they made good time during the afternoon\nthey would reach the village of Bojowak by five or six o'clock. Here he\nwas certain they would hear further of the exploring party.\n\n\"Then let us hurry all we can,\" said Dave. \"If it is too much of a pull\nfor the horses, I, for one, am willing to walk part of the way.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" added the senator's son, and the Englishman also agreed to\nthis, although he declared that trudging in the deep snow generally\nwinded him greatly.\n\nThey were now approaching a dangerous part of the road, which ran around\nthe western of two fair-sized mountains. They progressed with\ncare, and frequently the driver would go in advance, to make sure that\nthe footing was good.\n\n\"If only the fellows of Oak Hall could see us now!\" declared Dave.\n\"Wonder what they would say?\"\n\n\"I must take another snapshot or two,\" answered Roger.\n\nHe had brought a folding pocket camera with him and had already taken\nseveral rolls of pictures. None of the films had been developed, so he\ncould not as yet tell how the snapshots would turn out. Now he took a\npicture of Dave knee-deep in snow, with the turnout and the others in\nthe background.\n\n\"I ought to have a picture of that fight with the wolves,\" said Roger,\nwhen he put his camera away. \"When we tell about it at the Hall some of\nthe fellows will be sure to say it's a fish-story.\"\n\n\"Nat Poole won't believe it for one, Roger; and I don't think Merwell\nwill believe it either.\"\n\nAt the mention of Merwell's name Dave's face clouded for an instant.\n\n\"I wish Merwell would leave Oak Hall, Roger,\" he said. \"Somehow, I like\nthat chap less than I do Nat Poole or anybody else--even Jasniff.\"\n\n\"So do I. Poole is a fool, and Jasniff is a hot-headed scamp, but this\nMerwell----\" The senator's son could not finish.\n\n\"I believe Merwell has the making of a thoroughly bad fellow in him,\"\nfinished Dave. \"I don't see how Doctor Clay allowed him to join the\nschool.\"\n\nOn and on went the sleigh. The road was up hill, and all hands walked.\nOnce they passed a man on horseback, wrapped up in furs. He stared at\nthem curiously.\n\n\"Stop, please!\" called out Granbury Lapham, in Norwegian, and the\ntraveler came to a halt. When questioned he said he had heard about the\nstrange party of six men who had come into that part of Norway, and he\nhad also heard that the authorities were watching them.\n\n\"But where did they go to?\" asked the Englishman.\n\nThat the man could not tell, but said they might possibly find out at\nBojowak, from a man named Quicklabokjav.\n\n\"What a name!\" cried Dave.\n\n\"It's bad enough--but I have heard worse,\" answered Granbury Lapham.\n\"Some of the Norwegian names are such that a person speaking the English\ntongue cannot pronounce them correctly.\"\n\nThey were now more anxious than ever to reach Bojowak, which Hendrik\nsaid was a village of about sixty or seventy inhabitants. The people\nwere mostly wood-choppers, working for a lumber company that had located\nin that territory two years before.\n\nThe wind was beginning to rise again. This blew the snow down from the\nmountain side, and occasionally the landscape was all but blotted out\nthereby. They struggled along as best they could, the driver cracking\nhis whip with the loudness of a pistol. They passed around one edge of\nthe mountain, only to view with consternation a still more dangerous\nstretch of road ahead.\n\n\"Dave, this is getting interesting,\" remarked Roger, as the horses\nstopped for a needed rest.\n\n\"I don't like the looks of that road, Roger. There is too much snow on\nthe upper side and too deep a hollow on the lower.\"\n\n\"Right you are.\" The senator's son turned to the Englishman. \"Mr.\nLapham, will you ask Hendrik if he thinks it is safe to go on?\"\n\nWhen appealed to, the burly sleigh driver merely shrugged his shoulders.\nThen he looked up the mountain side speculatively.\n\n\"He says he thinks we can get through if the wind doesn't blow too\nstrongly,\" said Granbury Lapham, presently.\n\n\"But the wind is blowing strong enough now,\" answered Roger.\n\n\"And it is gradually getting worse,\" added Dave.\n\nOnce again they went forward, but now with added caution. Ahead of them\nwas a point where the firs stood in a large patch with the road cut\nthrough the center. As they entered the forest the wind whistled shrilly\nthrough the tree branches.\n\n\"I'd give a good bit to be safe in that village,\" remarked Roger, after\nlistening to the wind.\n\n\"After we leave this patch of timber we are going to have our own\ntroubles on the road.\"\n\nThey looked at the sleigh driver and saw that he, too, was disturbed. He\nstopped the team and gazed upward between the firs to the dull and heavy\nsky. Then he shook his head slowly.\n\n\"He says another storm is coming,\" said Granbury Lapham. \"It is a great\npity that it can't keep off until we reach Bojowak.\"\n\nThey were in the very center of the patch of firs when the wind\nincreased as if by magic. It caught up the loose snow and sent it\nwhirling this way and that, almost blinding the travelers. The horses,\ntoo, could not see, and they stopped short, refusing to go another step.\nThe driver looked around again, and now his face showed that he was\nfrightened.\n\n\"He says we must gain shelter of some kind,\" said the Englishman, after\na few hurried words had passed. \"He thinks it will be dangerous to\nremain here among the trees.\"\n\n\"The shelter of the trees is better than nothing,\" answered Roger. \"If\nwe were in the open and this wind---- Gracious! listen to that!\"\n\nA sudden rush of wind swept through the forest, causing the trees to\nsway and creak. The loose snow was blown in all directions, and they had\nto be careful that they did not get their eyes and mouths full of the\nstuff. \"It's almost as bad as a--a blizzard!\" panted Dave. \"And I\nreally think it is growing worse every minute!\"\n\n\"The question is, where shall we go?\" said Granbury Lapham.\n\n\"Perhaps the driver knows of some shelter,\" suggested Dave.\n\n\"If he does----\"\n\nThe Englishman got no further, for at that moment came another rush of\nair. It bore down upon the forest with terrific force, and a second\nlater they heard several trees go down with crashes that terrified them\nto the heart. It was a most alarming situation, and what to do to\nprotect themselves nobody seemed to know.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nSNOWBOUND IN THE MOUNTAINS\n\n\n\"If we stay here we'll be in danger of the falling trees!\" cried Dave.\nHe had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the fury of the\nelements.\n\n\"That's true, but where are we to go?\" questioned Roger. The look in his\neyes showed his keen anxiety.\n\n\"Isn't there some kind of a cliff around here, under which we can\nstand?\" asked Granbury Lapham of the sleigh driver. Hendrik shrugged his\nshoulders for a moment, then suddenly tossed his head.\n\n\"Yes, I know such a spot,\" he said, in his native tongue. \"Come, we will\ntry to reach it before it is too late.\"\n\nAmid the howling of the wind and the swirling of the snow, the horses\nand sleigh were turned partly around, and they struck off on a side\ntrail, leading up the mountain. On and on they toiled, a distance of\nperhaps five hundred feet, although to the boys it seemed a mile or\nmore. The wind was so strong it fairly took their breath away, and the\nsnow all but blinded them. They had to walk, for it was all the double\nteam could do to drag the turnout over the rough rocks and through the\nsnow. Once Dave slipped, bumped against the Englishman, and both rolled\ndownward a distance of several yards.\n\n\"Excuse me!\" panted the young American. \"My feet went up before I was\naware.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it, my lad,\" was the gasped-out answer. \"I fancy we're\nall doing the best we can.\"\n\nPresently, through the driving snow, came the sight of a high, rocky\nwall. The sleigh driver halted and warned the others to do likewise.\n\n\"He says there is a pocket at the base of the cliff and we must be\ncareful that we don't fall in it,\" said Granbury Lapham. \"Let us wait\nuntil he makes certain it is perfectly safe.\"\n\nIn a few minutes Hendrik, having gone forward, came back and led the\nhorses closer to the rocky wall, which towered over their heads a\ndistance of a hundred feet or more. Toward the base the wall receded\nabout a rod, so that the overhanging portion afforded a little shelter\nbelow. Outside of this shelter was a drift of snow as high as their\nheads, and the travelers had not a little trouble in getting through it.\n\n\"Well, this is certainly better than nothing,\" remarked Dave, as he\nshook the snow from his garments. \"So long as the wind comes from down\nthe mountain we'll be safe enough.\"\n\nHendrik proved a practical fellow in the emergency. He found a spot\nwhere some small rocks outside of the cliff set up something of a\nbarrier in front. Then he unhitched the horses, took the outfit from the\nsleigh, and turned the sleigh upon its side. Not content with this, he\nfound some fir saplings, cut them down with an axe he carried, and on\nthem spread out the lap-robes. By the time he had finished they had\nquite a shelter from the wind and cold.\n\n\"Make a little fire now,\" he said, to the Englishman. \"But be very\ncareful that the forest does not catch.\" And then he explained that to\nallow the forest to burn in Norway was a prison offence.\n\n\"It's an outrage to burn down a forest, anyway,\" said Roger. \"It takes\nso long for the trees to grow again.\"\n\n\"Yes, and they are never so nice afterwards either,\" added Dave.\n\nWith security from the storm, at least for the time being, everybody\nfound himself hungry. A small fire of fir branches was started, and over\nthis they made a pot of coffee and broiled a piece of the mutton brought\nalong. They had some bread with them, and also some cheese-cake, and\nmanaged to make a square meal. They took their time eating, since there\nwas nothing else to do.\n\n\"Wonder how long we'll have to stay here?\" mused the senator's son.\n\n\"Until this awful wind lets up, I guess,\" answered Dave. \"My! just\nlisten to it roar and whistle! I shouldn't care to be out on the\nmountain top.\"\n\n\"You couldn't stand up there.\"\n\nHendrik brought in a large bundle of sticks and kept the fire going, so\nthat they were soon well warmed. In the meantime it was growing darker\nand darker.\n\n\"We'll have to stay here until morning,\" announced Granbury Lapham. \"To\nattempt to move in this darkness would be foolhardy.\"\n\nThere was absolutely nothing to do after that but sit down and rest, and\nsoon the dancing of the fire made Dave sleepy. He rolled up in a blanket\nand closed his eyes, and presently Roger followed his example.\n\nWhen the two boys awoke it was morning, but only a faint light reached\nthem in their sleeping place under the cliff. They found Granbury Lapham\nalready up. The sleigh driver, worn out, was stretched beside the fire,\nsnoring lustily.\n\n\"Why, what has happened?\" asked Dave, trying to look beyond the shelter.\n\"I declare, it looks as if we were snowed in!\"\n\n\"That's about the size of it,\" returned the senator's son. \"And it\nlooks to me as if it was still snowing.\"\n\n\"We'll have a time getting out on the road.\"\n\nIt was snowing thickly, so that but little could be seen beyond the\nimprovised shelter. Fortunately, however, the wind had gone down, so\nthat it was not nearly so cold as it had been.\n\nThey made themselves breakfast, and then Granbury Lapham aroused the\nsleigh driver. Hendrik went beyond the shelter before eating and shook\nhis head dubiously.\n\n\"It will be a hard road to travel,\" he announced, in Norwegian, to the\nEnglishman. \"A hard road indeed!\"\n\n\"Don't you think we can reach Bojowak to-day?\" asked Granbury Lapham.\n\n\"We can try,\" was the non-committal reply.\n\nThey did not start until nearly noon. First Hendrik broke the road with\nthe horses alone and then came back for the sleigh. It took a full hour\nto get down to the spot where they had turned off the Bojowak highway\nthe day previous. Even then they broke one of the traces and had to\nstand around while the leather was mended. The falling snow was so thick\nthey could not see any distance ahead. It clung to their fur caps and\novercoats until each looked \"like a regular Santa Claus,\" as Dave\ndeclared.\n\nBeyond the forest the road ran along a ridge, and here they found\ntraveling much easier, so that all entered the sleigh once more and\nrode. But at the end of the ridge they found a hollow covered even with\nsnow.\n\n\"What's the trouble now?\" questioned the Englishman, as Hendrik pulled\nin his four horses.\n\n\"I must see how deep it is first,\" was the reply, and the Norwegian\njumped out and walked ahead with a long and slender pole he had brought\nalong. Of a sudden he sank up to his waist. Then he stuck his pole down\nahead of him. The snow was all of seven feet deep. He shook his head\nvigorously.\n\n\"We can't drive through there,\" said Dave. \"Now what's to be done?\"\n\nRoger and Granbury Lapham stared around helplessly. The driver came back\nand began an inspection of the ground to the left. Here was another\nridge. He said they might try skirting that, since there seemed nothing\nelse to do.\n\n\"All right, anything so long as we get to Bojowak!\" cried Dave.\n\nThe sleigh was turned partly around and the horses tugged and labored\nbravely to get through the snow on the new route. They went up a small\nrise of ground and then along a ridge that did not appear to be more\nthan two yards wide. At one point there was a sharp decline on the left.\n\n\"We'll have to be careful here!\" cried the Englishman to the driver.\n\"Otherwise we may all take a tumble.\"\n\nHe had hardly spoken when a sleigh ran up on a rock on one side and\nplunged into a hollow on the other. In a twinkling the turnout was\nupset. Dave felt himself pitched out and rolled over and over before he\ncould stop himself. Then he went down and down, he knew not whither. His\nhand touched that of Roger, and instinctively the two chums clung to\neach other. The snow filled their eyes, ears, and noses, and almost\nsmothered them. They saw a little light, and then suddenly all became\npitch-dark around them.\n\nFor several seconds after they fell neither spoke, for each was busy\ncollecting his scattered senses. They were side by side on their backs\nand the snow was still all around them. Dave put out an arm, felt\nsomething of an opening, and crawled into it.\n\n\"Roger, are you all right?\"\n\n\"I--I guess so!\" came in a spluttering voice. \"But I must have rolled\nov--er a hun--hundred times!\"\n\n\"So did I. We came down on the lightning express, didn't we?\"\n\n\"Where are we, and where is the sleigh?\"\n\n\"Don't ask me. We're at the bottom of some place. Come here, there is\nmore room to breathe.\"\n\nThe senator's son followed Dave into the opening the latter had found.\nAll was so dark here they could not see a thing. They stood close\ntogether, fearing to take another step.\n\n\"Hello! hello!\" yelled Dave, when he had his breath back, and Roger\nquickly joined in the cry. To their consternation there was no answer.\n\n\"Most likely the others went down, too,\" said Dave.\n\n\"Then they ought to be near here.\"\n\n\"Unless they slipped clear down to the bottom of the mountain. If they\ndid that I guess it's good-bye to them.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you think they've been killed, Dave?\"\n\n\"I don't know what to think. Let us call again.\"\n\nThey did so, a dozen times or more. But no answer came back. All around\nthem it was as silent as a tomb.\n\nWhile procuring their outfit Dave had invested in a pocket lantern, and\nthis he now brought forth and lit. By the tiny rays he made out that\nthey had tumbled into a hollow between several large rocks, over which\nthe snow and ice hung thickly. A big bank of snow was in front of them\nand behind was a black-looking space of uncertain depth.\n\n\"Roger, I must confess, I don't like the look of things.\"\n\n\"Don't like the look of things? Well, I guess not, Dave! How are we ever\nto get out?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"But we've got to get out somehow,\" went on the senator's son, desperately.\n\"We can't stay here forever.\"\n\n\"Not unless this place becomes our tomb.\"\n\n\"You are cheerful, to say the least,\" answered Roger, with a shiver.\n\n\"I don't intend the place shall be my tomb,\" went on Dave, sturdily. \"I\nam going to get out somehow. Let us do a little exploring.\"\n\n\"What! go into that black hole behind us? Why, we may fall into a\nbottomless pit!\"\n\n\"Not if we are careful.\"\n\n\"I don't want to take any more chances--I've taken enough.\"\n\nDave held the light low so that he could see where he was going and\nwalked into the opening behind him for a couple of rods. Roger followed\nvery gingerly, for he did not want to be left behind. The opening proved\nto be a cave in the mountain side and the roof and flooring were of\nalmost solid rock. Walking was very rough, and they could not tell how\nfar the cave extended or in what direction.\n\n\"I am going to call again,\" said Roger, and going back to the mouth of\nthe cave they set up as strong a cry as before. At first they fancied\nsomebody answered them, but then all became silent.\n\n\"Nothing doing,\" murmured the senator's son, and his face took on a\nlook of deep anxiety. \"Dave----\" He stopped short.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Nothing, only--do you really think the others were killed?\"\n\n\"Let us hope not,\" was Dave's grave reply.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nLEFT IN THE DARK\n\n\nThe thought that their two companions might possibly have been killed by\nthe toppling over of the sleigh filled Dave and Roger with fresh horror,\nand for several minutes neither of the youths spoke. They listened for\nsome sound, but none came. Then Roger heaved a deep sigh.\n\n\"Perhaps we had better try to climb out,\" he suggested, timidly.\n\n\"I've thought of that, Roger. But what if we slip when we get out? Why,\nthe bottom of the valley is quarter of a mile further down. I don't want\nsuch a tumble, on top of the one we have already experienced.\"\n\n\"If we ever get out we'll have plenty of news to send home,\" was the\nsenator's son's comment.\n\n\"True; but let us get out before we think of sending news.\"\n\nThey talked the matter over, and at length concluded to do a little more\nexploring of the cave. Dave turned up the pocket lantern as high as\npossible, and as he did this Roger took from his pocket a short, strong\ncord. \"I thought this might come in useful, for tying up our supplies,\"\nexplained the senator's son, \"so I brought it from the last house we\nstopped at. Tie one end around your waist, Dave, and I will hold fast to\nthe other end. Then I'll walk behind you, and if you go into a hole----\"\n\n\"I may drag you behind me,\" finished Dave.\n\n\"No, I'll look out for that,--only be as careful as you can.\"\n\n\"I'll take no more risks than are necessary.\"\n\nThey moved forward slowly and cautiously, first to one side of the\ncavern and then to the other. At last they struck what appeared to be a\npassageway running parallel to the mountain side.\n\n\"Let us follow this,\" suggested Dave. \"It may bring us out somewhere on\nthe road.\"\n\nRoger was willing to do anything his chum suggested. It was a hard\njourney, over rocks that were sharp and slippery. In some spots they\nfound a coating of ice and above their heads long icicles hanging from\nthe roofing. Roger slipped and fell and came down with such a jar that a\ngreat icicle weighing at least twenty pounds came down close to his\nhead, smashing into many pieces and scattering over both him and Dave.\n\n\"Hi! look out!\" cried Dave. \"If we got one of those on our heads----\"\n\nHis voice echoed loudly throughout the cave, and then down came two more\nicicles, one hitting his shoulder. He was thoroughly alarmed and leaped\nto a spot beyond, literally dragging Roger with him.\n\n\"That was a close shave!\" murmured the senator's son. \"Dave, this spot\nis full of perils!\"\n\nOn they went once more, until Dave was almost certain he saw some sort\nof an opening ahead of them. He pointed it out; and just then the tiny\nlight of the pocket lantern began to flicker.\n\n\"Dave, the light is going out!\"\n\n\"I know it.\"\n\n\"Can't you turn it up a bit?\"\n\n\"No; the oil is gone,\" was the answer, after Dave had shaken the lantern\nto make certain of that fact.\n\n\"What will we do if we are left in the dark?\"\n\n\"Hurry; I think we can reach that opening--if it is an opening.\"\n\nThey ran, and as they did so the lantern flickered up for the last time\nand went out. Then Dave stopped short and Roger clung to him.\n\n\"Don't stop here, Dave!\"\n\n\"I won't--but we must go slow, or we'll knock our heads on a rock or on\nthe icicles.\"\n\nThey advanced with all the caution they could command. Each was filled\nwith a nameless dread, for if there was no opening ahead what should\nthey do? To go back the way they had come was next to impossible in the\ndark. A dozen steps, and both went down in a hollow, Roger rolling on\ntop of his chum. The spot was like a huge washbowl, and all of the sides\nwere covered with ice. They tried to scramble out, only to slip back\nover and over again.\n\n\"This is the limit!\" cried Roger, desperately.\n\n\"If we---- Oh, wait!\" He felt in his pocket.\n\n\"Hurrah!\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"I've got five matches. I'm going to light one.\"\n\n\"Make it last as long as possible,\" was Dave's advice.\n\nThe match was ignited and the boys gazed around the hollow. Dave found\nsome bits of projecting rocks and pulled himself up, and Roger came\nbehind, the match burning itself out in the meanwhile. Then they pushed\non, until they presently came to an opening through which the snow came\ndown.\n\n\"Out at last!\" murmured Dave. \"I am thankful for that!\"\n\n\"We have reached the open air, but we are not out of our difficulty,\"\nreturned the senator's son. \"I can't see anything of the road, can you?\"\n\n\"Not yet, but it must be somewhere in the neighborhood, for we went\nupward in the cave.\"\n\nThey had come out at a point where there was a small table-land, which\nthe wind of the night before had swept almost clear of snow. Below was\nthe valley and above them a patch of firs.\n\n\"That's the forest,\" said Dave, pointing upward. \"The road runs through\nthere. I think the place where we took the tumble is over yonder.\"\n\n\"Let us call to the others again.\"\n\nOnce more they raised their voices, and from a distance came an\nanswering call from Granbury Lapham.\n\n\"Where is he?\" queried Roger. \"I can't see anything through this snow.\"\n\n\"Neither can I.\"\n\nThey called again, and at last made out that the Englishman was above\nthem. Then they said they were going to try to get to him and commenced\nthe struggle. It was a hard task, and took not only their strength but\nalso their breath. They could not see the man, and it was only by\ncontinual calling they finally located him.\n\n\"We all took a great tumble, don't you know!\" cried Granbury Lapham.\n\"Were you hurt?\"\n\n\"Not enough to mention,\" answered Dave. \"Where is the sleigh driver?\"\n\n\"He tried to stop the horses, I think. They ran away after the sleigh\nturned over. I wanted to help and the first thing I knew I went down,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Do you know where the road is?\" asked Roger. \"Not far above us. But I\nslipped back several times trying to get to it.\"\n\nNow was no time to compare notes, and all three started to ascend the\nmountain side to where they thought the road must be located. As they\ncould not get up the icy s they pushed on to where there was a\nstunted growth of pines. Here, by clinging to one tree after another,\nthey at last reached a point where trudging through the snow became\ncomparatively easy.\n\n\"I got a pretty bad scare when I came down the mountain side,\" said\nGranbury Lapham, when they stopped to rest. \"A bear came along not more\nthan fifty feet in front of me.\"\n\n\"A bear!\" cried the two boys, simultaneously.\n\n\"Yes, and a mighty big fellow, too, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"What did you do?\"\n\n\"I felt for my pistol, but it was gone--I must have dropped it in the\nsnow when I tumbled. At first I thought the beast would attack me, but\nhe gave one look and then jumped away in the snow--and that's the last I\nsaw or heard of him.\"\n\nBoth of the boys felt instinctively for their weapons and were glad to\nlearn that they were safe.\n\n\"I don't want to see any bears,\" observed Dave. \"All I want is to go on\nand join my father.\"\n\n\"And all I want to do is to find my brother,\" answered Granbury Lapham.\n\"I sincerely trust they are safe.\"\n\n\"We all hope for that,\" answered the senator's son.\n\nBy the time they gained the mountain road it had stopped snowing, so\nthat they could see a fair distance ahead and behind. Dave gave a long\nlook in advance.\n\n\"There is something,\" he said. \"I think it must be our turnout.\"\n\n\"It certainly is the sleigh,\" said Roger, a minute later. \"But it is\nstill turned over.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the two front horses are gone,\" added the Englishman.\n\nAs tired as they were, they pressed forward with all possible speed, and\nsoon came up to the overturned sleigh, with its scattered outfit. Some\nof their goods had gone down the mountain side out of sight and the rest\nwere covered with snow. The horses were nervous and on the point of\ndashing off, so that Dave had to go to their heads to quiet them.\n\n\"Do you know what I think?\" said the boy. \"The front team broke loose\nsomehow, and Hendrik has gone after them.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope he catches 'em and brings 'em back,\" answered Roger.\n\nThey unhooked the team attached to the sleigh and tied them to the\nnearest tree, some distance off. Then all hands got at the heavy\nturnout and righted it and cleaned it out. This done, they put in the\nrobes and all they could find of their belongings. Thus an hour went by.\n\n\"Hendrik doesn't seem to be coming back,\" said Dave. \"Perhaps those\nhorses went a long distance and it might be as well to follow them--if\nthe single team can do it.\"\n\n\"Let us try the horses that are left, anyway,\" returned Roger. \"We can\nlet Mr. Lapham drive while we walk ahead and make sure of the road.\"\n\nThey hooked up with care and the Englishman took the reins. It was all\nthe two animals could do to start the sleigh, for the road was slightly\nupward for quarter of a mile. But then it ran downhill and going became\nalmost too easy.\n\n\"They'll be running away, if we don't look out,\" said Granbury Lapham,\nafter Dave and Roger had jumped in on the rear seat. \"There doesn't seem\nto be any whoa in them.\"\n\n\"Shall I drive?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"Do you know anything about horses? My knowledge is rather limited.\"\n\n\"Yes, I used to live on a farm when I was younger. I'll take the reins.\"\n\nDave started to step from the rear to the front seat of the sleigh. As\nhe did this the turnout reached a point in the road where the downgrade\nwas greater than ever. Away went the horses, taking the bits in their\nteeth. The shock threw Dave backward into Roger's lap.\n\n\"Hi! hi!\" yelled Granbury Lapham, in quick alarm. \"They are running\naway! Stop them! Whoa! whoa!\" And he tugged helplessly at the lines.\n\nThe steeds paid no attention to the command to stop and the pulling on\nthe reins did not appear to bother them in the least. On and on the\ndowngrade of the mountain road they bounded, causing the sleigh to\nbounce from one side to the other. They were certainly running away, and\nto the occupants of the sleigh it looked as if each moment might bring a\nsmash that would terminate fatally.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nTHE BURGOMASTER OF MASOLGA\n\n\nGranbury Lapham had had practically no experience with horses and in the\npresent trying emergency he was as helpless as an infant. He sawed this\nway and that on the reins, and yelled at the top of his lungs. This\nmerely served to frighten the steeds still more, and away they sprang at\na greater speed than ever.\n\n\"We'll be killed!\" gasped Roger. He stood up, pale with fright.\n\n\"Don't jump out!\" cried Dave. \"Maybe I can stop them.\"\n\nAs quickly as he could, he gained the front seat of the turnout and took\nthe reins from the Englishman's hands. He saw at once that the horses\nhad the bits in their teeth and that pulling on the lines would do\nlittle if any good.\n\nBy this time they had gained a level stretch of road, but ahead was a\ndecline greater than that just passed. If they reached that spot an\naccident would be inevitable.\n\nOn one side of the road was the upward of the hill, on the other\nthe treacherous downward that had already caused them so much\ntrouble. Dave hesitated for a moment, then pulled on one side of the\nreins with might and main, allowing the other side to drop entirely.\n\nAt first the horses did not heed, but presently one began to lose temper\nand courage and turned in toward the upward . Then the other had to\ncome around, and in a twinkling the team was literally climbing the\nmountain side, dragging sleigh and occupants behind them!\n\n\"Look out! We'll all go over!\" cried the senator's son.\n\n\"Hold tight; they're bound to stop soon, they can't keep this up!\"\nyelled back Dave, and even as he spoke the horses, blowing heavily,\nslackened up, came to a walk, and then stopped short.\n\n\"Really, don't you know----\" began Granbury Lapham, and knew not what to\nsay.\n\n\"Now you can get out, if you wish,\" said Dave, and gathered up both\nreins once more. \"I guess they have had their fill of running away.\"\n\n\"You turned them up the hill nicely.\"\n\n\"It was a hard pull,\" said Roger. \"Dave, are you going to get out?\" he\nadded, as he hopped to the ground.\n\n\"No, I am going to turn them around and drive them down to the road.\"\n\n\"They'll run away with you!\" ejaculated the Englishman, in alarm.\n\n\"I won't give them a chance,\" was the quiet but firm reply.\n\n\"If you are going to ride, I'll do the same,\" said Roger, and clambered\nback to his seat again. Granbury Lapham said he would walk for a while.\n\n\"I want to see how they act,\" he remarked, frankly. \"I am not going to\nrisk my neck again until I know what I am doing.\"\n\nWith a firm hand Dave started the horses and turned them partly around.\nThey were inclined to be fretful, but he gave them no chance to gain the\nmastery. He spoke to them in a voice they could not help but notice, and\nwas ready to turn them up the mountain side again at the first\nindication of another \"break.\"\n\n\"Dave, you certainly know how to manage horses,\" spoke up Roger, when\nthe road was reached. \"It must be born in you.\"\n\n\"I suppose it is, Roger. My Uncle Dunston tells me that my father is a\nvery good horseman and that he and my mother used often to go out\nhorseback riding together.\"\n\nSeeing how well Dave managed, Granbury Lapham entered the sleigh once\nmore, and away they went along the road and down the decline previously\nmentioned. To the movement of the turnout and thus ease the\nteam, Dave kept partly in the deep snow, and consequently there was no\nexcuse for the horses running away.\n\nNearly a mile was covered when they saw Hendrik returning with the other\nteam. The Norwegian sleigh driver hailed their approach with joy, which\nwas considerably increased when he learned that the sleigh and the other\nhorses had suffered no damage and that the greater part of the outfit\nhad been saved.\n\n\"I was afraid somebody had fallen down the mountain side and been\nkilled,\" said he to Granbury Lapham. \"It is a most dangerous portion of\nthis road. Last winter two men and a woman lost their lives close to\nthis very spot.\"\n\n\"We had all the trouble we wanted,\" said Dave, when the driver's remarks\nhad been translated by the Englishman.\n\nHendrik looked over the sleigh and the harness with care, and quarter of\nan hour later they were moving toward Bojowak as rapidly as the state of\nthe road permitted. They had to pass through two hollows, and here the\nmen and boys walked, for it was all the double team could do to get\nthrough.\n\n\"I see smoke!\" cried Dave, presently. \"It seems to come from a chimney.\"\n\n\"Bojowak,\" said the sleigh driver, nodding his head.\n\n\"Hurrah! We'll soon be there!\" cried Roger. He looked at his chum. \"You\nwon't be sorry, Dave?\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" was the ready answer.\n\nThey had to pass around a spur of the mountain, which took another\nhalf-hour, and then came in full view of Bojowak, a village, the houses,\nor rather cabins, of which seemed to fairly cling to the side of the\nmountain. There was but one street, and most of the residences were\nlocated on the upper side of this, with barns and sheds below or\nattached to the dwellings.\n\nTheir arrival was noted with considerable curiosity, and the sleigh\ndriver was plied with innumerable questions as to what had brought him\nthus far in such weather. He quickly explained, and then asked\nconcerning the exploring expedition, and Granbury Lapham asked a number\nof similar questions.\n\n\"The expedition left Bojowak two days ago,\" said the Englishman, after\nhe had learned the news. \"It moved on to a sheep-station called\nPlivohav, six miles from here. From Plivohav the party was going to try\nto reach the top of the mountain called Thundercap.\"\n\n\"Is there any kind of a good road to Plivohav?\" asked Dave, eagerly.\n\n\"No, it is a very poor road.\"\n\n\"Then we can't use the sleigh?\"\n\n\"No, we'll have to go there either on foot or on horseback. The\nexplorers used horses.\"\n\n\"Oh, let us go on horseback!\" urged Roger. \"I don't want to walk.\"\n\n\"I certainly prefer riding,\" added Dave.\n\n\"I'm not much in a saddle, but I fancy I can stand it,\" said Granbury\nLapham. \"We can take Hendrik with us, and as we have four steeds that\nwill give each of us a mount.\"\n\nDave was desirous of going ahead at once, but it was too late, and the\nhorses were so worn out, it was decided to remain at Bojowak over night.\nThere was something of a road-house, used principally during the summer,\nand at this they asked for accommodations for the whole party and also\nfor the horses.\n\n\"I think I can accommodate you,\" said the landlord, a burly and rather\nrough-looking Norwegian. \"Wait till I call my wife and see what rooms\nare vacant. We have quite a number of guests. The burgomaster of Masolga\nis here with his brother and his wife. They, too, came in all this\nstorm.\"\n\nThe landlord went out, leaving the two American boys and the Englishman\nin the public room of the road-house. Scarcely had he departed when a\nside door opened and a man came in, evidently not in the best of humor.\n\n\"You dog of a landlord!\" he cried, in Norwegian. \"Where are you? My\nroom is as cold as a barn. I want some extra wood put on the fire at\nonce. This is a scurvy way to treat the burgomaster of Masolga.\"\n\n\"Hello!\" cried Dave, in a low voice, and plucked his chum by the sleeve.\n\"Here is the brute of the railway coach.\"\n\n\"Sure enough,\" murmured the senator's son. \"I never thought we'd meet\nhim up here. Wonder if he'll say anything if he sees us?\"\n\n\"Humph! so he's the burgomaster of Masolga, eh?\" muttered Granbury\nLapham. \"I pity the townfolks under him.\"\n\n\"I say, do you hear, landlord?\" stormed the burgomaster, striding\naround. \"Are you deaf, that I must wear my lungs out calling you? If I\nhad---- Ha!\"\n\nHe stopped short, for his striding around had brought him face to face\nwith our friends. He was astonished, then glared at the three as if they\nwere deadly enemies.\n\n\"You!\" he cried. \"You! What brought you to this place? Are you following\nme?\"\n\n\"We are not following you,\" answered the Englishman.\n\n\"I thought I was done with you! That I would never behold any of you\nagain!\" went on the burgomaster. \"You are English cattle.\"\n\n\"And you are a Norwegian pig,\" answered Granbury Lapham. His English\nblood could not stand the insult.\n\n\"Ha! this to me? Me! the burgomaster of Masolga!\" The speaker stamped\nviolently on the floor with his heavy boot. \"You shall pay for that\ninsult! A pig! I will show you!\"\n\n\"You started the quarrel, I did not,\" said the Englishman. He was a\ntrifle alarmed over the turn affairs had taken.\n\n\"Are you stopping here?\" demanded the burgomaster, after an ugly pause.\n\n\"We expect to stop here.\"\n\n\"It shall not be--I will not have you in the house with me! Such English\ncattle! Hi, you, Mina!\"--this to a servant who had come in. \"Call your\nmaster at once, I must see him.\"\n\nThe servant departed, her wooden shoes clattering loudly on the bare\nfloor. The burgomaster of Masolga paced up and down, slapping his hands\ntogether.\n\n\"I will show you your place!\" he muttered, with a malicious look on his\nface. \"Wait! Yes, wait!\"\n\nIn a moment more the landlord came in, almost out of breath.\n\n\"A thousand pardons!\" he said, bowing low. \"It was stupid of Jan to let\nthe fire burn low. I have ordered more wood, and----\"\n\n\"Let that pass, for the present,\" answered the burgomaster. \"It is\nabout these fellows I want to question you. Have they engaged rooms\nhere?\"\n\n\"They want rooms, sir, and we have two that----\"\n\n\"You must not take them in!\" roared the burgomaster of Masolga. \"I\nforbid it.\"\n\n\"Forbid?\" gasped the astonished landlord.\n\n\"Yes, forbid. They are nothing but English cattle. I met them on the\ntrain. They insulted me grossly. They must go elsewhere for\naccommodations.\"\n\n\"Have you two vacant rooms?\" demanded Granbury Lapham, coming to the\nfront.\n\n\"Yes, but--but----\"\n\n\"We'll take them,\" answered the Englishman, quickly. He felt certain no\nother accommodations could be had in the village.\n\n\"Thank you, sir, but----\"\n\n\"He cannot have the rooms--I will take them myself!\" howled the\nburgomaster.\n\n\"I have already taken them,\" answered the Englishman, quietly. \"I will\npay in advance for them, if necessary,\" and he pulled out his purse.\n\n\"It shall not be!\" stormed the burgomaster of Masolga. \"I forbid it! I\nwill pay for the rooms, if needs be. Those English cattle shall not\nsleep under the same roof with me and my family.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nTO THE NORTHWARD ONCE MORE\n\n\n\"What's the trouble about?\" asked Dave, coming forward.\n\n\"That brute doesn't want us to stay here,\" explained Granbury Lapham.\n\"He forbids the landlord renting us rooms.\"\n\n\"Are there any rooms vacant?\" questioned Roger.\n\n\"Two.\"\n\n\"We'll take them!\" cried Dave. \"He can't stop us.\"\n\n\"I've already said I'd take them. But the burgomaster won't listen to\nit.\"\n\n\"The landlord has got to let us have the rooms,\" said Dave. \"If his\nplace is a public road-house we are entitled to accommodations, and at\nthe legal rate----\"\n\n\"By Jove, you're right! How stupid of me to forget!\" cried the\nEnglishman. He turned to the landlord. \"I demand those rooms,\" he said,\nin Norwegian. \"That man shall not keep us out of your place. It is a\npublic house. I demand my rights.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Out with the lot of them! I will take the rooms.\" _Page\n229._]\n\n\"Yes! yes!\" replied the landlord. \"But, sir----\"\n\n\"Ha! Do not listen to him, Voshof,\" said the burgomaster. \"Who is more\nimportant here, he or I? Out with the lot of them! I will take the\nrooms, and if every apartment is occupied, why you cannot accommodate\nthem, can you?\"\n\n\"Here is my money,\" said Granbury Lapham. He placed several silver\nthalers on the table. \"I believe you know the law. If you do not, my\nfriends and I do.\"\n\nThe landlord was in a quandary. Ordinarily he would have sided with the\nburgomaster of Masolga, but there were several considerations which made\nhim pause. In the first place, he did not like the burgomaster, for he\nwas very dictatorial and few things at the inn suited him and his party;\nin the second place, the foreigners usually paid liberally for what they\ngot, generous \"tips\" were not withheld; and lastly, and this was equally\nimportant, the landlord had once refused a man a room when he was by law\nentitled to accommodations and he had been fined for the offense. He did\nnot want to be dragged into court again, for his license might possibly\nbe taken from him.\n\n\"He pays for the rooms, I am helpless,\" said the landlord, taking up the\nthalers. \"I will see to it that you are not molested by any one,\" he\nadded, gravely.\n\nAt this the burgomaster stormed and raved, calling Granbury Lapham a\nnumber of hard names. The Englishman would not stand such insults, and\nrushing up he caught the Norwegian official by the arm.\n\n\"Stop!\" he cried. \"Any more such words, and I will knock you down. My\nfriends and I did not come here to be insulted. We are gentlemen, and we\nexpect to be treated as such. Landlord, I look to you for protection\nwhile under your roof.\"\n\n\"There must be no quarreling here,\" said the landlord. \"The law does not\nallow it.\" He paused for an instant. \"I will show you gentlemen to your\nrooms.\" He turned to the burgomaster of Masolga. \"Your fire shall be\nattended to immediately.\"\n\n\"I shall remember this!\" cried the burgomaster, quivering with rage. \"I\nshall remember it! I shall never come here again!\" And he stormed from\nthe room.\n\n\"He is a very passionate man,\" said the landlord, when he was alone with\nour friends. \"I do not care if he stays away. He is poor pay and he\nwants too much for his money.\"\n\n\"We shall pay you well if you treat us fairly,\" answered Granbury\nLapham, and slipped an extra thaler into the inn-keeper's ready hand.\n\n\"Depend upon me to do my best, sir,\" was the quick answer, and then the\ntravelers were shown to two connecting rooms, plainly but comfortably\nfurnished. One had a broad fireplace, and in this a roaring fire was\nsoon blazing. That there might be no further trouble they were served\nwith supper in a private dining-room; so they saw practically nothing\nmore of the hot-headed and unreasonable burgomaster of Masolga.\n\n\"We have to thank you for getting through in this instance,\" said Dave,\nwarmly, to Granbury Lapham. \"I realize now we should have been at a\ntremendous disadvantage had Roger and I undertaken this trip\nalone--neither of us being able to speak more than a few words of the\nlanguage.\"\n\n\"I am glad I fell in with you,\" was the Englishman's reply. \"'Twould\nhave been mighty lonely without you, don't you know.\"\n\nDespite the adventures through which they had passed, the young\nAmericans slept soundly that night and did not awaken until eight in the\nmorning. It was cold and cheerless, no sun showing in the sky, and there\nwas a promise of more snow in the air.\n\nA good breakfast was procured, and they settled with the landlord and\n\"tipped\" him in a fashion that made him bow almost to the ground.\n\n\"Come again, and welcome, sirs,\" he said. \"And do not mind what the\nburgomaster said. More than likely he will soon lose his position, for\nmany people are dissatisfied with him, and he is exceedingly slow in\nsettling his debts.\"\n\nThey were soon on horseback, the sleigh having been put away under one\nof the sheds. Hendrik led the way, past the village and then to what was\nlittle better than a mountain trail, winding in and out through several\npatches of firs and then across some rough rocks. At the latter spot\nthere was a good deal of ice, and once Roger's horse went down, carrying\nhis rider with him.\n\n\"Are you hurt, Roger?\" asked Dave, leaping down to his chum's\nassistance.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" was the reply of the senator's son. But when he\narose he drew in a sharp breath. \"He caught my left ankle and I reckon\nhe twisted it a little.\"\n\nThe horse was gotten up and Dave assisted Roger to mount. It was painful\nto stand on the injured ankle, but Roger said it was all right when he\nwas in the saddle.\n\n\"Be careful after this,\" said Dave, and they were cautious at every spot\nwhere the ice showed itself.\n\nThe scenery around them was magnificent, but it was such a gray day this\nwas practically lost upon them. They were going steadily upward and to\nthe north of Norway, and they could feel the air growing colder. Only\nthe firs stood out against the sky; all else was snow and ice.\n\n\"This is winter weather, and no mistake,\" remarked Roger. \"I don't know\nthat I want to go much further north.\"\n\n\"How desolate it is!\" said Dave. \"Not a sign of a house or hut anywhere!\nIt's as bad as being in the far West of our country in mid-winter.\"\n\n\"Hark! I hear bells!\" cried Granbury Lapham. \"Can another sleigh be\ncoming?\"\n\nThey looked in the direction from whence the sound came, and presently\nmade out something moving below them, on a road in the valley.\n\n\"I really believe it is a sled with a reindeer attached!\" cried Dave.\nAnd such proved to be the case. But before they could get a good look at\nthe novel turnout, sled and reindeer flashed out of sight.\n\n\"I shouldn't mind having a ride behind a reindeer myself,\" said Dave, as\nthey resumed their journey.\n\n\"Nor I,\" added his chum.\n\nAt the end of three hours of hard traveling they came in sight of the\nsheep-station for which they were bound. It was composed of a log cabin\nand half a dozen large sheds, surrounded by a high fence. Nobody was in\nsight, and they had to call several times before the care-taker of the\nplace put in an appearance.\n\n\"Have you a party of strangers here?\" questioned Granbury Lapham.\n\n\"Yes,\" was the answer, \"but they are not here just now.\"\n\n\"A scientific exploring party?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where have they gone?\"\n\n\"They started this morning for the top of old Thundercap,\" said the\nsheep raiser. \"They will be back by to-morrow night.\"\n\n\"Found at last,\" said the Englishman, joyfully, and translated what had\nbeen said to Dave and Roger.\n\n\"Back to-morrow night,\" murmured Dave. His heart began to beat rapidly.\n\"I wish they'd come to-night. I can hardly wait.\"\n\nThe sheep raiser was questioned further, and told them the party was\nmade up of Mr. Porter, Mr. Lapham, and five others, including a\nNorwegian guide named Bjornhof. He said they had a number of scientific\ninstruments with them, and talked of gold and silver and other precious\nmetals.\n\n\"Maybe they are trying to locate a mine,\" suggested Roger.\n\n\"If they are, I fancy they will be disappointed,\" answered Granbury\nLapham. \"Norway has been pretty well explored for minerals and the best\nof the mines have been located.\"\n\n\"This region doesn't look as if it had been explored very much,\"\nreturned Dave. \"It's about as wild and primitive as could be.\"\n\nThe sheep-station afforded but meager accommodations, and they were glad\nthat they had brought along some supplies. There was, to be sure, plenty\nof mutton, but who wanted to eat that all the time?\n\n\"I don't mind lamb,\" said the senator's son. \"But mutton, especially\nwhen it is strong, is another matter.\"\n\n\"Which puts me in mind of a story, as Shadow Hamilton would say,\" said\nDave, with a smile. \"A young housewife was going to have a number of her\nhusband's friends to dinner, and her husband told her to get a big leg\nof lamb for roasting. So she went to the butcher. 'Give me a leg of\nlamb,' she said. 'I want a very large one. I think you had better give\nit to me from a lamb four or five years old.'\"\n\n\"And that puts me in mind of another,\" answered the senator's son. \"A\ncountry boy went to town and there saw a circus parade including two\ncamels. When he got back home he told his folks that the parade was all\nright, but he thought it was a shame to drive around such long-necked,\nhump-backed cows!\"\n\nThe sheep raiser told them that all the members of the exploring party\nwere in excellent health. He said one of the men resembled Dave very\nmuch, and smiled broadly when told the man was the lad's father. When\nGranbury Lapham added that the two had not met since Dave was a little\nfellow, the sheep raiser opened his eyes wide in astonishment.\n\n\"'Tis like a fairy tale,\" said he, and then told them several fairy\ntales he had heard when a boy. He was an uneducated man and his life was\nexceedingly simple, and the fairy tales were, consequently, very\nwonderful to him.\n\n\"Imagine such a man set down in the heart of New York or Chicago,\"\nobserved Roger. \"How his eyes would open and how he would stare!\"\n\n\"If you told him of all the wonders of the big cities he wouldn't\nbelieve you,\" answered Dave. \"I once started to tell one of those\nnatives of the South Sea Islands about the Brooklyn Bridge and when I\npointed out how long it was, and said it hung in mid-air, he shook his\nhead and walked away, and I know he thought I was either telling a lie\nor was crazy.\"\n\nThe day passed slowly, especially to Dave, who could scarcely wait for\nthe hour to arrive when his father should come back. What a meeting that\nwould be! It made the tears stand in his eyes to think about it.\n\n\"Dear, dear father!\" he murmured to himself. \"I know we are going to\nlove each other very, very much!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nDAYS OF WAITING\n\n\nWith the coming of night a strong wind sprang up, and by ten o'clock it\nwas blowing a gale. The wind caused the house to rock and groan, and for\nthe travelers sound sleep was out of the question. The man in charge,\nhowever, had experienced such a condition of affairs before and did not\nappear to mind it.\n\n\"Some great winds here at times,\" he said to Granbury Lapham. \"Once the\ntop of the house was blown off and sailed away down into the valley.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, but I don't want to be here at such a time, don't you know,\"\nanswered the Englishman.\n\nThe wind increased steadily, and at midnight it was blowing so furiously\nthat Dave thought the shelter might go over. He went towards the door,\nto find a quantity of snow sifting in above the sill.\n\n\"Hello, it must be snowing again!\" he remarked. \"That's too bad, for it\nwill make traveling worse than ever.\"\n\nIt was snowing, and the downfall continued all night and half of the\nnext day. The wind piled it up against the house until it reached the\nroof, burying two of the windows completely from sight.\n\n\"This is a regular North Pole experience,\" remarked Roger, as he bustled\naround in the morning, trying to get warm. \"I don't know that I want to\ngo much further north.\"\n\n\"Don't want to become an arctic explorer, then?\" queried Granbury\nLapham.\n\n\"Not much! Say, stir up the fire, or I'll be frozen stiff.\"\n\nWood was piled on the fire, and soon a pot of steaming coffee made all\nfeel better. When the man in charge went out to look at the sheep in the\nvarious folds Dave went with him. The air was filled with snow, and it\nwas very dark.\n\n\"This is terrible,\" said Dave, on returning. He was thinking of his\nfather and the others of the exploring party.\n\n\"Land of the Midnight Sun,\" returned the senator's son, laconically.\n\n\"The man says they'll not return to-day,\" said Granbury Lapham. \"It\nwould not be safe on the mountain trail.\"\n\n\"I thought as much,\" answered Dave. \"Well, all we can do, I suppose, is\nto wait.\" And he heaved a deep sigh.\n\nThe day passed slowly, for the place afforded nothing in the way of\namusement, and even if it had, Dave was too much worried about his\nfather to be interested. All went out among the sheep and saw them fed.\nThe folds were long, low, and narrow, and the occupants huddled together\n\"just like a flock of sheep,\" as Roger remarked with a grin.\n\n\"What timid creatures they are,\" said he, a little later. \"I suppose you\ncan do almost anything with them.\"\n\n\"Not with the rams,\" answered Dave. And then he went on: \"Do you\nremember Farmer Cadmore's ram and how we put him in Job Haskers' room?\"\n\n\"I don't believe these animals are quite so ugly,\" said the senator's\nson, and went up to one of the rams in question. The animal backed away\na few feet, then of a sudden it leaped forward, lowered its head, and\nsent Roger sprawling on his back.\n\n\"Wow!\" grunted the youth. \"Ho! chase him off!\" And he lost no time in\nrolling over and getting out of harm's way. \"Gracious, but that was a\ncrack in the stomach, all right!\" he groaned.\n\n\"He's what you can call a battering-ram,\" observed Dave.\n\n\"Yes, and a ram-bunctious one at that.\"\n\n\"Don't ram-ble in your talk, Roger.\"\n\n\"If he goes on another ram-page I won't ram-ble, I'll run.\"\n\n\"Say, this joke has too many ram-ifications for me, let us drop it,\"\nsaid Dave, and with a merry laugh both lads changed the subject.\n\nThe hours dragged by slowly. At noon they took their time eating a meal\nthat all hands prepared. Fortunately they had with them a few canned\ngoods, which gave them something of a change in their diet.\n\nWhen night came again the wind arose once more. But now the house was so\ncompletely buried in the snow that it was scarcely touched. Dave was\nworn out and slept soundly, and the others did not awaken him until\nnearly nine o'clock.\n\n\"Any news?\" was his first question on arising.\n\n\"Nothing,\" answered Granbury Lapham. \"Porter, I am growing worried,\" he\nadded, seriously.\n\n\"I think we have good cause to worry, Mr. Lapham. It is no joke to be\nout on a mountain top in such weather as this.\"\n\n\"The man here tells me there are several shelters up there, one built\nbetween the rocks where the wind cannot touch it. But for all that I am\nworried.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose they have enough food with them?\"\n\n\"They should know enough to go well supplied.\"\n\nAll of that day and the next went by, and still nobody appeared at the\nsheep-station. Another snowstorm was brewing, and when it came the air\nwas so filled with it that nobody could venture outside. The young\nAmericans and the Englishman paced the floor of the shelter impatiently,\nbut could do nothing. Their food was limited, and the tobacco for\nGranbury Lapham's pipe ran low, which caused the man additional trouble.\n\n\"I can get along with a poor meal, but I must have my smoke,\" he said.\n\nA day later they were seated around the fire discussing the situation\nwhen Roger gave a cry.\n\n\"Well, I never!\"\n\n\"What's up now?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"Why, we've gotten into a new year and nobody ever noticed it!\"\n\n\"By Jove, that's so!\" answered Granbury Lapham. \"Well, here's a Happy\nNew Year to all of you.\"\n\n\"A poor beginning makes a good ending, they say,\" said Dave. \"Let us\nhope that proves true in this instance.\" He was sorry he had not been in\na position to send New Year greetings to those at home, and especially\nto Jessie.\n\nSunday passed drearily, and also Monday. On Tuesday it began to clear\nand the wind dropped entirely. Then the house was opened and they went\nforth, and the man in charge busied himself with his sheep. Two of the\nanimals had died from the cold, and one had been trampled to death in\nthe huddling together to keep warm.\n\n\"Thank fortune, the horses are all right,\" said Roger, after an\ninspection.\n\nWith the coming of comparatively good weather they watched eagerly for\nthe return of the exploring party. The sheep-station keeper pointed out\nto them where the mountain trails ran and told them the party must come\nby way of one of them, for to descend in any other manner would be\nimpossible.\n\n\"I really can't see how they are going to get down in such a snow,\" was\nDave's comment. \"Why, in some places it must be ten feet deep or more.\"\n\n\"The wind has swept some places clear,\" was Granbury Lapham's answer.\n\"As far as possible they'll stick to those cleared spots.\"\n\n\"It must be fearfully slippery,\" said Roger. \"And if any of them takes a\ntumble----\" He did not finish.\n\nThe day was coming to a close when Dave, who was still on the watch,\nuttered a shout.\n\n\"I see somebody, up on yonder trail!\" he cried. \"One, two, three of\nthem!\"\n\n\"Only three?\" queried Granbury Lapham.\n\n\"That is all, so far.\"\n\nAll ran out and looked to where Dave pointed. Three men were coming\nalong the trail slowly. Sometimes they would be in snow up to their\nwaists, and then again they could be seen crawling cautiously over the\nicy rocks which had been swept clear of snow.\n\n\"If we only had a field-glass!\" murmured Dave. He wondered if one of the\nmen could be his father.\n\nThe men were only in sight a few minutes, then some projecting rocks hid\nthem from view. The man in charge of the sheep-station was questioned,\nand he told them it would take the men on the mountain a good two hours\nto get down to the house, as the trail wound around considerably to\navoid several dangerous cliffs.\n\n\"Let us go out to meet them,\" said Dave. \"I can't stand this hanging\naround doing nothing.\"\n\n\"All right, I'll go with you,\" answered his chum.\n\nGranbury Lapham was also anxious; and in a few minutes the three started\nout, along a road the sheep-station keeper pointed out. It was now dark,\nbut they kept to the road with ease, as it ran between several patches\nof stunted pines.\n\nNo words can describe the feeling that filled Dave's heart. Was he to\nmeet his father at last? At times he trembled like a leaf just to think\nof it.\n\nHis eyes were on the alert, and after trudging along for half an hour he\nmade out several forms approaching down the mountain trail. He set up a\nshout and so did his companions, and presently came an answering call.\n\nIn a few minutes the two parties were within speaking distance. Dave\ngave each of the three newcomers a searching look, and his heart sank.\nNot one of them was his father.\n\nThe three men were the Norwegian guide and two individuals named\nHausermann and Davis. They were almost exhausted by their journey, and\nbegged to be conducted to the sheep-station and given something to eat\nbefore telling their story.\n\n\"But my brother--what of him?\" demanded Granbury Lapham.\n\n\"Who is your brother?\" asked Samuel Hausermann.\n\n\"Philip Lapham, the head of this expedition.\"\n\n\"Oh, so you are Philip's brother. Well, he is safe--at least he was when\nwe left him. He hurt his knee a little, slipping over some rocks, but it\ndidn't amount to much.\"\n\n\"And what of my father, David Porter?\" put in Dave, anxiously. \"He was\nwith you, wasn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, he was with us,\" answered Samuel Hausermann. \"But he----\" The man\nstopped speaking and looked at his companions.\n\n\"But what? Oh, don't say something has happened to him!\" cried Dave,\nand a sudden chill took possession of his heart.\n\n\"We're hoping he is safe,\" said Charles Davis. \"You see, he went out\nyesterday, to look for some food. It was very slippery on the rocks and\nthe wind knocked him down and rolled him over a cliff.\"\n\n\"And then----\" Dave could hardly speak.\n\n\"We tried to get to him, but couldn't,\" said Samuel Hausermann. \"Our\nrope wasn't long enough. Then he tried to climb up the cliff, but the\nsnow seemed to blind him and he lost his grip, went down, and\ndisappeared over another cliff about a hundred feet below. And that's\nthe last we saw or heard of him.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nDAVE STRIKES OUT ALONE\n\n\nIt was dismaying news, and utterly downcast Dave followed the others to\nthe sheep-station and listened to the details of what the newcomers had\nto tell. It was a long story, and while they related it a good hot meal\nwas prepared for them.\n\n\"We reached the top of the mountain in safety and also the plateau of\nthe smaller mountain beyond,\" said Samuel Hausermann. \"That was the\nplace for which we were bound. Shortly after that the snowstorm came on,\nand the high winds, and it was all we could do to gain one of the old\nshelters up there between the rocks. In journeying around we lost a good\nportion of our outfit, including some of the provisions, and all we had\nto live on for two days was some venison--Mr. Porter shot a small red\ndeer--and some beans and crackers. We had intended to do some more\nexploring, but the weather put a stop to everything of that sort. Then\none of the party, Mr. Jackson, took sick and we had to do what we could\nto get him well again. At last Mr. Porter went out to see if he\ncouldn't bring down something in the way of game. He could get only some\nsmall birds and they lasted only one meal. Then he went out again, after\nan elk he had seen at a distance. That was when he took the tumble over\nthe cliffs.\"\n\n\"Are you sure he wasn't killed?\" asked Dave.\n\n\"I am sure of nothing, my lad. But I think the chances are he fell in\nthe deep snow, or on some of the fir trees, and that that saved his\nlife.\"\n\n\"What time was this yesterday?\"\n\n\"About noon. After that we decided to come down here, and at the same\ntime look for your father. Philip Lapham said he would remain, to look\nafter Jackson, who was as yet too weak to walk. We left all our\nprovisions up there and came down here as fast as we could--and here we\nare.\"\n\nThis was all Samuel Hausermann could tell, and Charles Davis\ncorroborated his statement. Dave shook his head sadly.\n\n\"Even if my father wasn't killed by the tumble he took, maybe he was\nstarved or frozen to death,\" he said to Roger.\n\n\"Hope for the best, Dave,\" was all the senator's son could answer.\n\nThe Norwegian guide, Bjornhof, had agreed to go back to the mountain top\nwith a load of provisions. He had expected to go alone, but Dave said he\nwould go also, to see if he could not find what had become of his\nparent. Then Granbury Lapham said he would go also.\n\n\"Maybe I'd better go too,\" said Roger.\n\n\"No, Roger,\" answered Dave. \"It wouldn't be fair to ask you to do that.\nThere is too much of peril, and you must remember what you promised your\nmother and father. You stay here with Mr. Davis and Mr. Hausermann.\" And\nso it was finally settled.\n\nAll of the party were provided with knapsacks, which they filled with\nthe best provisions available. The guide also carried an extra bag of\nstuff, strapped across the back of his neck. He was a brawny fellow,\nover six feet in height, and did not seem to mind the load in the least.\nHe had a gun, and Dave and Granbury Lapham each carried a pistol and a\nbox of cartridges.\n\n\"Good luck to you, Dave,\" said the senator's son on parting, and he\nshook hands warmly. \"Remember, I shall be very anxious until I hear from\nyou again.\" He followed his chum a short distance up the mountain trail,\nand the two were loath to separate.\n\nThe route was rocky and uncertain, and during the next two hours Dave\nrealized what climbing the Alps must be. At certain spots they had to\nhelp one another along, using a rope for that purpose. Once they crossed\na split in the rocks several feet wide and of great depth, and it made\nDave shudder to peer down into the dark and forbidding depths below.\n\nYet he thought very little of the perils of that arduous journey. His\nmind was constantly on his parent. Would he find his father alive, or\nhad the fall over the cliffs killed his parent?\n\n\"God grant he is alive!\" he said to himself, over and over again.\n\nThey had started directly after breakfast, and by noon reached a small\nlevel spot where they took a well-deserved rest. From this place the\nguide pointed out the cliffs from which Mr. Porter had fallen.\n\n\"But you cannot reach them from here,\" he explained, in his native\ndialect, to Granbury Lapham. \"To get to them we must walk at least a\nmile further. And even then I know of no way to reach the spot to which\nthe poor man fell.\"\n\n\"I'll reach that somehow,\" said Dave, when the guide's words had been\ntranslated to him.\n\n\"Well, lad, you must be careful,\" cautioned Granbury Lapham. \"No use in\nyour losing your life, you know.\"\n\nBut Dave merely shook his head. He was bound to find his father, dead or\nalive, no matter what the cost. For the time being he could think of\nabsolutely nothing else. That, and that alone, possessed him, heart and\nsoul.\n\nThe air was clear, with little or no wind, which was one comfort. As\nthey went on they had to pass around great ridges of snow and over\nhummocks of ice, where the water had frozen while tumbling down the\nmountain side. There were but few trees in that vicinity, although a\nsmall forest grew at the foot of the cliffs.\n\nAt last they reached a spot where the guide said a small and decidedly\nuncertain trail led to the bottom of the upper cliff--the first one over\nwhich Mr. Porter had fallen.\n\n\"Then that is where I am going,\" said Dave. \"Perhaps I can find out\nsomething about my father there.\"\n\n\"You had better come with us,\" answered Granbury Lapham. \"As soon as I\nhave met my brother we can all come back to this place.\"\n\n\"No, you can come back anyway--I'll stay here now and look around,\"\nreplied the youth, firmly.\n\nBjornhof pointed out the exact spot from which Mr. Porter had fallen,\nand without waiting Dave trudged off, and the others continued their\nclimb up the mountain. Soon a point of rocks separated them, and Dave\nfound himself utterly alone.\n\nHad he had less to think about the boy might have felt very lonely. But\nnow his heart was filled with thoughts of his parent, and he never gave\nthe situation in which he was placed any consideration. On and on he\nhurried. Twice he fell on the slippery rocks, but picked himself up\njust as quickly. In his mind's eye he could see his father helpless at\nthe bottom of the cliffs, with a broken leg or a fractured rib, or\nsuffering for the want of food and warmth. Such thoughts were\nterrifying, and caused him to shudder from head to foot.\n\n\"This must be the place!\"\n\nHe spoke the words as he came to a spot where footprints in the snow\nwere plainly visible. He looked around eagerly and made out where his\nfather had slipped from that cliff to the hollow below. Here was a long\nicy slide, and Dave did not dare to venture too close to the brink, for\nfear of going over.\n\n\"That hollow must be at least a hundred feet deep,\" reasoned the youth.\n\"How am I ever to get down there?\"\n\nHe called out, but no answer came back. Then he walked slowly to the far\nend of the cliff, behind and over some jagged rocks which at first\nseemed to completely bar the way.\n\nHe heaved a long sigh, then looked at the very end of the cliff. Here\nthe rocks were notched and uneven, and he found a spot where he could\ndrop a distance of fifteen feet in safety. But after that?\n\n\"If I get down there perhaps I won't be able to get back--if I want to,\"\nhe reasoned. \"But I'm going down, anyway--and find out what became of\nfather,\" he added, recklessly. The drop taken, he found himself on a\nledge several yards wide and twice as long. To his delight back of the\nledge was a hollow leading downward.\n\n\"Perhaps that goes to the bottom of the cliff,\" he mused. \"I'll try it,\nanyway.\"\n\nThe passageway was dangerous, being covered with ice, and he had to move\nliterally an inch at a time. Once he slipped, but caught fast to a ridge\nof ice just in time to save himself. It made his heart leap into his\nthroat, yet he kept on. He was so eager to gain the object of his quest\nthat no peril, no matter how great, could have daunted him. Surely\n\"blood is thicker than water\" every time.\n\nHaving gained the bottom of the hollow inside of the cliff, he turned to\nwhere a streak of light showed. Here was a narrow slit leading to the\ngreater hollow outside of the cliff. It was so small that the youth\nsqueezed through with difficulty and had even more trouble getting his\nknapsack on the other side.\n\nHe now stood where there was a gentle leading to the firs growing\nat the foot of the cliff. Here there was a great drift of snow, in some\nspots fifteen and twenty feet high.\n\n\"I wonder if father came down in that?\" he mused. \"If he did he wouldn't\nbe apt to break any bones. But he might get smothered before he could\nfind his way out, especially if the fall took his breath away.\"\n\nHe gazed around in the drift and saw a spot where it looked as if the\nsnow had been disturbed. Then he saw what looked to be footprints\nfurther on, leading among the firs.\n\n\"Hello! hello!\" he called, with all the strength of his lungs. \"Mr.\nPorter! Where are you?\"\n\nHis voice echoed along the rocks and beyond, and he waited with bated\nbreath for a reply, but, as before, none came.\n\nWhat should he do next--go on or search the immense snowdrift for his\nfather's body?\n\nHe deliberated for several minutes, then moved onward.\n\n\"I must see if he is alive,\" he reasoned. \"I can always come back for\nhis body later--if I have to.\"\n\nThe edge of the fir forest gained, Dave paused once more. Here was a\ntrack in the snow, but whether made by a human being or a wild animal he\ncould not tell. Then he uttered a sharp cry and rushed forward to pick\nsomething up.\n\nIt was a box that had contained rifle cartridges. It was empty and\npractically new. Had his father possessed that and discarded it?\n\nSuddenly he thought of something new, and pulling out his pistol fired\nit off as a signal. The last echo had hardly died out when an answering\nshot came back. His face lit up with joy, then grew sober again.\n\nPerhaps the shot had come from above, from Granbury Lapham or the others\nup there. But no, it had seemed to be further down--beyond the line of\nfirs which confronted him. At the risk of wasting too much ammunition he\nfired again. But this time no signal came back.\n\n\"If it was father he'll want to save his shots--especially if his\ncartridge box is empty,\" thought Dave. Then he resolved to push on\nthrough the timber, calling his parent in the meanwhile.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nA JOYOUS MEETING\n\n\nDave had proceeded a distance of fifty yards into the patch of firs when\nhe came to a halt. A peculiar sound to his left had caught his ears. He\nhad never heard such a sound before and he wondered what it was.\n\n\"Must have been some bird--or a wild animal,\" he murmured, after he had\nlistened for some time. \"There ought to be many kinds of small wild\nanimals in a place like this.\"\n\nHe proceeded on his way again, but a dozen steps further came to another\nhalt. Something lay in the snow at his feet. It was a fur glove. He\npicked it up, looked it over, and then, in his agitation, dropped it.\n\nThe glove was stained with blood!\n\n\"Can that be father's glove?\" he thought. \"And if it is, how does it\nhappen that it is covered with blood?\"\n\nA shiver ran down his backbone that was not caused by the cold, and for\nthe minute he could hardly move. He tried to call once more, but his\nthroat was so dry he could scarcely make a sound. Again from a distance\ncame that peculiar noise, low and muttering. He now recognized it as a\ngrowl, but whether of a dog or a wild beast he could not determine. He\nbrought out the pistol he had placed in his pocket and held it ready for\nuse.\n\n\"Footprints!\" The word came from his lips involuntarily. He had reached\na spot where the snow was only a few inches deep, and here the\nfootprints of a man were plainly to be seen. They led through the belt\nof firs and then towards the jagged rocks at the base of a high cliff.\n\nAgain that suspicious growl reached him, and now Dave saw a dark object\njust as it disappeared around a corner of rock close to some brushwood.\n\n\"Was that a beast or a man crawling in the snow?\" he asked himself.\n\"That sound came from an animal, but the thing didn't look like a\nbeast.\"\n\nHe went on, more cautiously than ever. Then he heard a sudden cry that\nmade every nerve in his body tingle:\n\n\"Get back there! Get back, you brute!\"\n\nIt was a man's voice, weak and exhausted, trying to keep off some wild\nbeast. Then came a low growl, followed by the discharge of a pistol, and\na few seconds later there came running toward Dave a full-grown bear,\ngrowling savagely and wagging its shaggy head from side to side. The\nyouth was surprised but not taken off his guard, and as the animal came\ncloser he leveled his weapon, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The bear\nhad raised up on its hind legs and the bullet took it straight in the\nbreast, inflicting a bad but not a mortal wound. Then Dave started to\nfire a second time, but in a twinkling the bear leaped over a low rock\nand disappeared in the brushwood. Listening, Dave heard it lumbering\naway, growling with rage and pain as it went.\n\n\"Hello!\" came a faint voice. \"Is that you, Lapham?\"\n\n\"No, it is somebody else,\" answered Dave. He could scarcely speak, he\nwas so agitated. \"Where are you?\"\n\n\"Here, near the cliff. I am wounded, and I--I----\" The voice died out\ncompletely.\n\n\"I'm coming!\" shouted Dave. \"Just let me know where you are.\"\n\nFor a minute there was no answer, and Dave continued to call. Then came\nwhat was half call and half moan. With ears on the alert, the boy\nfollowed up the sounds and quickly came in sight of a man, wrapped up in\na fur overcoat and crouched in a heap between two rocks at the base of\nthe cliff. He held a pistol in his hand, but the weapon was empty.\n\nFor the instant man and boy faced each other--the former too weak to\nspeak and the latter too agitated to do so. Dave's heart was beating\nlike a trip-hammer and for the time being his surroundings were\ncompletely forgotten.\n\n\"Are you--are you----\" he began. \"Are you David Porter?\" he blurted out.\n\n\"Yes,\" was the gasped-out reply. \"Yo--you----\"\n\n\"And you don't know me! Oh, father!\"\n\n\"Eh? What's that?\" asked the man, rising up slightly.\n\n\"You don't know me? But of course you don't--if you didn't get the\nletters and telegrams. I am your son, Dave Porter.\"\n\n\"My son? Wha--what do you mean? I--er--have no son. I had one, years and\nyears ago, but----\" Mr. Porter was too weak to go on. He sat staring at\nDave in bewilderment.\n\n\"You lost him, I know. He was stolen from you. Well, I am that son. I\nhave been looking for you for months. I found Uncle Dunston first, and\nthen we sent letters and cablegrams to you, but no answer came back.\nThen I started out to hunt you up--and here I am.\" Dave was on his knees\nand holding his father's blood-stained hand in his own. \"I see you are\nhurt; I'll----\"\n\n\"My son? My son?\" queried Mr. Porter, like one in a dream. \"Can this be\ntrue?\" He gazed unsteadily at Dave. Then he closed his eyes and went off\ninto a dead faint. The youth was startled, for he saw that his parent\nmight be dying. His hand was hurt and he had scratches on his ear, and\none knee of his trousers was blood-stained.\n\n\"I must help him--he must not die!\" thought Dave, and set to work with\nfeverish haste, doing all that was possible under the circumstances.\nFrom his shirt he tore off the sleeves and used them as bandages. Then\nhe rubbed his father's face with snow. Presently the man opened his eyes\nand stared again at Dave.\n\n\"Did yo--you say you were my--my son?\" he asked, in a weak, incredulous\nvoice.\n\n\"If you are David Breslow Porter, a twin brother to Dunston Porter.\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Then I am your son--the one who was stolen from you by the nurse, Polly\nMargot, and her worthless husband, Sandy.\"\n\n\"It is--is marvellous! I can hardly believe it!\" murmured Mr. Porter.\n\n\"But it is true--and I can easily prove it, father,\" answered the youth,\nin a happy tone. He bent over and kissed his parent. \"Oh, I am so glad I\nhave found you!\"\n\n\"Yes! yes! I am glad too!\" Mr. Porter's eyes began to beam. \"But\nI--I--really can't understand it yet! I--my son, my little Dave! Why, it\nsounds like a fairy tale! I must be dreaming.\" He caught Dave by the\nshoulder. \"Is it really, really so?\"\n\n\"It is, father, and I'll explain it all after awhile. But now you are\nhurt, and you must take it easy. Did you tumble over the cliff, or did\nthat bear----\"\n\n\"Both, Dave. How queer it sounds to call you Dave, _my_ Dave!\" Mr.\nPorter caught the boy around the neck. \"I can't believe it yet--I really\ncan't. Where have you been all these years? And how did you learn----\"\n\n\"I'll tell you afterwards, father--when we are safe. Then you fell over\nthe cliff?\"\n\n\"Yes, and while I was trying to crawl away to some spot to rest the bear\ngot after me and scratched me in the ear. I let him have a bullet in his\nneck and that made him retreat. But then he came at me again, and I\ndon't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for your arrival.\nThe pistol is empty, as you can see.\"\n\n\"You heard my shot and you signaled back, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I signaled back and shot at the bear at the same time. But that\nshot didn't hit him, although it made him keep his distance for awhile.\"\n\n\"I see your pistol is the same size as mine, so I'll load them both--in\ncase the bear comes back.\" Dave set to work immediately and soon had the\nwork completed. \"Now you must have something to eat and to drink, and\nthen you'll feel better.\"\n\nHe unslung his knapsack and brought forth his provisions, and sitting in\nthe shelter of the cliff prepared a meal. Over some lighted brushwood he\nmade a canteen of coffee, of which his father partook with satisfaction,\nand then ate a sandwich and some crackers and cheese. As he supplied his\nparent Dave told a good portion of his story, although he went into few\ndetails.\n\n\"It is queer that I never received any of those letters and cablegrams,\"\nsaid Mr. Porter. \"Yet you must remember I thought your uncle was still\namong the South Sea Islands. He wrote to me that he was going on a trip\nthat might last two years or more and might not be able to write to me\nfor some time. Laura, your sister--how surprised she will be!--and\nmyself traveled down to Rome and through Spain and then came up to\nBerlin. There I fell in with Hausermann and, later on, with Philip\nLapham. They told me of this expedition into Norway, and got me\ninterested financially. Your sister wanted to go to the United States,\nwith some close friends, and I let her go and came up here. We traveled\nto Norway somewhat in secret, for we did not wish to let the object of\nour expedition become known. On that account we had some trouble with\nthe police, who took us for political intriguers. After that we left no\naddresses behind us--which accounts for the non-delivery of the\ncablegram you sent to me from England.\"\n\n\"But what brought you up into this portion of Norway, father, and at\nthis time of the year?\"\n\n\"We came to locate a valuable mine, or rather a series of mines, in this\nsection. Hausermann had some information about them, but had no money,\nand he came to me and then to Philip Lapham, and we 'staked' the\nexpedition, as miners call it. We came up this winter because we heard\nthat three other parties were coming up next spring and next summer, and\nwe wanted to get in ahead.\"\n\n\"And have you done that?\" asked Dave, with interest.\n\n\"Not as yet. We have found some traces of copper at one point and nickel\nat another, but not the rich deposits the information we possessed led\nus to believe could be located.\"\n\n\"Never mind, now we are together, perhaps you'll have better luck,\nfather. I'll help you.\" Dave smiled broadly. \"Tell me about yourself,\nand about my sister Laura, won't you?\"\n\nBoth sat in front of the tiny camp-fire, Mr. Porter's bandaged head\nresting on Dave's shoulder, and a hand clasping that of the boy. They\nwere supremely happy, and for the time being the world around them was\nforgotten. Mr. Porter told much about himself and of his travels, and\nDave related how he had been raised at the poorhouse and taken care of\nby Caspar Potts and Oliver Wadsworth, and how he had fallen in with\nBilly Dill, the sailor, and gone to the South Sea Islands and found his\nUncle Dunston.\n\n\"I know your sister Laura will be overjoyed to learn the news,\" said Mr.\nPorter. \"She has often said how nice it would be if she had a sister or\na brother. Since your mother's death we have been very lonely. Ah, if\nyour mother could only have seen this day!\" And the tears stood in Mr.\nPorter's eyes. Then he drew Dave to his breast, and a warm embrace by\nboth followed.\n\nThey had completely forgotten their surroundings when a deep growl close\nat hand aroused them and caused the boy to leap to his feet. He gazed\ninto the brushwood fronting the jagged rocks and the base of the cliff\nand uttered a cry of alarm.\n\n\"What is it, Dave?\" questioned his father.\n\n\"Two bears--the one we wounded and another and bigger one.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nBEARS AND WOLVES\n\n\nAt the announcement from Dave, Mr. Porter tried to rise to his feet. He\ncould not stand on both legs, and so had to rest against one of the\nrocks. From this point he, too, could see the two bears; but a moment\nlater both animals were hidden completely by the brushwood and the snow.\n\n\"I am afraid they mean business,\" said Dave, anxiously.\n\n\"They are hungry and the deep snow has made it hard for them to get\nfood,\" answered Mr. Porter.\n\n\"I thought bears went into winter quarters in a place like this.\"\n\n\"So they do sometimes, but not always. Besides, I disturbed the wounded\nbear when I fell over the cliff, and I presume that other beast is his\nmate.\"\n\n\"I wish I had a rifle. I could get a better shot than with this pistol.\"\n\n\"A good double-barreled shotgun would be a fine thing, Dave. But we'll\nhave to use what we've got. Don't shoot until you are certain of your\naim,\" added Mr. Porter.\n\nA portion of his strength had come back to him, and the new alarm gave\nhim temporary vigor. Yet he knew that to fight off two angry bears would\nnot be easy, and he looked around for some better shelter than that\nwhich they at present possessed.\n\n\"Here is a small opening between the rocks,--let us back into it, if the\nbears press us too closely,\" said he.\n\nHe had scarcely spoken when the wounded bear advanced, followed closely\nby its mate. Dave waited until the foremost beast was within a dozen\npaces of him, then he fired. There was a growl of pain and the bear\ntumbled back, landing against its mate.\n\n\"Good!\" cried Mr. Porter. \"Look out!\" he added, a second later. \"The\nother one is coming!\"\n\nHe was right. The bigger bear of the two came forward with a bound,\nlanding almost at Dave's feet. Crack! crack! went Mr. Porter's pistol,\nand the huge animal was hit twice, in the breast and in the neck. The\nbear uttered a sound that was half growl and half yelp and then came on\nagain. Crack! went Dave's pistol, and the bullet hit the beast directly\nin the teeth, knocking one of them down the animal's throat. Wounded and\nalarmed, the bear stood still, and again the boy fired, and then the\nbear turned and lumbered away into the brushwood, wounded just\nsufficiently to make it thoroughly disagreeable. The other bear\nfollowed; and the battle, for the time being, came to an end.\n\n\"Come, Dave, it is dangerous to stay out here,\" said Mr. Porter. \"Let us\ngo back into the hollow, and bring that fire with you if you can.\"\n\nMr. Porter crawled back and the youth followed, dragging the burning\nbrushwood behind him. Then Dave took both pistols and reloaded the empty\nchambers with all possible speed.\n\n\"I see you have learned the first rule of hunting,\" said his father,\nwith a smile.\n\n\"What is that?\"\n\n\"Never to carry around an empty or partly empty weapon. I kept my pistol\nloaded up as long as I had any cartridges left.\"\n\n\"I wish I had some more brushwood to put on the fire--that would keep\nthe beasts off. Wonder if I can't break some of the stuff off?\"\n\n\"Don't go out yet, Dave--it's dangerous,\" pleaded Mr. Porter.\n\n\"I'll keep my eyes on the bears, never fear,\" was the reply.\n\nWith caution the youth crawled over to the nearest patch of brushwood, a\ndistance of fifty feet. As he broke off some of the dry twigs a low\ngrowl reached his ears. But he kept at the task until he had as much as\nhe thought he could carry.\n\nBut Dave never got the brushwood where he wanted it, for as he commenced\nto drag it along both bears leaped from their hiding-place and one\nlanded almost on top of him. Crack! crack! went his pistol, and the\nweapon Mr. Porter possessed sounded out three times. Each bear was\nwounded again, but Dave received a blow from a rough paw that sent him\nheadlong. He rolled over and over in the snow, and then leaped for the\nshelter, and his father dragged him to temporary safety. While this was\ngoing on the bears started to retreat. This time they left the brushwood\nentirely and stationed themselves behind the nearest belt of firs, about\nfifty yards away.\n\n[Illustration: Dave received a blow from a rough paw that sent him\nheadlong.--_Page 267._]\n\n\"I told you to be careful,\" said Mr. Porter, as Dave got up and faced\nabout. \"Are you seriously hurt?\"\n\n\"N--no, bu--but that bear knocked me do--down as if he was a\npri--prize-fighter!\" gasped Dave. \"Phew! but they are powerful!\"\n\n\"If he hadn't been wounded he might have killed you. You must take no\nmore chances. Promise me you won't, Dave. I don't want to lose you right\nafter finding you!\" And Mr. Porter turned an appealing look into the\nlad's eyes.\n\n\"I'll be on guard, father. And don't you take any chances either,\"\nadded Dave, gazing at his father in a manner which spoke volumes.\n\nThey found the hollow under the cliff to be less than two yards deep and\nof about the same width. The rocks overhead hung down so that they\ntouched Dave's head. In front was a small snowdrift, looking over which\nfather and son could just make out the two bears, as they squatted on\nthe ground between the firs. The beasts did considerable growling and\ndid what they could to take care of their wounds, yet they showed no\ndisposition to leave that vicinity.\n\n\"They must be very hungry,\" was Mr. Porter's comment. \"Otherwise they\nwouldn't remain here after being punished so badly;\" and he was right:\nthe animals were well-nigh starved, hence their recklessness.\n\nHalf an hour went by, and Dave and his parent remained under the cliff.\nWithout a fire it was extremely cold, and they had to stamp around to\nkeep warm. At times Mr. Porter felt rather faint from his wounds, but he\nkept this from Dave as much as possible. Yet presently the boy noticed\nit.\n\n\"I must get you out of this soon,\" he said. \"You need regular medical\nattention.\"\n\n\"I shan't mind it, Dave, if only I can keep warm.\"\n\n\"Maybe I can get that brushwood now, father.\"\n\n\"No, do not attempt it.\"\n\nThere was a spell of silence after that, and then Dave raised his\npistol.\n\n\"Do you know what I am going to do?\" he said. \"I am going to discharge\nfour shots at the bears. Even at this distance I ought to be able to do\nsome damage.\"\n\n\"Well, you can try it, Dave. But I don't think you'll accomplish a great\ndeal. Their hide is too tough.\"\n\nDave brushed the snow from the rocks in front of him, knelt down, and\nrested his arm with care. Then he took careful aim at the bear that had\nfirst appeared. Crack! went the pistol four times in rapid succession.\nThe bear gave a leap, clawed at its face several times, and then, with a\ngrunt of agony, turned and fled among the firs and out of sight.\n\n\"Hurrah! that did some damage!\" cried the youth, as he started to\nreload. \"Now I'll see if I can hit the other bear---- Hello, he's gone,\ntoo!\"\n\nThe boy was right, the larger beast was also lumbering off, evidently\nfrightened by the way its mate had been treated. Soon it, too, had\ndisappeared from view. Mr. Porter and Dave watched for a long time, but\nneither animal came back.\n\n\"They may possibly return, but I doubt it,\" said Dave. \"Anyway, I don't\nthink they'll come back right away, and that will give us a chance to\nescape.\"\n\n\"Not if we must go back through that patch of timber, my son.\"\n\n\"Let us try to get away by walking along the base of the cliff. We are\nbound to strike some sort of a mountain trail sooner or later. But,\npshaw, I forgot that you can't walk. Well, maybe I can carry you.\"\n\n\"No, it will be too much of a load, Dave. We had better wait awhile.\"\nAnd so they sat down and waited, after Dave had brought in the brushwood\nhe had previously broken off. A roaring fire cheered them greatly, and\nonce more each related his experiences. Mr. Porter told how he had\ntraveled in many parts of the world, and said that Dave must some day do\nthe same. He asked the youth about his education, and when Dave related\nhow he had won the medal of honor at Oak Hall his face beamed with\npleasure.\n\n\"I certainly owe Professor Potts and Mr. Wadsworth a good deal,\" he\nsaid. \"And I shall not forget them. You could not have fallen among\nbetter friends.\"\n\n\"I believe that,\" answered Dave, warmly. \"Professor Potts and all of the\nWadsworths have been just as good as they could be to me.\"\n\nAlmost before they knew it darkness came on. Dave brought in more of the\nbrushwood and even dragged over some limbs of a fallen fir. Luckily he\nhad brought along enough provisions for several meals, and they\nproceeded to make themselves as comfortable as possible in the hollow of\nthe cliff. They ate slowly, talking the while and each smiling warmly\ninto the face of the other.\n\n\"It seems almost too good to be true,\" said Mr. Porter, not once but\nseveral times.\n\n\"And, oh, I am so thankful!\" responded Dave.\n\nMr. Porter was so weak he needed sleep, so Dave told his parent to lie\ndown on some of the brushwood, which he spread out as a couch next to\nthe rocky wall.\n\n\"But what will you do, my son?\" asked Mr. Porter.\n\n\"I'll remain on guard--so those bears don't get a chance to surprise\nus.\"\n\n\"But aren't you sleepy?\"\n\n\"No--I'm so happy I don't think I'll be able to sleep for a week.\"\n\nMr. Porter lay down and closed his eyes, but it was a good hour before\nhe dropped into a doze. Dave sat by the fire, where he could look at his\nfather's face. It seemed as if he would never get done gazing at those\nfeatures, so like his Uncle Dunston's.\n\n\"Found at last!\" he murmured. \"Found at last, and thank God for it!\"\n\nTwo hours passed, and still Dave sat in the same position, thinking of\nthe past and speculating on the future. He thought of his sister Laura\nand wondered how soon they would meet, and if she and Jessie would\nbecome friends.\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\nThe boy leaped to his feet, and the sudden movement aroused his father.\nBoth listened to a yelping and a growling at a distance. The yelping\ngrew louder and louder, while the growling grew fainter.\n\n\"I know what it is!\" cried Dave, at length. \"Some wolves have gotten on\nthe trail of those wounded bears. Now there will be a battle royal!\"\n\n\"You must be right, Dave. Hark! The wolves must number a dozen or more.\"\n\n\"Sounds like about half a hundred to me, father.\"\n\nThe battle took place at the far end of the forest of firs and gradually\ngrew fainter and fainter. Mr. Porter shook his head doubtfully.\n\n\"I don't like this, Dave.\"\n\n\"What, aren't you glad that the bears have been attacked? I am.\"\n\n\"It isn't that. If those wolves want more meat they'll follow up that\nbloody trail--and it leads directly over here.\"\n\n\"Phew! I never thought of that. I'll stir up the fire--that will help to\nkeep them at a distance.\" Dave set to work with avidity, piling on\nnearly all of the brushwood that was left. He had just completed the\ntask when he chanced to look beyond into the waste of snow. He saw a\npair of gleaming eyes--then another pair and still another.\n\n\"The wolves are coming, father!\" he cried, in consternation.\n\n\"I see them, Dave, and we are going to have the fight of our lives to\nkeep them off,\" answered Mr. Porter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nHOME AGAIN--CONCLUSION\n\n\nIn a few minutes the wolves had come up and were glaring at Mr. Porter\nand Dave as they crouched close to the camp-fire. There were fourteen of\nthe beasts, all large, lean, and hungry-looking. They sniffed the air\nand set up yelps and mournful howls. Two found the spot where one of the\nbears had been wounded and pawed at the blood which had saturated the\nsnow.\n\n\"Oh, for a brace of good shotguns!\" sighed Dave. \"We could scatter them\nin short order.\"\n\n\"When we shoot we must make every shot tell,\" said his father. \"And keep\nthe cartridges where we can get at them quickly. How many left, Dave?\"\n\nThe youth counted the contents of the box he carried.\n\n\"Seventeen.\"\n\n\"Hardly enough for fourteen wolves. Yes, we must be very careful. If\nthey---- They are coming closer!\"\n\n\"Let us fire off one pistol at a time!\" cried Dave. \"Then we'll always\nhave one ready for use.\"\n\nMr. Porter did not answer, for he was aiming at the nearest beast. With\nthe discharge of the pistol the wolf leaped high in the air, turned and\ncame down on its side, and began to kick the snow in its death agony.\n\n\"A good shot!\" exclaimed Dave.\n\n\"You can try your luck,\" said Mr. Porter. \"I will take out that empty\nshell and reload.\"\n\nThe other wolves had surrounded the one that was dying, and taking aim\nat the center of the pack Dave let drive. One wolf was hit in the nose\nand the bullet glanced off and hit another in the jaw. Wild yelps of\npain followed, and the two wolves turned and ran for cover with all\npossible speed.\n\n\"We have gotten rid of three of them,\" said Dave, with much\nsatisfaction. \"If we keep this up we'll soon get rid of the rest.\"\n\n\"It is snowing again,\" announced Mr. Porter.\n\nHe was right, and soon the downfall became so heavy that they could see\nnext to nothing beyond the circle of light made by the camp-fire. But\nthat the wolves were still near they knew by the yelps and snarls which\noccasionally reached their ears.\n\nA quarter of an hour went by, and the snow came down as thickly as ever.\nA light wind had sprung up, and this sent the flakes directly into the\nhollow under the cliff. Mr. Porter heaved a sigh.\n\n\"More bad luck,\" he observed. \"By morning, if this keeps on, we'll be\nsnowed in.\"\n\n\"Look,\" said Dave. \"I believe the wolves are getting ready to rush us!\"\n\nBoth strained their eyes and soon saw seven or eight of the beasts\nsneaking softly up through the snow. The light from the camp-fire shone\nin their eyes and on their white fangs. They were growing desperate, and\nhoped by sheer force of numbers to lay their human prey low.\n\n\"Fire three shots, Dave, and I will do the same,\" said Mr. Porter, in a\nlow tone. \"Aim as carefully as you can, my boy.\"\n\nThe various shots rang out in rapid succession. How much damage was done\nthey could not tell, although they saw two wolves go down and lie still.\nThe others retreated, some limping, and the entire pack went back to the\nshelter of the brushwood.\n\nThey had now only a few cartridges left, and these they divided between\nthem. Then Dave stirred up the fire a little and placed the burning\nsticks so they would last as long as possible. Father and son looked at\neach other and suddenly stepped closer and embraced.\n\n\"God grant, now we have found each other, that we get from this spot in\nsafety,\" murmured Mr. Porter, fervently.\n\n\"Oh, we must get away!\" added Dave, impulsively.\n\n\"All we can do is to fight to the last, Dave.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nBoth knew only too well what to expect should the wolves get the better\nof the contest. \"As cruel as a wolf\" is a true saying. They would be\ntorn limb from limb and only their bones would be left to tell to some\nlater traveler the story of their fate. They decided, with set faces and\nshut teeth, to fight to the very last.\n\nAnother quarter of an hour went by, and soon they heard the wolves\ncoming back. Neither said a word, but both looked at each other.\n\n\"Take those on the left,--I will take those on the right,\" whispered Mr.\nPorter. \"But be careful--every shot means so much!\"\n\n\"I'll shoot my very best,\" answered Dave.\n\nAfter that not a word was spoken. Silently the beasts came closer and\ncloser. Dave's heart began to beat rapidly. Then, when he could wait no\nlonger, he aimed at the nearest animal on the left and pulled the\ntrigger.\n\nTwo shots, one from the son and the other from the father, rang out\nalmost simultaneously, and down went two wolves mortally wounded. Crack!\nwent Dave's weapon a second time, and now a wolf was hit in the neck.\nThen Mr. Porter fired, sending a bullet into a breast that was presented\nto view. With four of their number out of the fight, the other wolves\nturned and fled into the brushwood and then toward the forest of firs.\n\nThe battle had been of short duration, but the excitement had been\nintense, and Dave found himself bathed in a cold perspiration from head\nto foot. His father, too, was weak, and now sank on the rocks, breathing\nheavily.\n\nOnly one small branch of a tree remained for the fire, and this Dave set\nup, so that it might burn as a torch. When that was gone they would be\nin utter darkness--and then? The youth shivered as he asked himself the\nquestion. He knew that wild animals love the darkness and are braver in\nit than in the light.\n\n\"Hello! hello! hello!\"\n\nLoud and clear from above the cliff the cry rang out a dozen times or\nmore. At first Dave thought he must be dreaming, then he roused up and\nso did his parent.\n\n\"What was that?\" demanded Mr. Porter.\n\n\"Somebody calling, I think.\" Dave ran out of the hollow and looked\nupward through the falling snow. \"Who calls?\" he yelled, at the top of\nhis lungs.\n\n\"It is I, Granbury Lapham, and I have my brother and the others with\nme. Is that you, Porter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Have you found your father?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How is he?\" came in another voice--the voice of Philip Lapham.\n\n\"He is hurt a little, but not much.\"\n\n\"I'll be all right if I can only get out of here,\" called Mr. Porter,\ncoming out so that he could look up the cliff. \"We've been having our\nown troubles with two bears and a pack of wolves.\"\n\n\"We thought there must be trouble--by the shots fired,\" said Granbury\nLapham. \"That's why we started out in the darkness.\" He waved a torch in\nthe air. \"Can you see us?\"\n\n\"We can see a light,\" answered Dave. He took up the branch from the\nfire. \"Can you see our light?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nA long talk followed, and the party above, numbering four, said they had\nbrought along a good rope. This they lowered, and after not a little\ndifficulty Mr. Porter and Dave were raised up to the ledge above.\n\n\"There come the wolves again!\" cried the youth, as he reached the ledge.\n\"Have you a shotgun with you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Philip Lapham. \"Please lend it to me.\"\n\nThe weapon was passed over, and Dave blazed away twice in rapid\nsuccession. A wild snarling and yelping followed, and then the wolves\ndisappeared; and that was the last seen of them.\n\n\"We are well out of that,\" murmured Mr. Porter. \"And I am glad of it.\"\n\n\"And I am glad too,\" added Dave.\n\nAs it was snowing heavily the party did not waste time on the edge of\nthe cliff, but moved back to a small hut built on the mountain side and\nwhich was easily located by the Norwegian guide. Here they found the\nothers of the exploring party, and here Mr. Porter and Dave were served\nwith a hot meal and made as comfortable as possible.\n\nThe snow lasted until noon of the next day, and then it grew clear and\nmuch warmer. On the following day Dave and his father and the guide went\ndown the mountain to the sheep-station. Before they left they bade the\nLaphams and the others good-bye, and Mr. Porter said he would leave the\nquestion of locating the mines entirely in Philip Lapham's charge.\n\n\"You can draw on me for my full share of the expenses,\" said Mr. Porter.\n\"And if nothing comes of the venture I won't complain.\" It may be added\nhere that, later on, several mines of considerable importance were\nlocated, and when Mr. Porter sold out to a syndicate that was formed he\nrealized a profit of about fifteen thousand dollars.\n\nAt the sheep-station Dave found Roger anxiously awaiting his return. The\nsenator's son was delighted to meet Mr. Porter, and the two immediately\nbecame great friends.\n\nAs the weather remained fine it was decided to start on the return to\nChristiania without delay. Mr. Porter took Granbury Lapham's place in\nthe sleigh, and the party took with them a good stock of provisions. The\njourney was not without excitement, for they met and killed two wolves,\nand once they rolled down a small hill and were dumped in the snow, but\nin the end they arrived safely at the nearest railroad station, and from\nthat point the remainder of the trip was easy.\n\nAt the Norwegian capital a long cablegram was sent to Dunston Porter by\nDave and his father, telling of their meeting and stating that they and\nRoger would return to the United States at once. They also wanted to\nsend a cablegram to Laura, but could not, for they did not know her\nexact address.\n\n\"I shall have to wait until I hear from her, or until we get on the\nother side,\" said Mr. Porter. \"More than likely she is somewhere out\nWest,--perhaps on Mr. Endicott's ranch with Belle Endicott, her friend.\nI had the address of the ranch, but I lost it while I was up in the\nmountains.\" From Christiania, or rather the seaport, Drobak, they\nobtained passage on a swift-sailing vessel to Hull, and then took a\ntrain across England to Liverpool. They had already telegraphed ahead\nfor staterooms on a Cunard steamer bound for Boston, and two hours after\narriving at Liverpool were on board and leaving the dock.\n\n\"This is fast traveling,\" remarked Roger, as they stood on the deck,\nwatching the shipping scene around them. \"In less than a week we'll be\nhome. Dave, in some respects our trip to Norway seems like a dream.\"\n\n\"That is true, Roger--but what a happy dream!\" And Dave's face fairly\nbeamed with thankfulness.\n\nWhen they took the train from Boston to Crumville Dave could scarcely\ncontrol himself. Word had been sent ahead to the Wadsworths and Caspar\nPotts, and at the depot the travelers found all of their friends\nawaiting them. Mr. Porter was quickly introduced, and shook hands warmly\nall around.\n\n\"Oh, Dave, I'm so glad to see you back!\" cried Jessie. \"And to think you\nhave really found your father at last! Isn't it splendid!\"\n\n\"Yes, Jessie; and if I'm not the happiest boy in the world--well, I\nought to be, that's all.\"\n\n\"And what a fine man he is--and looks very much like your Uncle Dunston,\nand looks like you, too,\" added the girl. She lowered her voice and it\ntrembled a little. \"I am so happy--for your sake, Dave!\" And the tears\nstood in her deep, honest eyes.\n\nIt was truly a great home-coming, and Dave's father was told to make\nhimself perfectly at ease by Mr. Wadsworth.\n\n\"You have been more than kind to Dave,\" said Mr. Porter. \"You and your\nfamily, and Professor Potts. Dave has told me all about it. I do not\nknow if I can ever repay you, but I shall try my best.\" And he shook\nhands all over again.\n\nOn the very day that Dave reached Crumville came a letter from Phil\nLawrence, who had received word that Dave was coming home. In this\ncommunication Phil said that matters were running smoothly at Oak Hall.\nSam Day and Ben Basswood had had some trouble with Nat Poole, and the\ndude had received a well-deserved thrashing. Gus Plum was keeping very\nquiet, and had made a few more friends.\n\n \"You will be surprised to hear the news about Link Merwell,\" wrote\n Phil. \"I cannot tell you the start of it, but it ended in a great\n row between Merwell and Mr. Dale. Merwell is very bitter about it,\n and claims that I in some way got him into trouble. He went home\n for a vacation, and before he left he shook his fist in my face and\n said, 'I'll get even with you some day, and I'll get even with\n that friend of yours, Dave Porter, too.' He was fearfully ugly, and\n acted as if he wanted to eat somebody up.\"\n\n\"Humph, that is cheerful news,\" remarked Roger, after Dave had shown him\nthe letter. \"Dave, you want to watch out for Merwell.\"\n\n\"I certainly will, Roger. Don't you remember what I once said? In some\nrespects he is a worse chap than Nick Jasniff and a good deal worse than\nGus Plum ever was.\" And that Dave was correct will be proved in the next\nvolume of this series, to be entitled, \"Dave Porter and His Classmates;\nor, For the Honor of Oak Hall.\" In that volume we shall meet all our\nfriends again, and also Laura Porter, and learn how Dave met the\nunderhanded work of Link Merwell and what was the result.\n\nOn Friday evening following Dave's return to the Wadsworth home he was\nsurprised to receive a visit from Phil, Ben, Sam, and Shadow. They burst\ninto the house like a cyclone and nearly hugged him to death, and then\nshook hands all around, not forgetting Dave's father, who was quickly\nintroduced.\n\n\"We simply couldn't stay away,\" said Phil. \"We stormed Doctor Clay's\noffice and he let us off until Monday morning.\"\n\n\"We want to hear all about your adventures in the far north,\" added\nBen. \"How you discovered the North Pole, and shot bears and wolves----\"\n\n\"And gave Nick Jasniff his set-back,\" interrupted Sam. \"And how you\nfound your father.\"\n\n\"Which puts me in mind of a story,\" said Shadow. \"A fellow once----\"\n\n\"Hold hard, Shadow!\" interrupted Phil. \"Dave has the floor this time.\nYour stories must wait until he's through.\"\n\n\"All right,\" answered the story-teller of the school, cheerfully. \"I'd\nrather listen to Dave, anyway, for I know he's got something worth\ntelling.\"\n\nAnd then all sat down, and Dave told his tale, just as I have related it\nhere. It took until midnight, and when he had finished, all said\ngood-night to each other and went to bed. And here let us say\ngood-night, too.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n * * * * *\n\nEDWARD STRATEMEYER'S BOOKS\n\nOld Glory Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._\n\nUNDER DEWEY AT MANILA.\nUNDER OTIS IN THE PHILIPPINES.\nA YOUNG VOLUNTEER IN CUBA.\nTHE CAMPAIGN OF THE JUNGLE.\nFIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS.\nUNDER MacARTHUR IN LUZON.\n\n\nSoldiers of Fortune Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._\n\nON TO PEKIN.\nAT THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR.\nUNDER THE MIKADO'S FLAG. WITH\nTOGO FOR JAPAN.\n\n\nColonial Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._\n\nWITH WASHINGTON IN THE WEST.\nON THE TRAIL OF PONTIAC.\nMARCHING ON NIAGARA.\nTHE FORT IN THE WILDERNESS.\nAT THE FALL OF MONTREAL.\nTRAIL AND TRADING POST.\n\n\nMexican War Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.00._\n\nFOR THE LIBERTY OF TEXAS.\nWITH TAYLOR ON THE RIO GRANDE.\nUNDER SCOTT IN MEXICO.\n\n\nPan-American Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.00._\n\nLOST ON THE ORINOCO.\nYOUNG EXPLORERS OF THE AMAZON.\nTHE YOUNG VOLCANO EXPLORERS.\nTREASURE SEEKERS OF THE ANDES.\nYOUNG EXPLORERS OF THE ISTHMUS.\nCHASED ACROSS THE PAMPAS.\n\n\nDave Porter Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._\n\nDAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL.\nDAVE PORTER ON CAVE ISLAND.\nDAVE PORTER IN THE SOUTH SEAS.\nDAVE PORTER AND THE RUNAWAYS.\nDAVE PORTER'S RETURN TO SCHOOL.\nDAVE PORTER IN THE GOLD FIELDS.\nDAVE PORTER IN THE FAR NORTH.\nDAVE PORTER AT BEAR CAMP.\nDAVE PORTER AND HIS CLASSMATES.\nDAVE PORTER AND HIS DOUBLE.\nDAVE PORTER AT STAR RANCH.\nDAVE PORTER'S GREAT SEARCH.\nDAVE PORTER AND HIS RIVALS.\nDAVE PORTER UNDER FIRE.\nDAVE PORTER'S WAR HONORS.\n\n\nLakeport Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._\n\nTHE GUN CLUB BOYS OF LAKEPORT.\nTHE FOOTBALL BOYS OF LAKEPORT.\nTHE BASEBALL BOYS OF LAKEPORT.\nTHE AUTOMOBILE BOYS OF LAKEPORT.\nTHE BOAT CLUB BOYS OF LAKEPORT.\nTHE AIRCRAFT BOYS OF LAKEPORT.\n\n\nAmerican Boys' Biographical Series\n\n_Cloth. Illustrated. Net $1.75 per volume._\n\nAMERICAN BOYS' LIFE OF WILLIAM McKINLEY.\nAMERICAN BOYS' LIFE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT.\n\n * * * * *\n\nDEFENDING HIS FLAG. _Price $1.75_\n\n\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER'S NOTE\n\nThe page numbers of illustrations have been changed to reflect their\nnew positions following transcription, and they are now indicated in\nthe illustration list by 'Page' instead of 'Facing Page'.\n\nPrinter's errors have been corrected. All other inconsistencies are\nas in the original. The author's spelling has been retained.\n\nAdvertisements have been transferred to the rear of the book.\n\n\n\n***","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}} +{"text":"\n\n**Contents**\n\n_TITLE PAGE_\n\n_DEDICATION_\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER FIFTY-NINE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE\n\n_ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS_\n\n_ABOUT THE AUTHOR_\n\n_PREVIEW OF BEYOND RECALL_\n\n_ALSO BY ROBERT GODDARD_\n\n_COPYRIGHT_\nIn memory of Daisy Taylor, \na dear and kind friend\n**CHAPTER \nONE**\n\n**I** f he had flown back with Donna, of course, it would have been all right. If her flight had been delayed by a couple of hours, it would have been enough. If he had simply turned right instead of left coming out of the cemetery, he would probably have got away with it.\n\nBut it was not all right; it was not enough: he did not get away with it. In the end, the ifs and therefores amounted to nothing. Fate had set a trap for him that day. And he walked obligingly and unwittingly straight into it.\n\nThus did a decade of good fortune for Harry Barnett come to an end without him even realizing it. Marriage and fatherhood had proved during those years to be the sweetest of surprises. He regretted coming to them so late, but the circumstances that had brought Donna and hence their daughter Daisy into his life made the delay inevitable. He had never been one to dwell on missed opportunities. The present\u2014and their future as a family\u2014were his to enjoy.\n\nThe recent death of his mother had failed to puncture his contentment. A swift and gentle exit at the age of ninety-three was no cause for anguish. Her race had been run to a dignified finish.\n\nHarry's links with his birthplace had effectively died with her. He had returned to Swindon to arrange her funeral and to clear out the house she had lived in for more than seventy years. The Council would want to put another tenant in as soon as possible. The fact that 37 Falmouth Street held so much of Harry's past could not stand in their way. Nor would he have wanted it to. It was time to move on.\n\nThat morning, Donna had flown back to Seattle, where Daisy had been staying with her grandparents. Mother and daughter would drive home to Vancouver tomorrow. Harry planned to join them in a week or so, when he had disposed of his mother's clothes, crockery and furniture. It was not a task he was looking forward to. But it had to be done. And there was no one to do it but him. Such was the lot of an only child.\n\nSeeing off Donna at Heathrow and travelling back alone to Swindon had left Harry feeling sorry for himself, however. He was in no mood to begin emptying cupboards and filling bin-bags. He walked away from the station past the boundary wall of the former Great Western Railway works, then crossed the park and made his way up to Radnor Street, where his old primary school, now converted into offices, stood opposite the entrance to the cemetery.\n\nFor the first time in Harry's memory, the gravestone commemorating his father, Stanley Barnett, killed in an accident in the GWR locomotive-erecting shop when Harry was three, no longer stood in its familiar place near the highest point of the cemetery. It had been removed to have the name Ivy Barnett added at long last to the inscription. Harry stood for a few minutes by the flower-strewn mound of earth that marked the spot where his mother's coffin had been lowered in on top of his father's two days ago. He breathed the clear spring air and gazed towards the flat horizon. Then he turned and slowly walked away.\n\nLeaving the cemetery on the far side, he seriously considered making for the Beehive, his local in those distant days when he had been a Swindon householder in his own right and co-proprietor of Barnchase Motors. But he reckoned a descent into beery nostalgia would not be a good start to a week of solitude and toil, so he headed downhill instead to the market hall, where he bought a couple of lamb chops for his supper before returning to Falmouth Street.\n\nIt was a mild April afternoon of watery sunshine and warbling birdsong. Even the office blocks of downtown Swindon contrived to appear, if not attractive, then at least inoffensive in the restful light. The Railway Village was quiet and tranquil, a condition the average age of its residents generally guaranteed. Turning his back nobly on the beckoningly bright yellow frontage of the Glue Pot\u2014or at any rate deciding he should put the lamb chops in the fridge before allowing himself a swift one\u2014Harry crossed Emlyn Square and started along Falmouth Street.\n\nHe saw the two men ahead of him before he realized it was his mother's door they were standing at. They were about his own age, which he would once have described as old, but, now he had attained it, seemed merely a bemusingly high number. One was short and tubby, anoraked, track-suited and baseball-capped. The other, though scarcely much taller, was thinner, his clothes shabby and old-fashioned\u2014beltless raincoat, crumpled trousers, laced shoes in need of a polish. He had a full head of white, tousled hair, a beak-nosed, bony face and a put-upon stoop. His companion looked contrastingly at ease with himself, staring at the unanswered door of number 37 with his hands thrust idly into his anorak pockets, sunlight flashing on his glasses in time to the gum-chewing motion of his well-padded jaw. They were debating something in a desultory fashion, or so a shrug of his shoulders suggested. A battered leather suitcase and a smarter, newer holdall stood beside them on the path. Harry did not recognize them, nor could he guess what they wanted. Whatever it was, though, he felt certain they had not come to see him.\n\nThen the thinner of the two spotted him and touched the other's arm. A word passed between them. They turned and looked at Harry. As they did so, he stopped. And everything else stopped too, even the chewing of the gum.\n\n\"Ossie?\" the fat one said after a moment of silence and immobility. \"That's you, isn't it?\"\n\nNo one had called Harry Ossie since his National Service days, which had ended fifty years ago and been largely forgotten by him for almost as long. While his brain sent a none too nimble search party off in quest of memories that might explain this turn of events, he opened his mouth to speak\u2014but found nothing to say.\n\n\"It's Jabber. And Crooked.\"\n\nThe words lassoed Harry's scrambling thoughts and wound them in. Jabber; and Crooked: the nicknames of two of his comrades from the strangest and most memorable episode of his spell in uniform. Mervyn Lloyd, dubbed \"Jabber\" on account of his talkative nature; and Peter Askew, whose sobriquet \"Crooked\" counted as a salutary example of National Service wit. For Harry's part, \"Ossie\" was a reference to his middle name, Mosley, inflicted on him by his father in tribute to none other than Oswald Mosley himself, much to Harry's lifelong chagrin.\n\n\"Don't you recognize us?\"\n\nTechnically, the answer was \"Just about.\" The years had wrought their changes with a heavy hand. Lloyd's Welsh lilt survived, but his spry figure had not. If he had denied being Mervyn Lloyd, Harry would not have argued. Askew meanwhile had been bleached and bent by time, like some potted plant left outdoors through too many winters.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Harry at last. \"It really is you two.\"\n\n\"Good to see you, Harry,\" said Askew, who had never been one of the most assiduous deployers of nicknames, perhaps because he resented his own.\n\n\"Well, it's...good to see you.\" Harry shook them both by the hand. \"But...\"\n\n\"You look surprised,\" said Lloyd.\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Didn't you get Danger's letter?\"\n\nJohnny Dangerfield was evidently a party to whatever was going on as well. It had to be some kind of reunion to mark the fiftieth anniversary of their demob. Harry could think of no other explanation, though left to him the anniversary would have been allowed to pass unmarked. \"I've had no letter,\" he said, frowning in puzzlement.\n\n\"You must have. This is the address Danger gave us.\"\n\n\"I haven't lived here in years, lads. Decades, actually. It's my mother's house. She died recently. I'm only over to clear the place out.\"\n\n\"We struck lucky, then, didn't we, Crooked?\" Lloyd grinned. \"Danger asked us to drop by on the off chance, Ossie, seeing as we were both coming this way.\"\n\n\"Sorry to hear about your mother, Harry,\" said Askew.\n\n\"Thanks, Peter.\"\n\n\"Where are you over from, then?\" asked Lloyd.\n\n\"Canada.\"\n\n\"All right for some. How'd you end up there?\"\n\n\"It's a long story.\"\n\n\"I'll bet. When d'you go back, then?\"\n\n\"A week or so.\"\n\n\"Perfect. How d'you fancy a couple of days north of the border?\"\n\n\"The border?\"\n\n\"Scotland, Ossie. Johnny's arranged for us to get together at Kilveen Castle this very weekend.\"\n\n\"You're joking.\"\n\n\"No. All the old crew. Well, those who are still in the land of the living. Those he's been able to track down. We'd given up on you.\"\n\n\"My mother must have forgotten to forward the letter,\" Harry mused. \"Or else it went astray.\"\n\n\"Well, you know what the post is like these days. But never mind.\" Lloyd clapped Harry heavily on the shoulder. \"We've found you now.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTWO**\n\n**T** he road that led young Harry Barnett to Kilveen Castle in March 1955 began at Swindon Labour Exchange two years previously, when he passed a perfunctory National Service medical and asked to enlist in the RAF, commonly believed to be a softer option than either the Army or the Navy. The half a dozen weekends he had spent gooning around in the RAF Reserves out at Wroughton swung it for him and six weeks later his third-class rail warrant to RAF Padgate dropped through the letterbox of 37 Falmouth Street.\n\nAfter the trauma of basic training, he was despatched to Stafford, where his suspended career as a filing clerk in Swindon Borough Council was regarded as suitable grounding for work in the stores. There was to be no soaring across the sky for Aircraftman Barnett, for all his boyhood fantasies of Battle of Britain derring-do. His unit had its feet firmly on the ground.\n\nIt was amidst RAF Stafford's cavernous repositories of the equipment and effects of disbanded wartime squadrons that Harry met his future business partner, Barry Chipchase. Though the same age as Harry, Chipchase had acquired from somewhere a maturity beyond his years, one feature of which was his unerring eye for the main chance. The moment when Barnchase Motors collapsed under the strain of his wheeler-dealing and Harry finally saw his friend for what he was lay nearly twenty years ahead of them. For the present, Harry was happy to follow Chipchase's lead where the pursuit of female company and a fast buck were concerned. What could have been a tedious sojourn in the Midlands became under Chipchase's tutelage an education for Harry in the wilier ways of the world.\n\nAt first Chipchase funded his activities through straightforward black marketeering, but the demise of rationing forced him to resort to other methods of turning a profit. During 1954, he reigned supreme as the station's fixer, trading everything from weekend passes to cushy postings and, beyond the gate, more or less anything that had not been bolted down. Harry was his trusted assistant at the outset and, by the end, his loyal partner.\n\nThat end came early in 1955, when, with only a few months left to serve, Chipchase overreached himself. Siphoning off fuel from the station tank to sell to local farmers and smuggling out surplus mess furniture to flog round the pubs of Stafford was not enough for him. He wanted to go one better\u2014and bigger. The stores held several collections of silver belonging to squadrons unlikely to be re-formed short of a Third World War. Much of it, Chipchase calculated, would never be missed and could be put to better use providing him and Harry with what he called \"demob dosh\"\u2014a nest egg for a fast and loose future on civvy street.\n\nThe plan foundered, as such plans often do, on bad luck. When Air Chief Marshal Bradshaw saw a silver salver bearing the insignia of a squadron he had once commanded for sale in a shop in Birmingham, he initiated an inquiry that led the RAF Police by a winding route to the barrack-door in Stafford of Aircraftmen Barnett and Chipchase. The game was up.\n\nIt was useless for Chipchase to protest to Harry that the deal he had struck with a certain nameless individual had been based on melting down the silver, not selling on items intact. He should have realized he was doing business with people he could not trust. It was a point Harry had ample opportunity to expand upon during the weeks spent in the guardroom cells awaiting court martial. The prospect, as the witless flight lieutenant appointed to defend them explained, was bleak. For such an outrageous offence against the honour as well as the property of the Air Force a sentence of six months or more in detention could be anticipated. And those months would then be added to their service. With a conviction for theft round his neck, Harry would probably find he had no job to return to in Swindon. His future suddenly looked far from rosy. And Chipchase's stubborn insistence that he would somehow contrive to get them off the hook failed to improve the view.\n\nThen, _mirabile dictu,_ came salvation. Chipchase tried to claim credit for it, but Harry was more inclined to thank his guardian angel. The station CO, Group Captain Wyatt, summoned them under close guard to his office a few days before the court martial was due to be held and offered them, much to Harry's incredulity, a way out. Volunteers were needed for a special project of three months' duration. No details were forthcoming beyond Wyatt's dry assurance that it would not involve being parachuted into Russia. If they signed up for it, did as they were told unquestioningly throughout and generally kept their noses clean, the charges would be dropped. If not...\n\nBut refusal was scarcely an option, as Wyatt must have anticipated, since he had already arranged for their kitbags to be packed. He wanted them off his hands. And they were happy to go. Chipchase theorized later that retired air aces might have cut up rough if they had discovered how little care was being taken of their old squadrons' silverware. A court martial would have attracted unwelcome publicity. The top brass had probably sent a message down the line that it was to be avoided at all costs. He and Harry should have held out for a better deal.\n\nThe one they had got was still pretty good, though. Forty-eight hours later, they arrived at Kilveen Castle, an outstation of RAF Dyce, near Aberdeen, and met their fellow volunteers for special duties of an unknown nature.\n\nThere had been fifteen of them in all, three of whom were drinking tea and taking their ease fifty years later in the kitchen at 37 Falmouth Street, Swindon. Ease was of course a relative term in Peter Askew's case. It occurred to Harry that he was one of those people who had never quite got the knack of life, which was a pity, given how much of it had now passed him by. Mervyn Lloyd, on the other hand, was a stranger to inhibition. And to silence. He was currently living up to his nickname by summarizing for Harry the contents of the letter from Johnny Dangerfield he had never received.\n\n\"Seems Danger made a packet in the oil business, which took him back to Aberdeen. The castle's been turned into a hotel. That's what made him think about staging a fiftieth anniversary reunion of our little band of brigands. Got the University to approach the MoD for our discharge addresses and started writing round. There was a good bit of forwarding and phoning after that. One or two have fallen off the twig. Well, you have to expect that at our age. And one or two\u2014like you, Ossie\u2014were hard to track down. But Danger's done a bloody good job, all things considered. I'll leave you his latest round robin to take a shufti at. The long and the short of it is he's booked the castle for this weekend. Just us. And it's a freebie. Danger's paying. His treat. Well, he's probably got a bargain price this early in the season, but it's still bloody generous of him. Seven of us are going up on the train from London tomorrow. I'm staying with my daughter in Neasden overnight. She doesn't know it yet, but she's putting up Crooked as well. Turned out he and I both live in Cardiff, so it made sense for the two of us to travel up today. Plus it meant we could stop off here and see if you really were a lost cause. Which I'm happy to say you aren't.\"\n\n\"You'll come along, won't you, Harry?\" Askew asked plaintively. \"It wouldn't be the same without you.\"\n\n\"No more it would,\" said Lloyd. \"The invitation's too good to refuse.\"\n\n\"Is Barry going to be there?\" Harry asked, guessing as he spoke that Chipchase would have proved peculiarly elusive.\n\n\"Who?\" Lloyd looked confused, wedded as he was to the nicknames of fifty years ago.\n\n\"Fission,\" said Harry, recalling with a mental turn of speed that surprised him the punning handle that had attached itself to his friend early in their Aberdeenshire exile. (Nuclear fission had been much in the news at the time, though fish and chips had been more often in their thoughts.) \"Barry Chipchase.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Askew. \"He'll be there.\"\n\n\"Right. Your best mate. I remember.\" Lloyd levelled a podgy forefinger at Harry, apparently considering this clinched the matter. \"Wouldn't want to miss out on the chance of catching up on old times with Fission, would you?\"\n\n\"He's already up there, actually,\" said Askew.\n\n\"He is?\"\n\n\"All covered in the round robin, Ossie,\" said Lloyd. \"No stone unturned.\"\n\n\"Well, I\u2014\"\n\n\"Can't say no?\" Lloyd cocked one eyebrow expectantly. \"That's it, isn't it? Same as us. You just can't turn down old Danger when he wants to throw his money around.\"\n\nHarry had more or less promised to join the expedition by the time he saw Lloyd and Askew off on the train to London later that afternoon. An all-expenses-paid jaunt to a Scottish castle of which he had mixed but by no means harrowing memories won out over a weekend of house-clearing in Swindon every time. He was confident Donna would not begrudge him a brief amble down memory lane. He could never be accused of living in the past. But a fleeting visit to its poignant purlieus could surely do no harm.\n**CHAPTER \nTHREE**\n\n**O** peration Tabula Rasa\u2014or Clean Sheet, as its participants more commonly referred to it\u2014was the brainchild of Professor Alexander McIntyre of Aberdeen University. He wanted to test his theory that anyone could be taught any academic subject to a reasonable level of proficiency, given the right environment and the right methods. Kilveen Castle, thirty miles inland from Aberdeen and available at a bargain rent, was deemed by him to be an ideally secluded location for such an experiment. And a group of National Servicemen who had kicked over the traces of Forces discipline constituted appropriately unpromising material. Through the good offices of a cousin of his, an Assistant Under-Secretary of State at the Air Ministry, the RAF agreed to provide fifteen such bad boys, hoiked from punishment units, detention centres and guardroom cells at short notice in March 1955, for a three-month trial. If Professor Mac wanted them, it was implied, he was welcome to them.\n\nProfessor Mac was afterwards heard to complain that three months was not enough. Six was the minimum necessary. But the University, who were paying the rent and supplying the teaching staff, would not go beyond three. Nor would the RAF, who reluctantly seconded a flight lieutenant and a warrant officer from 612 Squadron at Dyce to ensure the fifteen recalcitrants did not run amok.\n\nThus, in a sense, the experiment was doomed to failure from the outset. From the point of view of the participants, however\u2014the students, as Professor Mac called them\u2014it was a resounding success. Three months lounging around a classroom in a Scottish castle studying art, literature, history, algebra, geometry, psychology, philosophy and suchlike with less than determined zeal involved a modicum of mental effort and occasional bouts of cataleptic boredom, but was so vastly preferable to the alternatives that not a single voice was raised in protest. Nor did anyone abscond, disrupt the proceedings or steal so much as a teaspoon. In disciplinary terms if in no other, they were model students. The three months passed uneventfully and ended with few signs of startling intellectual progress, at least as far as Aircraftman Harry Barnett was concerned, although one or two of his fellow students succeeded in developing scholarly habits if not attainments. It was, nonetheless, not what Professor Mac had been hoping for. He went back to the drawing board. While Harry and the other Clean Sheeters went their separate ways.\n\nHarry found himself posted to RAF Records, Gloucester, for the remainder of his service. Chipchase was despatched to a battery-charging station on the south coast. They did not meet again for several years. And they did not even dream of meeting the thirteen men with whom they had shared a Nissen hut in the grounds of Kilveen Castle, Aberdeenshire, for the three months in the spring of 1955.\n\nThe Nissen hut was happily long gone. Accommodation for the Clean Sheet reunion was going to be in the Kilveen Castle Hotel's luxury guestrooms. This was just one of the nuggets of information contained in Johnny Dangerfield's latest round robin, which Harry perused over a pint in the Glue Pot on his way back from the station. Dangerfield had clearly done extremely well in the oil business to judge by the lavishness of the entertainment he was laying on. But he had always been a generous soul, quick to offer the loan of a quid or a drag on his cigarette. It was, to that extent, in character.\n\nThe e-mailed photographs of Kilveen Castle suggested it had hardly altered outwardly. The original sixteenth-century building was a stocky, mean-windowed tower sporting turrets at the corners and battlements between, to which had been added, a couple of hundred years later, like a smart new growth from a gnarled tree stump, a plain but well-proportioned Georgian gentleman's residence. The interior in Harry's day had been more than a little dilapidated, especially in the tower. The rooms had had a bang-up-to-date designer makeover since then, however, with rich-toned fabrics and fine-lined furniture much in evidence. The dining room where they had eaten frugal meals in draughty gloom had been transformed into an elegant restaurant, while the classroom where they had blunted their wits on cubism and calculus was now a stylish conference centre equipped with every technological aid known to corporate man.\n\nIf Kilveen Castle was wearing its years lightly, the same could not be said of all the veterans of Operation Clean Sheet. Dangerfield had supplied notes on their careers and accomplishments since, though in some cases these were distinctly sparse. He described himself as \"pensioned off by an oil giant and divorced by a man-eater,\" but his address\u2014Sweet Gale Lodge, Pitfodels, Aberdeen\u2014did not sound like a hovel and Harry saw no reason to doubt Lloyd's assertion that \"Danger's rolling in it.\"\n\nLloyd himself had spent forty years shuffling paper for the Cardiff Port Authority and boasted a wife and three grown children. It was not a life story to set the pulse racing. Nor was Askew's. Crooked had apparently worked with animals in assorted zoos and vets' practices. His relations with humans were a blank.\n\nA blank was nonetheless preferable to a full stop. Mike \"Three Foot\" Yardley had written himself off in a motorbike accident in 1964. Les \"Smudger\" Smith, double-glazing salesman, had succumbed to a heart attack while explaining his employer's unique beading system to a client in Chatham in 1993. Leroy \"Coker\" Nixon had drowned (circumstances unknown) in 1983. And Lester \"Piggott\" Maynard, after making something of a name for himself as a radio comedy scriptwriter, had died of AIDS in 1987, which some\u2014not including Harry\u2014had already realized on account of a couple of newspaper obituaries at the time. In addition, Ernie \"Babber\" Babcock, long emigrated to Australia, was reported to be gaga following a stroke. Thus the original fifteen had been shorn to ten for the reunion Dangerfield had taken it into his head to arrange.\n\nSome of them had clearly done better than others. Gilbert \"Tapper\" Tancred never had been a dullard. Harry could remember him surprising the tutors at Kilveen on several occasions with the breadth of his knowledge. And he had been responsible for the more ingenious of the nicknames conferred on every one of the Clean Sheeters. It was no surprise to learn that he had finessed his way into the City, prospered in the pinstripe-suited world of merchant banking and retired to suburban leisure in Carshalton Beeches. His intellectual equal, Neville \"Magister\" Wiseman, had likewise done well and was now a semi-retired art dealer living in London SW1. Bill \"Judder\" Judd had risen from hod-carrier to house-builder courtesy of several property booms and still had a hand in what had become a family business in Essex\u2014Judd & Sons. Those three plus Dangerfield counted as definite success stories.\n\nThe story was less happy where Owen \"Gregger\" Gregson was concerned. He had taken early retirement from Colman's Mustard of Norwich to care for a disabled wife and keep pigeons. It did not sound as if his fifty years since Clean Sheet had been fun-packed. Nor did those of Milton \"Paradise\" Fripp, bookkeeper for a laundry in Derby prior to uneventful, unmarried retirement.\n\nIt was perhaps as well that Harry remained for the purposes of the round robin a question mark. He could only assume his mother had thrown away Dangerfield's initial letter, mistaking it for junk mail, which she had often complained about. What if she _had_ sent it on to him: would he have volunteered about himself anyway? Ten years filing memos for Swindon Borough Council; seven running a garage business that ended in Chipchase-induced bankruptcy; six holding down a desk job with Mallender Marine in Weymouth; nine lotus-eating in Rhodes; six going to seed in London; and ten married to a beautiful, brainy American academic: it was hardly an arrow-straight progression and an explanation of every turn it had taken was best not attempted for a number of very good reasons.\n\nChipchase could have supplied some of this information, of course, but he seemed to have been as reticent concerning Harry as he had been concerning himself. Dangerfield said that he had \"contacted Fission just as he was about to relocate to South Africa, a move he's magnanimously put on hold so that he can join us at Kilveen, pending which he's shacking up at my humble abode.\" There was no mention of anything Chipchase had done in the intervening years, but he was surely going to have to come up with some sort of account of himself when he met his old comrades face-to-face.\n\nAmong those comrades he presumably did not expect Harry to figure. Dangerfield would get a phone call from Lloyd tonight reporting that they had struck lucky in Swindon. Only then would Chipchase realize that Harry was going to reappear in his life. They had last met, entirely by chance, in Washington, DC, more than ten years ago. At that time, Chipchase had been romancing the wealthy widow of a Yorkshire undertaker. Somehow, Harry suspected little had come of that in view of the old reprobate's imminent relocation to South Africa\u2014assuming such relocation was not a cover story in itself. All in all, he was looking forward to subjecting Chipchase to some gentle grilling.\n\nAnd if he did not do it, others might. Professor Mac was dead and gone, so was in no position to be curious about whether his experiment had had any long-term effects. But his gloomy young research assistant, Donald Starkie, now Dr. Starkie and far from young but probably still gloomy, was going to join them and might be expected to pursue the question. The fact that he would be accompanied by an old student of his from the University, Erica Rawson, certainly suggested that something more than a simple knees-up was planned. Dangerfield had not quibbled over her attendance, apparently. \"I'm sure I speak for all of us in welcoming some young, intelligent\u2014and, more to the point, pretty\u2014female company. Just don't mention her to your wives\/partners\/girlfriends\/live-in lovers!\"\n\nHarry did indeed fail to mention Erica Rawson when he telephoned Donna late that night. But that was because there were so many other things to say rather than because he had taken Dangerfield's sexist sentiments on board. Donna, as he had expected, was all in favour of him making the trip to Aberdeenshire.\n\n\"You've got to go, hon. I remember you telling me about the place. You absolutely have to find out what these guys have been up to since.\"\n\n\"Not a lot's my bet. It could be a dire weekend.\"\n\n\"But Barry will be there, right?\"\n\n\"Apparently.\"\n\n\"Well, you'll enjoy seeing him again, won't you?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure enjoy's the word, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Go for it. What have you got to lose?\"\n\n\"A couple of days out of my house-clearing schedule.\"\n\n\"You'll just have to work harder when you get back.\"\n\n\"OK, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Daisy and I'll expect a postcard. And take a camera. I'll want to see how these reprobates have aged compared with my craggily handsome husband.\"\n\n\"You think it's a good idea, then?\"\n\n\"A good idea?\" Donna laughed. \"Why not?\"\n**CHAPTER \nFOUR**\n\n**S** lumped bleary-eyed and woolly-headed aboard the 8:30 train to Paddington the following morning, his thoughts as blurred as the passing landscape, Harry winced at a scalding sip of plastic-cupped coffee and wondered if a cigarette would sharpen his mental processes. The answer was almost certainly, but he had for-sworn smoking when Daisy was born and his lungs worked the better for it even if his brain did not. Besides, First Great Western in their corporate wisdom did not permit smoking.\n\nThat was just one of the ways in which life had changed since he had last travelled to Kilveen Castle, with Chipchase, in a succession of fug-filled third-class carriages, back in the early spring of 1955. They had probably puffed their way through fifty or sixty cigarettes in the course of their tortuous journey, which had begun at Stafford before dawn and had ended, well after dark, at Lumphanan, the closest station to the castle, thirty miles west of Aberdeen on the Deeside branch line. Harry shivered at the memory of stumbling off the train into the bone-numbing chill of an Aberdeenshire night. \"Bloody hell,\" he remembered Chipchase gasping. \"They've sent us to Siberia.\"\n\nBut Siberian their exile had not turned out to be. Far from it. Their three months at Kilveen had been cushier than even they would have claimed to deserve. \"Never mind Clean Sheet,\" Chipchase had remarked after only a few days of Professor Mac's gentle regime. \"We've got ourselves a bloody feather bed here, Harry.\"\n\nThere had in truth been much to be thankful for. \"You've all been given a second chance,\" the CO from Dyce had told them during his one and only visit to the castle. \"Be sure you make the most of it.\" And so they had, though not necessarily in the way the CO had envisaged. As to whether their second chance had had any lasting effect...time was about to tell.\n\nHarry headed straight into the ticket office when he reached King's Cross and felt grateful for the twenty minutes he still had in hand before the Aberdeen train was due to leave. The queue was long enough to remind him of the days of rationing. He was not destined to make much progress towards the front of it, however.\n\n\"Ossie.\" A gravelly voice sounded in Harry's ear. He turned to confront a tall, broad-shouldered, big-bellied man wearing a loose and expensive-looking overcoat over jeans and a sweatshirt. His large, smiling face was familiar, though only faintly so in its current condition of broken-veined puffiness. His hair was even shorter than the day after an RAF short-back-and-sides and Persil white into the bargain. The stud gleaming in his left earlobe was likewise no aid to recognition. But there had been a cockney twang to the one word he had so far spoken, which was as much of a clue as Harry needed.\n\n\"Judder.\"\n\n\"Good to see you, mate.\" Bill Judd bestowed on Harry a crushing handshake and a pat to the shoulder that felt more like a clout. \"Come and meet the others. They're out on the concourse.\"\n\n\"I haven't got my ticket yet.\"\n\n\"We've got it for you, in case you left it till the last moment to turn up. You always were a tardy bugger. Come on.\"\n\nLloyd had said seven were travelling up on the train. Harry therefore expected to see a sizeable huddle of half-remembered figures ahead of them as Judd piloted him out of the ticket office. What he actually saw, however, was Lloyd and Askew standing together in front of the information screens\u2014and no sign of anyone else.\n\n\"Expect you're wondering where they've all got to,\" was Lloyd's prescient greeting.\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"Tapper's already on board. Seems he preferred resting his arse on some first-class upholstery to waiting for you on these hard-as-nails benches out here.\"\n\n\"They've just called the train, Harry,\" said Askew, nodding up at the screens.\n\n\"Yeah. We'd better get a wiggle on, boys,\" said Judd. \"Some of us don't move as fast as we used to.\"\n\n\"Did you say first-class, Jabber?\" Harry asked as they hefted their bags and joined the general rush towards platform six, where the 10:30 to Aberdeen awaited. \"Isn't Tapper travelling with us, then?\"\n\n\"We're all in first, mate,\" Judd shouted over his shoulder. \"I bumped us up when Tapper showed his hand. I think he was hoping for a quiet journey. We'll knock that idea on the head, hey?\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't worry about it. My treat.\"\n\n\"I can't\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't argue, Ossie,\" said Lloyd in an undertone. \"You'll queer the pitch for the rest of us.\" He nodded ahead at the lurching figure of Judd. \"I reckon bricks and mortar have served him well. Just look at the cut of that overcoat.\"\n\n\"All right. I won't argue. But where _are_ the others? You mentioned seven.\"\n\n\"Didn't you read Danger's notes?\"\n\n\"Yes, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Gregger and Paradise live up the line. Gregger's joining us at Peterborough, Paradise at York.\"\n\n\"That still only makes six.\"\n\n\"Not if we count you.\"\n\n\"But you _weren't_ counting me. Were you?\"\n\n\"No. Bit of a change of plan where Magister's concerned, actually. I'll fill you in when we're on board. You'll have to get over the shock of meeting Tapper first.\"\n\n\"Shock? Why should it be\u2014\"\n\n\"Just you wait and see.\"\n\nHarry followed the others onto the train mentally preparing himself for his first sight of Gilbert \"Tapper\" Tancred's time-ravaged features. Perhaps, it occurred to him, there was worse to be faced than the imprint of the years. Disability; disfigurement: who knew what?\n\nThen he saw Judd move ahead of him down the aisle between the seats and touch the shoulder of one of the passengers already aboard. The passenger looked up at Judd, then rose and turned towards Harry.\n\nThe shock, it turned out, lay in the ease of recognition. Tancred was as slim and erect as he had been at twenty. His black hair had been lightened by no more than a few strands of grey. There were more lines about his pale, high-cheeked face, but fewer than might have been expected. All in all, he was quite astonishingly unaltered. If he had swapped his smartly tailored jacket and rumple-free trousers for his old RAF uniform, the effect would have been positively uncanny.\n\n\"Ah. You found him, then.\" Tancred's voice _had_ altered. A career in merchant banking had given him a syrupy drawl that Harry did not recall. \"Well met, Ossie.\"\n\nHarry advanced to shake his hand. \"Life treating you well, Tapper?\"\n\n\"Can't complain, old boy. Yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, fair to middling.\"\n\n\"Are you, er, staying here?\" Tancred frowned at Lloyd's hoisting of his bag onto the rack.\n\n\"Thought we'd join you in first, Tapper,\" said Judd, grinning broadly. \"Keep you company, like.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Tancred smiled. \"Excellent. _I'd_ have joined _you_ , of course, once we were under way. But this...is better all round.\"\n\n\"Supercilious sod,\" Lloyd whispered to Harry as Judd's manhandling of his bag briefly shielded them from Tancred.\n\n\"What were you going to tell me about Magister, Jabber?\" Harry asked, loudly enough to be heard by everyone.\n\n\"Oh, he's flying up. That's all. Meeting us there.\"\n\n\"That's not quite all, Ossie,\" said Tancred as they sat down. Harry joined Lloyd, Askew and Judd in occupation of the quartet of seats on the other side of the aisle from Tancred. \"Magister, we're told, has to attend an auction this afternoon in Geneva, so he's flying from there to Aberdeen tonight. Such is the life of the international art dealer.\"\n\n\"He's not...retired, then?\" asked Askew.\n\n\"Doesn't wish to be thought retired, at all events,\" said Tancred. \"There's a spot of one-upmanship in this breathless announcement of his hectic schedule, I suspect.\"\n\n\"One-upmanship's not something you'd know anything about, though, is it, Tapper?\" Lloyd enquired sarcastically.\n\n\"Sniping before the train's even pulled out of the station,\" said Judd, pressing several podgy fingers to his brow. \"Blimey, we've gone straight back to how it was in that Nissen hut.\"\n\n\"Pax,\" said Tancred, holding up a hand and bowing his head in a gesture of humility. \"We're the lucky ones, gentlemen, for being alive and well enough to undertake this journey. Yes, we often used to irritate one another and may do so again before the weekend's out. But to meet again is nonetheless cause for celebration. Shall we try to put half-remembered petty grievances aside and concentrate on the task in hand?\"\n\n\"I'm all for that,\" said Judd.\n\nLloyd shrugged. \"So am I.\"\n\n\"Me too,\" said Harry.\n\n\"But...\" Askew looked thoughtful. \"What task would that be...exactly?\"\n\n\"Why, enjoying ourselves, of course.\" Tancred beamed benignly at Askew. \"What else?\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIVE**\n\n**T** ancred was as good as his word. It was clear to Harry that he felt little real kinship with his fellow survivors of Operation Clean Sheet. But then the same was true of Harry himself. They were not the veterans of some arduous campaign in foreign parts, after all. They had simply been thrown together for three months fifty years ago in strange but scarcely hazardous circumstances. There were many humorous recollections of those months to be shared, however, and Tancred did his best to encourage the flow of them as the train headed north, much to the obvious exasperation of the several businessmen seated nearby, who had been hoping for guffaw-free quietude in which to concentrate on their _FT_ s and laptops.\n\nThe opening of the buffet was the signal for Tancred to order a bottle of champagne, swiftly followed by a second and a third when Owen \"Gregger\" Gregson joined them at Peterborough. Alerted by a mobile-phone call from Lloyd to their presence in coach L, Gregson was meeker and milder spoken than Harry recalled, a shrunken, vague-eyed man with a faint tremor in his hands, who took one sip of champagne, then ordered tea, and insisted on writing Judd a cheque for the supplement on his fare, which Judd had settled smartly in cash with the ticket inspector. Askew asked after Gregson's wife and the pitiful account that followed of their domestic routine took the fizz out of everyone until Judd called to mind an incident in the pub in Lumphanan one Saturday night involving a barmaid and a yard of ale that set them all laughing.\n\nGNER provided smoking accommodation in coach M, which Judd and Lloyd repaired to for periodic fags, while Tancred shared with Harry the responsibility for anecdotalizing. Gregson smiled stiffly at their embroidered recollections, as if uncertain whether he had truly participated in such antics or not. Carefree youth was for him more remote than the most distant of memories. Askew, nervous and distracted though he often seemed, contrived nonetheless to make one or two telling contributions to the badinage, recalling the rules of a word-game they had played to pass an idle hour or four in the hut more accurately than Tancred, its inventor.\n\nAskew had also hunted down an obituary of Professor Mac in the _Daily Telegraph_ from twenty years ago and had brought along copies to distribute. There was, as he pointed out, no mention in it of Operation Clean Sheet. Most agreed with Tancred's assessment that academics were no keener than politicians on trumpeting their failures. A fuzzily reproduced photograph of \"Professor Alexander Stuart McIntyre, died 24 October 1985, aged 87\" showed him much as he had been in the spring of 1955, bald and beaming in half-moon spectacles, one hand clasping a fat-bowled pipe, the other the lapel of a heavy tweed jacket.\n\nBy the time the train reached York, where Milton \"Paradise\" Fripp joined them, the champagne was wreaking havoc with Harry's thought processes. Fripp, lean, stooped, balding and taciturn, consequently made little impression, accepting Judd's generosity and that of whoever was paying for the next bottle without demur. Alcohol rapidly loosened his tongue, however, though what he actually said Harry could not have even vaguely summarized more than a minute after he had said it.\n\nThis was soon true of everyone. Drinking sessions at the Macbeth Arms; kick-about football matches on the lawn behind the castle; half-hearted square-bashing on a patch of tarmac adjoining the hut at the bawling behest of Warrant Officer Trench; the idiosyncrasies of the teaching staff brought in by Professor Mac; the inadequacies of their reluctant students: all these and more floated in and out of the conversation as the champagne flowed and the North of England slid past the window.\n\nAs the train neared Newcastle, the decision was taken to adjourn to the restaurant car for a lunch that had the potential to last until Aberdeen. Gregson, who had drunk virtually nothing, said he would stay where he was and eat the sandwiches he had brought, cueing much eye-rolling by Judd and a faintly patronizing smile from Tancred.\n\nGregson's withdrawal had the advantage that the six remaining could occupy a table for four and an adjacent table for two at one end of the restaurant car, where a bibulous time ensued, although Harry found himself sharing the table for two with Askew and was consequently at one remove from the centre of quippery and merriment. At some point, however, Chipchase's name cropped up and Harry was obliged to admit to a brief business association with him some years after they had left Kilveen. This aroused an unhealthy amount of curiosity, which he deflected as best he could, though not very effectively in Tancred's case.\n\n\"A garage, you say, Ossie?\"\n\n\"Yes. Barnchase Motors. In Swindon.\"\n\n\"Well, Fission always did have a way with a spanner and a greasy rag,\" put in Lloyd.\n\n\"True,\" Tancred agreed. \"But I'm not sure I'd have cared to have him as a business partner.\"\n\n\"That's because of your distrustful nature, Tapper,\" Fripp observed drily.\n\n\"Perhaps. But let's ask Ossie to adjudicate on the point. Was Fission an entirely reliable man to work with?\"\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"I sense the answer's no.\"\n\nHarry shrugged. \"We all have our flaws.\"\n\n\"What became of Barnchase Motors?\"\n\n\"It folded up.\"\n\n\"And whose fault was that?\"\n\nHarry managed a smile. \"I always put it down to decimalization myself.\"\n\nThe joke raised a laugh and set Judd off on a cheery diatribe against all manner of modern reforms.\n\nAt some point in the ensuing discussion, Askew leaned across the table towards Harry and said, quietly but distinctly, \"Are you sure Professor Mac's obituary didn't mention Clean Sheet because it was a failure?\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"Are you? Really?\"\n\nTancred and Judd were by now locked in an argument about the European Union. Harry could clearly sense that none of their companions was aware of Askew's question\u2014or of Harry's faltering attempts to answer it. \"What do you...What are you getting at, Peter?\"\n\n\"Looking back on our time at Kilveen, what do you remember best?\"\n\n\"Well, the...kind of stuff we've been laughing about, I suppose. Booze-ups. Cock-ups. The usual.\"\n\n\"What about the lessons?\"\n\n\"Not much stuck, as I recall. I don't think we were exactly model pupils.\"\n\n\"Because not much stuck?\"\n\n\"Well, it didn't, did it?\"\n\n\"Perhaps it wasn't intended to.\"\n\n\"How d'you mean?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Askew laughed. \"Sorry. Let's forget it.\"\n\n\"OK, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Excuse me.\" Askew rose suddenly from his seat. \"I'll be right back.\"\n\nIt was only as Askew slipped through the sliding door into the vestibule that Harry realized he was answering a mobile-phone call. He heard Askew say \"Hello?\" as the door slid shut behind him, and noticed the phone held to his ear. It must, Harry supposed, have been set to vibrate rather than ring. He was mildly surprised Askew should sufficiently have kept pace with technology to possess such a thing, let alone master its greater intricacies. Harry himself was technically the owner of a mobile, but never switched it on other than to make a call and that rarely. When he did, he usually found the battery had run down. Today, he had left it in Swindon.\n\nTancred had commenced his own musings on Professor Mac's achievements by the time Askew made a low-key return to the carriage. The minor puzzle of Askew's questions about the purpose of Operation Clean Sheet was thus jettisoned from Harry's mind.\n\n\"We all qualified for Professor Mac's residential tutorial by rebelling against RAF discipline in one way or another,\" Tancred reasoned. \"It seems those of us here stopped rebelling at that point, however, so you could say the old boy achieved something, even if it wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Of course\u2014\"\n\n\"Some of the others might have taken to a life of crime without us hearing about it,\" said Fripp.\n\n\"Or some of us might be hiding our rebellious light under a bushel,\" said Lloyd.\n\n\"Danger's researches have turned up nothing out of the ordinary,\" Tancred responded. \"We all seem to be desperately respectable.\"\n\n\"Who are you calling respectable?\" growled Judd.\n\n\"Three Foot might have been making a getaway from a burglary when he died in that motorbike crash,\" said Lloyd.\n\n\"And someone could have been holding poor old Coker's head under the water when he drowned, for all we know,\" said Harry. \"I was sorry to hear he'd gone. After everything he told us he'd had to put up with in Germany.\" (Leroy Nixon had cracked under the strain of racist abuse at RAF G\u00fctersloh and broken a warrant officer's nose, thus earning his passage to Kilveen and the grudging respect of WO Trench. His was the first black face most of them had ever seen, back in the monocultural days of their youth, when a Jamaican in Aberdeenshire counted as a contradiction in terms.) \"I'd like to have met him again and shaken him by the hand.\"\n\n\"You're not serious, are you, Harry?\" asked Askew suddenly.\n\nHarry frowned. \"Certainly.\"\n\n\"I mean about how he drowned. You don't think...he was murdered, do you?\"\n\n\"Murdered? No. Of course not. I just meant\u2014\"\n\n\"Ossie was speaking metaphorically, Crooked,\" Tancred mellifluously intervened.\n\nAskew looked around at his companions in evident bemusement. Then he shaped an uneasy smile. \"Sorry. You're right. Obviously. Not sure I'm used to drinking so much. I...think I'll leave you to it. Maybe take a nap. Yes. A nap.\" He stood up. \"That's what I need.\"\n\n\"Are you OK, mate?\" Judd called as Askew headed along the aisle towards coach L.\n\n\"I'll be fine,\" Askew replied, with a wave of the hand. And on he went.\n\n\"Think someone should go and see if he's all right?\" Harry asked as the door at the end of the carriage slid shut behind him.\n\n\"Gregger'll look after him,\" said Lloyd. \"Crooked probably needs one of his sandwiches to sober him up.\"\n\nThere was general laughter at that. And an observation by Fripp that the next bottle would now stretch further prompted more laughter. It was not long, indeed, before the bottle was duly ordered.\n\n\"You're going to drink us dry, gents,\" the steward said with a wink as he pulled the cork. And it was instantly agreed that this was a challenge they could not let pass.\n\nDuring the train's ten-minute lay-up at Waverley station in Edinburgh, Harry stepped out onto the platform for a breath of air. He badly needed to clear his head, having drunk too much and sat too long. It was an imprudent start to the weekend and he foresaw some crippling hangovers among his companions, none of whom was young enough to be setting such a pace.\n\nAskew was on the platform ahead of him, walking up and down, frowning pensively and breathing heavily, like a man psyching himself up for an important speech.\n\n\"Did you ever get that nap, Peter?\" Harry called to him.\n\nAskew started and looked round. \"What? Oh, Harry. The nap? No. Not yet.\"\n\n\"You seem a little...on edge.\"\n\n\"Do I?\" Askew's eyes widened. He grimaced. \"Well, I suppose I am. To be honest, I'm having second thoughts about this whole reunion idea.\"\n\n\"Really? Why?\"\n\n\"Not sure. It's just...\" Askew stepped closer and lowered his voice. \"Meeting people you haven't met in fifty years makes you realize how quickly those years have passed\u2014and how little you have to show for them.\"\n\n\"We're all in the same boat, Peter.\"\n\n\"No, we're not. Believe me, we're not.\"\n\n\"OK.\" Harry smiled appeasingly. \"Depends on your point of view, I suppose.\"\n\n\"It depends on how you remember things, actually. And how you forget them.\"\n\n\"I don't...\"\n\n\"Understand? No. You wouldn't.\" Askew shook his head. \"Sorry. I'm not making any sense.\"\n\nHarry laughed. \"Neither are that lot.\" He gestured with his thumb towards the restaurant car.\n\nAskew rubbed his eyes. \"I think maybe I will try and get my head down.\"\n\n\"Good idea. I reckon I'll join you.\"\n\nThey found Gregson dozing in his seat in coach L. Harry sat down next to him. As the train eased out of the station, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. Askew was sitting across from him on the other side of the aisle. Whether he was nodding off too Harry could not have said for certain. Fuzzy shafts of sunlight misted his vision. Askew became a silhouette, then a shadow. Harry closed his eyes.\n\nHe was never to see Peter Askew again.\n**CHAPTER \nSIX**\n\n**I** t was difficult, looking back, to say exactly when Askew had gone missing. Harry slept as solidly as only a man who has drunk too much can until roused by the noisy return of Judd, Tancred, Lloyd and Fripp from the restaurant car. This was as the train was nearing Stonehaven, with half an hour to go till it reached Aberdeen. Two hours of oblivion had passed for Harry since its departure from Edinburgh. Gregson, who had slept less heavily, recalled registering the train's arrival in Dundee and was more or less certain that Askew had still been there then. He also recalled registering Askew's absence some time later, but was vague about when that would have been.\n\nHarry and his companions did not actually take seriously the idea that Askew was missing until the train entered the outskirts of Aberdeen and the guard announced their imminent arrival at \"our last and final station stop.\" A hasty check of the nearest loos began, but Askew was in none of them. They did find his bag, however, left where he had stowed it on the rack, and duly took it along with theirs when they stumbled off the train into the grey chill of an Aberdeen afternoon.\n\nThey followed the ruck of passengers off the platform assuming Askew had for some reason gone to the front of the train and would soon be sighted. But he was not. They lingered on the concourse, expecting him to appear from one direction or another. But he did not. Harry accompanied Lloyd and Judd back to the train, where the cleaners were already at work and the guard assured them that all the passengers had left. He surmised that their friend had simply got off earlier. Why Askew would have left his bag behind was a puzzle the guard neither needed nor wished to dwell on.\n\nBack on the concourse, Johnny Dangerfield had arrived to collect them. A weather-beaten but still handsome figure in Barbour, guernsey, corduroys and brogues, he had kept the trimmed moustache and Brylcreemed hairstyle of his youth, but the moustache had lost most of its colour, while his face had reddened with age and whisky. The twinkle in his eyes, that had once been like Venus in the night sky, was now more akin to a distant star in an unnamed galaxy. But there was still enough dash about him to suggest he had left an E-Type in the car park, rather than the minibus he had actually hired to transport them to the castle.\n\nHarry had expected to see Chipchase at Dangerfield's elbow, but there was as little sign of him as of Askew. The mystery of Askew's whereabouts took priority, however, and it was not until a deputation, which he and Dangerfield were both part of, had been despatched to the railway police office, that Harry had the chance to ask after his old friend.\n\n\"Did you leave Barry in the van, Danger?\"\n\n\"Fission? No. Actually, this is a bit of a double whammy, chaps. Fission's sister died last night. Her husband's in a godawful state, apparently. Fission's had to fly down to Manchester. He's not going to be able to join us.\"\n\n\"Sister, did you say?\" It was the first Harry had ever heard of Chipchase having siblings, dead _or_ alive.\n\n\"Yes. Know her, did you, Ossie?\"\n\n\"No. Actually, I didn't.\"\n\n\"Well, there it is. Can't be helped. At least we know where Fission's gone. Unlike Crooked, blast the fellow.\"\n\nThe railway police were not a lot more helpful than the train guard. The officer on duty took a note of their friend's apparent disappearance, but emphasized that much the likeliest explanation was that he had got off the train at an earlier stop or had disembarked at the front on arrival at Aberdeen and left the station, forgetting to take his bag with him.\n\nIt was only then that Harry remembered Askew's mobile. Why not simply ring him and ask where the blue blazes he was and what he thought he was playing at? But no one had the number. Lloyd, indeed, did not even know Askew possessed a phone.\n\n\"He never made or took a call while I was with him yesterday. Or while we were at my daughter's.\"\n\n\"He took a call on the train,\" said Harry. \"While we were having lunch.\"\n\nBut no one else had noticed. And some suggested Harry was confused.\n\n\"Your powers of observation while under the influence were always close to zero, Ossie,\" said Tancred. \"I can't think age has improved them.\"\n\nHarry could not find the energy to be riled by this and it was generally agreed that none of them could claim more than partial recall of the events of the journey anyway. They adjourned to the station buffet for much-needed coffee, which completed the sobering-up Askew's vanishment had kick-started without inducing much in the way of inspired thoughts.\n\nBut Harry's memory was slowly booting up, distracted though he was by the parallel mystery of Chipchase's sudden flying of the coop. (He did not think this was the moment to voice his certainty that Chipchase had never had a sister.) \"I spoke to Peter on the platform at Waverley station. He said he was having second thoughts about the whole idea of the reunion.\"\n\n\"Why?\" snapped Tancred.\n\n\"Something about it reminding him of how little he'd achieved in life.\"\n\n\"He's hardly alone in that,\" said Fripp.\n\n\"Well, it seemed to be preying on his mind,\" said Harry.\n\n\"That's it, then,\" said Lloyd. \"He's baled out. He always was chicken.\"\n\n\"It's possible, I suppose,\" said Dangerfield. \"Let's see.\" He flourished a GNER pocket timetable and leafed through it. \"We know from Gregger he was still on at Dundee. But if he got off after that, at Arbroath, say, or Montrose...\" He recited various train times under his breath. \"Mmm. Montrose would've been too late. It has to have been Arbroath.\"\n\n\"Can you spell it out for us, Danger?\" pleaded Judd. \"You might be firing on all cylinders, but I can assure you the rest of us aren't.\"\n\n\"It's simply that if he'd got off at Arbroath and caught the next southbound train...he could connect with the seven o'clock from Edinburgh to London...and get into King's Cross just after midnight.\"\n\n\"You mean he's bolted back to London?\"\n\n\"I don't know. What do _you_ think, Ossie? Based on his state of mind during your chat at Edinburgh.\"\n\nPut on the spot, Harry had to admit it was a distinct possibility. \"I reckon he must have done.\"\n\n\"Charming,\" said Lloyd. \"I go to all the bother of arranging for my daughter to put him up and he goes and does this.\"\n\n\"He obviously wasn't thinking straight,\" said Dangerfield. \"Otherwise he'd have taken his bag. No doubt he'll be in touch with us about that\u2014and to apologize. Sorry, gents, but we're two down and we'll just have to make the best of it. That's all there is to it.\"\n\nHarry did not share Dangerfield's complacency. He knew Chipchase was lying about a dead sister and a distraught brother-in-law in Manchester. He also knew Askew had a mobile and had been using it on the train. If Askew had been capable of working out the logistics of getting back to London from Arbroath, he would surely not have been so forgetful as to leave his bag behind. What all this meant Harry had no idea, but the coincidence of Chipchase _and_ Askew going missing was too much to swallow. Something was going on. And Chipchase was up to his neck in it.\n\nStill Harry said nothing about the non-existence of Chipchase's sister. Some loyalty to his old friend that he could not shake off, despite the many occasions on which that friend had let him down, bound him to silence. Denied this information, his companions naturally made no connection between the two turns of events. Chipchase had been called away. And Askew was AWOL. There was no more to be said.\n\nThey piled into the minibus and began the final leg of their journey. The Deeside railway line was long gone, a victim of the Beeching cuts of the mid-sixties. Their arrival at the castle would not be a recreation of how they had arrived fifty years previously, in ones and twos, on different days, by slow, labouring steam train. It was the road for them this time, with Dangerfield at the wheel, cursing and swearing his way through the rush-hour traffic as a pallid sun cast a sickly hue across the grey city. Conversation was subdued, thanks to encroaching hangovers, incipient indigestion and a general feeling that the absences of Chipchase and Askew had taken some of the gloss off the proceedings. Some even wondered if Wiseman had deserted them as well, though Dangerfield seemed certain he would join them before the evening was out.\n\nTheir spirits revived somewhat when they left the straggling suburbs of Aberdeen behind and headed on towards the sun-gilded hills of Deeside. They had a first encounter with Erica Rawson to look forward to\u2014and a weekend of carousing. As Lloyd put it: \"Bugger Crooked. And bad luck, Fission. They're going to miss a right royal piss-up.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSEVEN**\n\n**F** or the last few miles of their route to Lumphanan, the road ran alongside the disused cuttings and embankments of the railway line. The countryside was bare and empty, stands of silver birch and pine giving it a vaguely Nordic look. Spring had been in spate in Wiltshire, but was still feeling its way in Aberdeenshire. Harry had forgotten just how bleak and alien the surroundings of the castle had initially looked to him. Some of the gloom they had plunged him into washed back over him as he gazed through the minibus window at the twilit hills and fields and patches of scrub.\n\nThe village of Lumphanan had not changed much in its essentials. The disappearance of the railway station and the humpback bridge over the line was disorientating at first glance. Bungalows had been built in the old goods yard and the station building itself converted into a private house. The footbridge which Harry and Chipchase had trudged over with their kitbags that cold March evening in 1955 was now just a memory in thin air. But the post office, the Macbeth Arms, the main street of the village and the narrow-steepled parish church on its hillock at the far end were instantly familiar.\n\n\"See the spire, chaps?\" said Tancred. \"An admonitory finger of a Calvinist God raised over the cowering villagers.\"\n\n\"They didn't do a lot of cowering, as I recall,\" Judd laughed.\n\n\"That's because you never went to church.\"\n\n\"We wouldn't have been welcome if we had,\" said Lloyd. \"They didn't want us here.\"\n\n\"So we should have hit it off straightaway,\" said Judd. \"We didn't want us here either.\"\n\nKilveen Castle stood half a mile out of the village, on the southern flank of Glenshalg Hill. The estate's boundary wall, so tumbledown and overgrown in 1955 as to be barely distinguishable from the rock-strewn woods screening the castle from the lane, appeared on their left, solid and well maintained. Daffodil-sown glades had been opened up in the woods, affording glimpses of the castle as they climbed. They turned in between stout granite pillars, past the swag-lettered hotel sign and up the no longer potholed drive.\n\nThe photographs had not lied. The damp and draughty hybrid of medieval stronghold and Georgian villa where Harry and his fellow Clean Sheeters had passed their unproductive days was now an elegant retreat for well-heeled tourists. The lawns were trimmed, the paths neatly gravelled, the harling of the tower honey-tinged by the setting sun. The very appearance of the place promised ease and indulgence. And most of Harry's companions seemed in the mood for both.\n\nThey pulled into the yew-hedged car park and clambered out. A couple of porters appeared with trolleys to take their bags. Dangerfield led the way into the reception area on the ground floor of the tower, where a massive fire blazed and tartan-uniformed staff flitted around them. The manager, a small, trim, sleek-haired fellow called Matthews, introduced himself and welcomed them to Kilveen. Dr. Starkie and Erica Rawson had arrived, he reported, but Mr. Wiseman was still awaited. Dangerfield broke the bad news about Askew and Chipchase. Matthews took it in his modest stride. The register was signed. Keys were distributed.\n\nHarry followed a bright-eyed young woman identified by her lapel badge as Bridget to his room, high up in the tower. A lift had been installed in place of one of the two spiral staircases he remembered stumbling up and down. Bridget praised the view, which was panoramic, and rattled through detailed advice about heating controls, meal times and telephone extension numbers. Then she was gone. To his relief, Harry found himself alone. But not for long. The porter arrived with his bag. Soon, however, bag delivered and tip dispensed, Harry's solitude was restored.\n\nHe sat down on the four-poster bed and looked about him. Every comfort was on hand. But he did not feel comfortable. He did not feel relaxed in any way. And neither a satellite television nor a Jacuzzi bath was going to change that. Where was Chipchase? What was he up to? What in God's name was going on?\n\nHarry took a shower and dressed for dinner, which meant donning the dark-grey suit he had worn at his mother's funeral, paired with a rainbow-striped tie Donna had given him for Christmas a few years ago. Then, after casting a wary eye over the telephone tariff, he put a call through to Seattle.\n\nDonna and Daisy were having brunch, prior to their drive back to Vancouver. It was good to hear their calm, cheerful voices. He reported Chipchase's no-show, but not Askew's disappearance. He did not want Donna to worry, especially when there was, obviously, nothing to worry about. She promised to give him a wake-up call in the morning. He promised not to drink too much.\n\nWhen he put the phone down, Harry realized how much he missed his wife and daughter. He wanted to be with them, not carousing with half-forgotten comrades from fifty years ago. He wished profoundly that he had not come to Scotland. But he had. And if he did not head down to the bar soon, they would probably send up a search party. With a sigh, he grabbed his key and set off.\n\nHalfway down the stairs, he literally bumped into another guest, who was emerging from his room. They stepped back to examine each other and Harry's brain scrambled to deduce who the fellow might be. Tall and fleshy, with thinning, white, curly hair, an eagle's-beak nose, a broad but not altogether warm smile and an intense, faintly sceptical gaze, he was wearing an expertly cut suit of some shimmering dark-blue material, a blue shirt with a white collar and bright-red tie that matched the hue of a flamboyantly disarranged breast-pocket handkerchief.\n\n\"Magister.\"\n\n\"That's right. And you must be...Ossie Barnett.\" They shook hands, the band of a signet ring grinding into the knuckle on Harry's little finger.\n\n\"You made it, then.\"\n\n\"Got here half an hour ago. Checked in with Danger. He seemed relieved to hear from me. I gather Crooked and Fission have dropped out.\"\n\n\"Looks like it.\"\n\n\"On your way to the bar?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Let's go, then.\"\n\nThey carried on down. \"Buy anything at the auction?\" Harry asked as they went.\n\n\" _That._ \" Wiseman's laugh echoed in the stairwell. \"No. Complete and utter waste of time. Telephone bidders are taking all the fun out of the auction business.\"\n\n\"But you're still active in it.\"\n\n\"You've got to stay active, Ossie. You must know that. The brain as well as the body. They have to be kept in trim.\"\n\n\"Oh, absolutely.\"\n\n\"And what this brain and this body need at the moment...is a stiff drink.\"\n\nThe bar was next to the dining room on the ground floor of the Georgian wing. There was a stag's head over the mantelpiece, but otherwise little in the way of Caledonian kitsch, just a welcoming fire and lots of soft leather armchairs. Harry and Wiseman were evidently the last to arrive, for Dangerfield and the rest were all there, along with Dr. Starkie and Erica Rawson, who seemed to be coping well with being the only woman in a gathering of men too old to have absorbed many feminist principles.\n\nShort and slender, with boyishly cropped black hair, the young woman's large, teak-brown eyes had a sharpness of focus that made Harry feel, albeit briefly, the undivided object of her attention as they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. She was plainly but elegantly dressed in a dark top and palazzo pants, prompting Judd to mutter in Harry's ear, \"It'd be nice to know what she'd look like in something a bit more figure-hugging, don't you reckon, Ossie?\" as Dangerfield piloted her away to meet Wiseman.\n\nDonald Starkie, who had stooped slightly, even as a young man, stooped even more fifty years later. His mop of black hair had turned wire-wool grey and his spectacles had acquired alarmingly thick lenses, but otherwise he had changed little, remaining beanpole thin, scruffily dressed (even with an Aberdeen University tie on) and unsmilingly lugubrious.\n\n\"You heard of Professor McIntyre's death, Barnett?\" he husked to Harry.\n\n\"Not at the time. But he'd be over a hundred now, so...it was no surprise.\"\n\n\"He achieved a lot, let me tell you. More than his obituarists could comprehend.\"\n\n\"But not with us, hey? We must have been a sore disappointment to him.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wouldn't say that.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"What I mean...\" Starkie took a sip from his glass of mineral water. \"What I mean is that Professor McIntyre regarded failure...as no less instructive than success.\"\n\n\"So, at least we were instructive.\"\n\n\"Aye.\" Starkie looked thoughtful. \"So you were.\"\n**CHAPTER \nEIGHT**\n\n**T** he table of twelve planned for dinner had become a table of ten, with the advantage, according to Dangerfield, of more elbow room all round. He had devised a seating plan based on the alphabetical order of the Clean Sheeters' surnames, from which he had exempted only himself. He was seated at the head of the table, with Dr. Starkie and Erica Rawson to his left and right. In Askew's absence, Harry found himself sitting next to Erica, with Fripp on his other side and Wiseman opposite. Judd, at the far end of the table, looked disappointed by his distance from Erica and shot Harry an envious glance as they sat down.\n\nIt was the same room where they had eaten their plain and not always wholesome meals during Operation Clean Sheet, but barely recognizable as such. Silver service, fine napery and haute cuisine heightened the contrast. \"Danger's doing us proud,\" Harry murmured to Fripp. But the response hardly came freighted with gratitude. \"I wish I'd gone into oil instead of bookkeeping. My God, I do.\"\n\nIt was no hardship for Harry to concentrate his conversational attentions on Erica Rawson. To his surprise, she spoke to him more than anyone. Dangerfield and Starkie became immersed in a discussion of the effects of the oil boom on Aberdeen, while Tancred and Wiseman began trading points in delicately barbed arguments ranging from politics to poetry.\n\n\"It's a pity only eight of you made it in the end,\" Erica said, as she toyed with her starter. \"Eight out of fifteen isn't very representative.\"\n\n\"Representative?\" Harry responded. \"Are you _studying_ us?\"\n\n\"In a sense, yes.\" She turned to smile at him. \"I hope you're not shocked.\"\n\n\"Depends why, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Oh, to see whether Professor McIntyre's experiment really was as futile as his colleagues maintained. Ever since Dr. Starkie told me about it, it's interested me. This reunion gave me a chance to meet some of the people I've only previously known by name.\"\n\n\"What exactly do you do at the University, Erica?\"\n\n\"Teaching and research. In the Psychology Department. My specialism's the effect of extreme environments on mental states, short- and long-term. Aberdeen's a good base for it, what with the offshore oil and gas industries and the fishing fleet.\"\n\nHarry suspected the rig workers and fishermen would be duly grateful for her ministrations. But all he said was, \"There was nothing extreme about the environment here, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"No. But it was unusual, wasn't it? Very unusual, I'd say.\" She laughed. \"That counts as extreme for my purposes.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid we didn't learn much, despite Professor Mac's best endeavours.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"I think so. Well, I'm sure _I_ didn't.\"\n\n\"What about Barry Chipchase? Johnny tells me you and he stayed friends over the years. Do you mind me calling you Harry, by the way? I can't get the hang of these nicknames you've all been throwing around.\"\n\n\"Harry's fine.\"\n\n\"Great. So, Harry, do you think your friend Barry Chipchase got much out of his time here?\"\n\n\"Same as me, I'd say.\"\n\n\"Zilch?\"\n\n\"More or less.\"\n\n\"You see, I don't buy that. I've checked the facts as best I can. A surprisingly large proportion of you have gone on to achieve success in your own fields. You may not have learned much that was tangible or examinable, but what you may have acquired...is a certain way of thinking.\"\n\n\"Kind of you to say so, Erica, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Did life seem clearer after you left here? More manageable? Did you feel, however slightly, different?\"\n\nHarry thought for a moment, but the instinctive reply did not change. He felt obliged, though, to dress it up a little. \"I knew a few more Shakespearean quotes. And I thought I understood relativity. That was about it. Mind you, I've forgotten most of the quotes since. And I've had second thoughts about understanding relativity.\"\n\nErica laughed. \"I get the feeling you're underselling yourself, Harry.\"\n\n\"Impossible.\"\n\nShe laughed again. \"Come on. Johnny said you were over from Canada, right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Whereabouts?\"\n\n\"Vancouver.\"\n\n\"What took you there?\"\n\n\"Er, my wife...works at the University of British Columbia.\"\n\n\"Really? So she's an academic\u2014like me?\"\n\n\"Well, yes.\"\n\n\"Small world, hey? But hold on. Barnett. She's not Donna Trangam-Barnett, is she?\"\n\nHarry could not have looked more surprised than he felt. \"Yes. How did\u2014\"\n\n\"I read her piece on disconnection syndromes in one of the neuroscience journals a few months back. Impressive stuff. You're married to her?\"\n\nHarry shrugged. \"I am.\"\n\n\"Amazing. And it rather proves my point, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"Does it?\"\n\n\"Well, we've Johnny here, the affluent oilman. Plus a merchant banker and an art dealer across the table. Then there's you, husband of an eminent neuroscientist. Given the position you were all in before coming here, isn't that quite something?\"\n\n\"I don't\u2014\"\n\n\"And mightn't it be partly because of what you learned while you _were_ here?\"\n\n\"Maybe. Maybe not.\" Harry was confused. There was something about Erica's line of reasoning he did not trust. He was not sure, in fact, that he trusted her at all. He had the disquieting impression that she knew more about him than she logically should. \"I got lucky. Several of us did. But several of us didn't. That's life.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" Wiseman cut in. Harry looked up, unaware till then that anyone had been listening to their conversation. Clearly Wiseman had for one, though for how long was hard to guess. His hooded gaze was fixed on Erica. \"Harry's quite right, my dear.\" He had dropped Harry's nickname, as if some contexts were too important for its use. \"I'm afraid the idea that the three months we spent here fifty years ago had a significant effect\u2014or any effect at all\u2014on our lives is, well, I won't say absurd, but...\"\n\n\"Wide of the mark?\" suggested Erica, with a self-deprecating smile.\n\nWiseman returned the smile. \"I'm afraid so. Ask any of us. It really didn't amount to anything.\"\n\n\"That you're aware of.\"\n\n\"Well, obviously.\" Wiseman sighed and sat back in his chair. He sipped some wine. \"That goes without saying.\"\n\n\"Not planning to psychoanalyse us this weekend, are you, Erica?\" Harry asked, seeking to lighten the mood.\n\n\"Absolutely not.\" She turned to look at him. \"Unless you want me to.\"\n\nTheir conversation drifted onto other, blander topics as the meal progressed. Mellowing with each glass of wine, Wiseman reeled off a few entertaining anecdotes about the art world. Dangerfield chipped in with some less rarefied recollections of the oil business. Starkie said little, as had always been his wont, but watched Erica closely throughout. Harry tried not to wonder why. His own attempts to draw Erica out on the subject of her career were deftly deflected and he was too fuddled by alcohol and fatigue to sustain them. He kept reminding himself to drink plenty of water, as Donna was forever encouraging him to do, but somehow found himself picking up the wineglass more often than not. The evening took a woozy turn. Dangerfield made an impromptu speech. There was a lot of laughter, then an adjournment to the bar, where Harry was persuaded to sample one of the hotel's malts. He was going to regret drinking it, he knew. Dawn was going to be a painful experience. But it tasted very, very good.\n\nHalfway through his second whisky, Harry became aware of Dangerfield waving to him through the doorway from the corridor leading to reception. He managed a quizzical gesture of raised eyebrows and hands, but Dangerfield went on waving, if anything more frantically. Harry had thought he was on the other side of the bar, puffing at a cigar, and so he had been at one point. But no longer. There was no sign of Lloyd either, who had surely been with him. Harry registered this much during his unsteady progress across the room.\n\n\"What's up, Danger?\" he asked on reaching the corridor.\n\n\"Jabber and I are in the conference room,\" Dangerfield replied in a whisper. \"With the police.\"\n\n\"The...what?\"\n\n\"The police. They want to talk to you.\"\n\n\"What about?\"\n\n\"Not what. _Who._ Peter Askew. He's dead.\"\n**CHAPTER \nNINE**\n\n**S** hock sobered Harry up faster than any amount of strong black coffee. His brain might not have snapped into top gear at Dangerfield's words, but it was at least a forward gear. He listened hard as Dangerfield gave him the few facts he knew on their way to the conference room.\n\n\"Crooked's body was found on the railway line near Carnoustie late this afternoon. That's about halfway between Dundee and Arbroath. They traced him here from the copy of my letter he had in his pocket. We've got an inspector and a sergeant here from the Tayside Police. Jabber mentioned you were the last to speak to Crooked, so they insisted I wheel you in. Be careful what you say, Ossie. I'm not sure exactly what they're after.\"\n\n\"Are you telling me Peter killed himself, Danger?\"\n\n\"Sounds like it.\"\n\n\"I can't believe it.\"\n\n\"Neither can I. But he's dead all right. We have no choice about believing that.\"\n\nThe conference room was a bare, starkly lit space, the chairs that normally filled it stacked at one end. At the other end, by a broad-topped table positioned in front of a projector screen, stood the inspector and sergeant, who introduced themselves as Geddes and Crawford. Lloyd, who had been supplied with a chair, looked up at Harry with wide-eyed bemusement and stroked his chin fretfully.\n\nGeddes was a short, barrel-chested, shaven-headed man in early middle age, with a stubbly beard and a darting gaze. Crawford was a taller, younger man running to fat, with greasy hair and a conspicuous plaster over one eyebrow. They looked tired and bored and faintly hostile.\n\n\"Take a seat, Mr. Barnett,\" said Crawford, pushing a chair into position alongside Lloyd's. \"Sorry to be the bearers of bad news about your old comrade. You want to sit down yourself, Mr. Dangerfield?\"\n\n\"I'll stand, thanks.\"\n\nHarry might have preferred to stand as well, but he could not be sure if further shocks were on the way, so he lowered himself cautiously onto the proffered chair.\n\n\"We gather you had a conversation with Mr. Askew at Waverley station, Mr. Barnett,\" said Geddes, stifling a smoker's cough. \"The last conversation anyone seems to have had with him.\"\n\n\"It was a brief chat. Nothing more.\"\n\n\"What about?\"\n\n\"The reunion. Has Danger\u2014\"\n\n\"Aye, aye. We're in the picture about your fiftieth anniversary get-together. Did Mr. Askew say he was looking forward to it?\"\n\n\"Not entirely. He told me he was, well, beginning to regret agreeing to come.\"\n\n\"That's really why we assumed he'd got off the train and gone back to London,\" said Dangerfield.\n\n\"Oh, he got off the train, sir,\" said Crawford. \"No doubt about that.\"\n\n\"Do you know...what exactly happened, Inspector?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Not _exactly,_ no, sir. That's what we're trying to establish. Mr. Askew's body was spotted a mile or so north-east of Carnoustie station, lying between the tracks, by the driver of an Aberdeen to Glasgow train a little after half past four this afternoon. There'd been no report of a previous train hitting a pedestrian and his injuries were more consistent with falling from one, rather than walking into it.\"\n\n\"What...sort of injuries were they?\"\n\n\"Oh, the fatal sort. Mostly to the head. Mr. Lloyd's generously agreed to come down to Dundee tomorrow morning to identify the body, but judging by the photograph in his passport...\"\n\n\"He had his passport on him?\"\n\n\"You'd be surprised how many Englishmen think they need one to travel to Scotland. Not that we're complaining. It makes our job a lot easier. No next of kin, you tell me, Mr. Lloyd?\"\n\nLloyd shook his head. \"He said all his family were gone.\"\n\n\"So, we come back to his state of mind. Did he seem depressed while you were with him?\"\n\n\"Crooked\u2014Peter\u2014was never what you'd call a barrel of laughs, Inspector. But depressed? No. I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"He was a bit down. Probably a bit drunk. We all were. It could have turned him maudlin. You know how it takes some people that way.\"\n\n\"Aye, I do,\" said Geddes with feeling.\n\n\"But that's a long way from being...suicidal.\"\n\n\"Oh, a very long way indeed.\" Geddes pushed himself away from the desk, against which he had been leaning, and paced out a slow, deliberative circle. \"And there are other problems with the suicide theory. _Practical_ problems. Throwing yourself from a high-speed train is no easy matter these days. The doors are centrally locked. They can't be opened when the train's moving. That leaves us with the windows. The only ones that open are in the doors. But it'd be quite a scramble to climb out. You'd need to be determined as well as desperate. Is that how Mr. Askew seemed to you this afternoon, Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"No. He didn't. But I suppose...\" Harry shrugged. \"He must have been.\"\n\n\"Aye. Him...or someone else.\"\n\n\"Someone else?\"\n\n\"The inspector means he might have had help,\" said Crawford.\n\n\"You're not serious?\"\n\n\"We'll know more after the post mortem,\" said Geddes. \"For the present, I'm just turning possibilities over in my mind. Aside from getting cold feet about your carry-on here, did he...do anything strange during the journey?\"\n\n\"He got het up at one point,\" Lloyd responded. \"For the life of me, I can't remember what about. Oh, and, er, didn't you say he seemed out of sorts after taking a phone call during lunch, Ossie?\"\n\nHarry nodded. \"A little, yes.\"\n\n\"He had a mobile?\" put in Crawford.\n\n\"Yes. He did.\"\n\n\"Interesting,\" murmured Geddes.\n\n\"What is?\" asked Dangerfield.\n\n\"None found on the body, sir,\" said Crawford.\n\n\"Perhaps it dropped out of his pocket while he was, er...\" Dangerfield's line of reasoning petered out. Then he said, \"Or he could have left it in his bag. I forgot to tell you, Inspector. We took his bag with us when we left the train. We expected to hear from him, you see, and\u2014\"\n\n\"Where is it?\" snapped Geddes.\n\n\"Er, in the minibus.\"\n\nGeddes smiled tolerantly. \"Well, perhaps we could go and take a look at it.\"\n\nThey took the rear exit to the car park. The night was cold and still, though Harry suspected he was shivering for other reasons than the temperature. Dangerfield opened the minibus, turned on the internal light and pulled Askew's bag out from under the seat where he had left it.\n\nIt was a small and clearly very old leather suitcase, much scuffed and scratched around the edges. And it was not locked. Dangerfield released the catches and raised the lid. Inside was a humdrum assortment of clothes and toiletries, including the neatly folded suit Askew had presumably been planning to wear that evening. But no mobile phone.\n\n\"It doesn't seem to be here, does it?\" growled Geddes.\n\n\"Perhaps it did fall out of his pocket after all,\" said Dangerfield. \"Like you said, it must have been a struggle to climb out of the window.\"\n\nGeddes gave a sceptical grunt. \"Or it could have been taken. From his pocket. Or, later, from this _unlocked_ case.\"\n\n\"Now, hold on,\" Dangerfield bridled. \"If you're suggesting\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm suggesting nothing.\" Geddes sighed and flicked the lid of the case shut. \"I must thank you all for your co-operation. I may need you to make formal statements about what you know of the circumstances leading up to Mr. Askew's death, but that can wait. First things first. I'll send a car for you at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Lloyd. Is that too early for you?\"\n\n\"Well...\" Lloyd shrugged. \"I suppose not.\"\n\n\"Good. Let's go, Sergeant. Give Mr. Dangerfield a receipt for the bag. Then we can leave these gentlemen to get some sleep. I'm sure they need it.\"\n\nThey watched Geddes and Crawford climb into their car and drive away. The noise of the engine receded into the night and was swallowed by the prevailing silence. None of them said a word for a minute or more. Then Lloyd coughed, his breath pluming in the still, cold air.\n\n\"Bloody hell, Danger. What do we do now?\"\n\n\"Go in and tell the others.\"\n\n\"Tell them what, exactly? That Crooked's topped himself?\"\n\n\"Well, he has, hasn't he?\"\n\n\"Geddes isn't sure,\" said Harry with bleak conviction.\n\nLloyd stared at him incredulously. \"What are you saying?\"\n\n\"I'm saying Geddes doesn't buy the idea of Peter Askew crawling through a window and jumping to his death from the train. And the missing phone's made him doubly suspicious. It would have revealed where that call Peter took came from. There might have been messages on it as well. Who knows?\"\n\n\"No one,\" said Dangerfield. \"Now.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\n\"You're the only one who saw the bloody thing, Ossie,\" Lloyd said irritably.\n\n\"Think I imagined it?\"\n\n\"No. 'Course not. But...it's bloody odd he never used it while he was with me all yesterday and this morning.\"\n\n\"You can't have been with him the whole time.\"\n\n\"No. Obviously. But most of it. Apart from when he was asleep. And, er...a few hours yesterday afternoon and evening.\"\n\nDespite lingering shock and the onset of bone-deep fatigue, Harry's curiosity was aroused. \"How'd that come about?\"\n\n\"Oh, well, when we got to Paddington, after leaving you in Swindon, Crooked said he was going to meet a friend and would join me at my daughter's in Neasden later. He got to her house...about eight o'clock.\"\n\n\"What friend was this?\"\n\n\"Somebody he'd worked with at London Zoo, he said.\"\n\n\"Name?\"\n\n\"If he told me, I don't remember.\"\n\n\"And where were they meeting?\"\n\n\"Somewhere in the centre. I don't know.\"\n\n\"Did you mention this to Geddes, Jabber?\" asked Dangerfield.\n\n\"No. I...never thought to.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that's just as well. Some reunion, hey? This is going to knock them all for six. Do you think I should let Barry know what's happened?\" (Chipchase's nickname had evidently deserted Dangerfield at this time of stress.)\n\n\"Have you got a number for him?\" Harry was more than slightly interested in the answer to that question.\n\n\"No. He left in such a rush. I...forgot to ask. But I thought you might...\"\n\n\"'Fraid not.\"\n\nA few wordless seconds expanded in the darkness around them. Then Lloyd said, \"He did have a sister in Manchester, didn't he, Ossie?\"\n\nHarry weighed his answer as carefully as he could. \"I don't know. For sure.\"\n\n\"A sister anywhere?\"\n\n\"If you'd asked me before today...I'd have said no.\"\n\n\"Oh, great. Bloody great.\"\n\nDangerfield cleared his throat. \"Let's go in.\"\n\nAnd in they went.\n**CHAPTER \nTEN**\n\n**D** onna's wake-up call the following morning was literally that, rousing Harry from seldom-plumbed depths of unconsciousness. No one had hurried to bed after Dangerfield's announcement of Askew's death. Reactions had varied from the numb to the disbelieving, but all had taken time to be articulated. Harry had finally reached his room around two o'clock and had been unable to sleep for another hour or so after that.\n\nFor reasons he did not completely understand, he failed to pass the news on to Donna. Sparing her unnecessary worry was no longer the point. Now it was _necessary_ worry he was determined not to inflict. She seemed to blame his lack of obvious jollity on a hangover, which strangely he did not have. But he was happy to let her believe he did.\n\n\"You didn't drink enough water, did you?\"\n\n\"Guilty as charged.\"\n\n\"Promise me you won't spend the whole weekend in a dehydrated haze of alcohol.\"\n\n\"I promise.\"\n\nAnd somehow he suspected this was a promise he could be confident of keeping.\n\nHe made himself some coffee, then took a bath and, skipping the communal breakfast, headed out on foot. He needed to think and hoped some bracing lungfuls of Deeside air would aid his efforts. He left the hotel, walked downhill towards the village, then struck out along the footpath behind the church. It had formed part of the cross-country route WO Trench had insisted they flog round twice a week, \"to stop you going any softer than you already are.\" But there was no question of Harry breaking into a commemorative trot. A steady walk would serve his purpose.\n\nThe path curved round the hillside ahead of him as he went, the pale trunks and branches of the still leafless silver birches casting an illusion of frost across the surrounding woodland. He tried to recall what Askew had said to him on the platform at Edinburgh and earlier on the train, but could retrieve only snatches of disconnected phrases. He had been anxious about something. That at least was clear. And it concerned Operation Clean Sheet. \"It depends on how you remember things,\" he had said. Yes. Those had been his very words. \"And how you forget them.\" What had he meant? What _could_ he have meant?\n\nA figure appeared suddenly on the path ahead, a dark shape moving fast. Harry pulled up in surprise, then recognized Erica Rawson, running lithely towards him in tracksuit and trainers. She smiled and waved, slowing to a halt beside him, where she jogged on the spot, breathing hard, her face flushed, her hair damp with sweat despite the chill of the morning.\n\n\"I'm running off last night's food and drink,\" she panted. \"How are you feeling?\"\n\n\"OK. I...needed some air myself.\"\n\n\"Plenty of it out here.\"\n\n\"We used to...\" He smiled ruefully. \"Never mind.\"\n\n\"Thinking about Peter Askew?\"\n\n\"Hard not to.\"\n\n\"Especially as the last person to speak to him.\"\n\n\"Thanks for reminding me.\"\n\n\"Sorry. I didn't mean...\" She stopped jogging. \"Really. I'm sorry. It was a terrible thing.\"\n\n\"We never know what's going on in someone else's head, do we? I mean, why come all the way to Scotland just to...\" He looked past her into the ghostly grey depths of the wood. \"It doesn't make sense.\"\n\n\"Everything makes sense, Harry. It's just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out what the sense is.\"\n\n\"Very profound.\"\n\n\"No. Just true.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I suppose so. Well, you'd better get on. I don't want you catching cold on my account.\"\n\n\"I'll see you later, then.\"\n\n\"OK. 'Bye.\"\n\nShe turned and ran on down the slope towards the church. Harry watched her go, then set off slowly in the opposite direction.\n\nErica was right, of course. Everything did make sense. But Harry was a long way from deducing how. When he got back to Kilveen Castle, he found Dangerfield gathering the Clean Sheeters together for the excursion he had planned for them. \"The show must go on,\" he declared optimistically.\n\nBut the cast for the show was undeniably reduced. With Askew dead, Chipchase absent, Lloyd performing his civic duty at a mortuary in Dundee, Dr. Starkie opting out for reasons of his own and Erica sending a message to the effect that she did not wish to cramp the boys' style, just seven were left to embark on Dangerfield's mystery minibus tour of Deeside.\n\nThey had scarcely strayed beyond Lumphanan during Operation Clean Sheet apart from fortnightly excursions into Aberdeen on the train. Their knowledge of Kilveen's wider surroundings was thus zero. Dangerfield took them on a scenic drive west, up the valley into the foothills of the Cairngorms as far as Braemar, where they sought out the hair-of-the-dog drink that several of them badly needed and Harry bought a postcard to send to Donna and Daisy. On the way back, Tancred specially requested a stop at Crathie, so that he could satisfy his royalist sentiments by gazing at the turret-tops of Balmoral Castle, which was all of the castle he _could_ gaze at above its screen of trees. Dangerfield switched to the south bank of the Dee at Ballater so that he could show them one of his favourite salmon-fishing spots. Then it was on to Aboyne\u2014and lunch at the Boat Inn.\n\nSo far, no one had mentioned what must have been at the forefront of all their thoughts. That changed as they started on the beer, however, and soon theories were being swapped as to how Askew's suicide could be explained. Since Dangerfield and Wiseman had not actually met him, they had to rely on the others for insights into his state of mind at the time. Judd gave it as his opinion that Askew was exactly as he had always been\u2014subdued, introspective, unpredictable. Tancred, on the other hand, said he was surprised and yet not surprised by what Askew had done. \"If I'd had to nominate one among us as a suicide risk, it would have been Crooked. There was always something slightly unstable about him.\"\n\nHarry sought to avoid putting forward a theory himself. The truth was that he did not have one. He kept trying to imagine Askew pushing down the window in the train door as far as it would go, then heaving himself out into the battering rush of air. But the image would not stick. Another, more macabre yet oddly more plausible version of events intruded. In this, Askew was already unconscious from a blow to the head as an unknown figure pushed the window down and propelled him through the gap to his death on the track below. Put on the spot by Wiseman, however, Harry said nothing of this. \"I don't know what happened to him,\" he maintained. \"I simply don't know.\"\n\nDangerfield's choice of afternoon destination was Craigievar, the pink-hued masterpiece of Deeside castle-building on which the architects of Kilveen had clearly based their work. Tancred and Wiseman derived more pleasure from a tour of the apartments than the rest, for whom details of Scottish baronial plasterwork held limited appeal. All in all, Harry and the others gave a poor impersonation of historically sensitive tourists, but put away a National Trust tea with gusto.\n\nNobody mentioned Lloyd, but Harry assumed he was not alone in wondering how poor old Jabber's trip to Dundee had gone. It was only a matter of time before they found out. Back at Kilveen they established that he had returned an hour or so previously, but no one felt inclined to call up to his room. Harry indeed was glad to retire to his own, in the hope of catching up on some of the sleep he had missed the night before.\n\nHe had barely lain down on the bed, however, when there was a knock at the door. Given that he had put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, this was either exceptionally inconsiderate housekeeping or some kind of emergency. His sleepiness was instantly banished.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"It's Jabber, Ossie. I spotted the minibus coming up the drive. Can I come in?\"\n\nHarry got up and opened the door. Lloyd made a heavy-footed, downcast entrance and sank into one of the armchairs flanking the mullioned window.\n\n\"Christ, what a day it's been.\" He rubbed one hand across his forehead. \"You see these...drawers they use to store corpses...in cop shows on the telly...but you never think some day you're going to find yourself watching a real one sliding open...and an old chum's face staring up at you.\"\n\n\"It must have been grim.\"\n\n\"And then some.\"\n\n\"What sort of injuries...\"\n\n\"Nothing too gruesome. They'd cleaned him up quite a bit, I think. Here\"\u2014Lloyd tapped an area above his left eyebrow\u2014\"was still a mess, though. Must have smacked it on a rail or something. What a way to go, hey?\"\n\n\"You said it.\"\n\n\"How was your day?\"\n\n\"OK. A drive along the valley. Pub lunch. A National Trust castle. Tea and scones. It was fine. Like a regular OAPs' outing. I'm sorry you couldn't join us. We all were.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well...\" Lloyd coughed. \"I didn't come to make you feel guilty for having a nice day, Ossie. After the horror show at the morgue, Geddes had some more questions for me.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah?\"\n\n\"Mostly about this.\" Lloyd pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. \"It's a photocopy of something they found on Crooked. Geddes wants me to pass it round. See if it rings a bell with anyone. Take a look.\"\n\nIt was an official notification of some kind; originally enclosed perhaps with a letter. The name that appeared in capitals at the head of the page seized Harry's attention at once.\n\n**CHIPCHASE SHELTERED HOLDINGS LTD**\n\nCreditors of and investors in the above-named company, now in receivership, are invited to attend a meeting at the Thistle Hotel, Fry Street, Middlesbrough, at 2:30 p.m. on Saturday 22 February 2003, at which a representative of the officially appointed receivers, Grey & Williamson, chartered accountants, of Marston House, Bright Street, Middlesbrough, will be available to answer questions concerning the company's remaining assets and outstanding liabilities.\n\n\"I had to tell them Fission was one of us, Ossie,\" said Lloyd, when he had given Harry more than enough time to read and digest the contents. \"There was no way round it.\"\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\n\"I had to tell them he'd hightailed it off to attend the funeral of his sister as well.\"\n\n\"A sister I told you I'd never heard of.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Well, I didn't mention that. Or your garage business. Geddes never asked the right questions. I didn't want to make trouble for you by volunteering anything.\"\n\n\"Thanks. Though where the trouble for me is in this...\"\n\n\"Geddes didn't buy the sister story, Ossie. He assumed Fission vamoosed to avoid meeting Crooked because he was one of his creditors. Matter of fact, that's what I reckon too.\"\n\n\"It certainly looks like it.\"\n\n\"Question is, did Fission drag any of us apart from Crooked into...whatever Chipchase Sheltered Holdings was?\"\n\n\"Who knows? And what if he did? It's not the first time one of Barry's little enterprises has gone bust owing people money. And this was...two years ago. Why was Peter carrying it around with him? What was he planning to do when he met Barry?\"\n\n\"Search me.\"\n\n\"Did Geddes have any suggestions?\"\n\n\"No. None he gave me the benefit of, anyway. But he did ask me a strange question as I was leaving. Bloody strange. It's been bugging me ever since. I can't figure out what he was getting at.\"\n\nHarry waited for Lloyd to continue, but there was only silence. For several long, slow seconds. Then Harry's patience snapped. \"And the question was?\"\n\n\"What?\" Lloyd jumped in his seat. \"Oh, sorry. Of course. Yes. The question. Well, he asked me...how I could be sure Fission wasn't on the train when it left Dundee.\"\n**CHAPTER \nELEVEN**\n\n**T** he strictly logical answer to Geddes's question was that no one could be sure. Chipchase had told Dangerfield he was flying to Manchester. But he could have travelled south by train instead and boarded the London to Aberdeen train at Dundee\u2014or Edinburgh, come to that. Almost anything was possible. But where was Geddes's speculation leading? He surely did not suspect Chipchase of murdering Askew. The very idea was absurd. Except that Geddes did not know Chipchase as well as Harry did, so perhaps the absurdity was not apparent to him. He reckoned he was on to something. Or someone. And the obvious candidate was the former proprietor of Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd\u2014long since in receivership.\n\nThe true explanation for his old friend's daylight flit from Aberdeen seemed clear to Harry. It was what Geddes had grudgingly suggested himself. Chipchase had persuaded Askew to invest in one of his dodgy enterprises, with predictable results he had no wish to discuss during the weekend at Kilveen Castle that had loomed ahead of him. Cue dead sister and grieving dash to Manchester. It was as simple as that.\n\nIronically, as things turned out, he would never have had to discuss the matter with Askew. But Askew, of course, might not have been the only veteran of Operation Clean Sheet duped into trusting Chipchase with his money, which Harry could have told them from personal experience was an act of folly. It would be interesting to find out how many had fallen for the silver-tongued old rogue's patter\u2014assuming anyone was prepared to admit it.\n\nThe clouds thinned as the afternoon turned towards evening. Mellow sunlight bathed the castle. A call from the reception desk alerted Harry to a change of venue for pre-dinner drinks. They were to be held on the roof. The upper reaches of the tower had been out of bounds to Professor Mac's students during Operation Clean Sheet and the door leading to the roof permanently locked. This was actually their first chance to sample its panoramic views. Dangerfield, it was revealed, had planned that they should do so all along, on a \"weather permitting\" basis. And the weather had happily permitted.\n\nHarry phoned Donna before leaving his room and came clean about Askew's death. He presented it as a complete mystery, which it was, of course, while failing to mention the connection with Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd. \"I didn't want to worry you,\" he explained lamely, only for her to retort, as well she might, \"But now I'm worried about what else you mightn't be telling me.\" He assured her there was nothing, by which he really meant nothing he judged she needed to know. A weekend of domestic normality was about to unfold in Vancouver. Daisy would be going back to school on Monday after the Easter break. Donna would be preparing to stretch her students' minds at UBC. Fretting over what might be happening to him in Scotland would not be good for them. Accordingly, Harry struck a jaunty tone throughout the conversation\u2014and hoped it was more convincing over a long-distance telephone line than it would have been face-to-face.\n\nHe spent longer talking to Donna and Daisy than he had anticipated and was consequently the last to make it to the roof party.\n\nIt was strange to have spent three months at Kilveen Castle without ever stepping out onto the flagged and balustraded platform at the top of the tower. The gilded weathercock on the next turret was shimmering in the sun, the flag of St. Andrew above them stirring lazily in the slightest of breezes. A golden hue had been cast over the ruckled carpet of farmland around the castle, while the mountains to the north and west and the undersides of the clouds were purpling in the evening light.\n\nWaitresses were on hand with champagne and canap\u00e9s. Matthews, the hotel manager, was schmoozing with his guests. There was laughter amid the burble of conversation and the popping of corks. A phrase drifted into Harry's ear as he accepted a glass of bubbly and took a first sip. \"Crooked would have wanted us to carry on, I'll bet.\" The words were Judd's, but there were nods and murmurs of endorsement all round.\n\n\"Do you think it's true?\"\n\nHarry turned to find Erica standing close beside him, looking intently at him as she rotated her nearly empty glass back and forth by the stem. Judd for one, Harry sensed, would approve of the closer-fitting outfit she was wearing this evening\u2014and its lower neckline. \"Hello,\" he said, smiling. \"Isn't it lovely up here?\"\n\nShe smiled back at him. \"It is.\"\n\n\"As for Peter, I don't know. It's the sort of thing people say, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes. So, here's another platitude. Tell me about your day. Braemar, Balmoral, Craigievar and a pub somewhere in the middle, according to Johnny. Is that right?\"\n\n\"Spot on.\"\n\n\"All new territory for you?\"\n\n\"Absolutely. Professor Mac and your boss kept us chained to our desks. There were no jaunts into the countryside during Operation Clean Sheet.\"\n\n\"And getting out onto this roof with its unforgettable views is a first too?\"\n\n\"Not according to some,\" Tancred cut in, rounding a corner of the balustrade to join them and flashing Erica a raffish smile. \"Jabber's just been telling Magister and me that he's been up here before.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Harry watched Erica's gaze slide past Tancred towards Lloyd and Wiseman. \"How did that come about?\"\n\n\"He was more than somewhat vague as to specifics. Indeed, it may be no more than stress-induced d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu. He hasn't had the carefree day the rest of us have enjoyed, after all. I certainly don't envy him his visit to the mortuary in Dundee. Are you familiar with the city of jam, jute and journalism, Erica?\"\n\n\"Not at all. Actually, excuse me, will you? Dr. Starkie's looking lost.\" And with that she was gone, threading a path through the Clean Sheeters and waitresses towards Dr. Starkie, who was standing alone near the flagpole.\n\n\"I think you frightened her off, Tapper,\" said Harry.\n\n\"Nonsense. More likely my arrival on the scene was the excuse she was waiting for to shake you off.\"\n\n\"If you say so.\"\n\n\"What she sees in that bloodless creep Starkie I can't imagine.\"\n\n\"A mentor, I should think.\"\n\n\"Should you? Well, your judgement isn't exactly flawless, is it, Ossie? Choosing Fission as a business partner doesn't say much for your powers of discrimination. From what Jabber's been telling us, he's still up to his old tricks. What was it? Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd? Were you involved in that?\"\n\n\"No. I wasn't. Were you?\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"No reason to be so tetchy, then, is there?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"You'd be more of an expert than me on the etiquette of occasions like this, Tapper, but isn't the idea to have a pleasant little chat over a glass of champoo and admire the view?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Tancred smiled through clenched teeth. \"Isn't that what we're doing?\"\n\nThey were joined by Judd, Gregson and Fripp, sparing Harry further verbal fencing with Tancred. He swiftly drifted to the margins of the group and, noticing that Wiseman had left Lloyd to join Dangerfield and Matthews, walked across to where the Welshman was leaning heavily against the wall flanking the door at the top of the spiral staircase. His face was flushed, sweat sheening his upper lip. His gaze was skittering and unfocused.\n\n\"This stuff goes straight to your head, doesn't it?\" said Harry, raising his glass.\n\n\"It's not that,\" said Lloyd huskily. \"Bloody vertigo. Came over me while I was standing by the parapet. And not just vertigo either. Something...weird.\"\n\n\"Tapper said you'd...been up here before.\"\n\n\"Feels like it.\" Lloyd shook his head. \"God, this is...the strangest bloody thing.\"\n\n\"Are you sure you're all right?\"\n\n\"No. Matter of fact, I'm...sure I'm not.\"\n\n\"You've had a long hard day, Jabber. You're probably just tired. We're not as young as we were.\"\n\n\"Have you been up here before, Ossie?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Sure?\"\n\n\"Absolutely. It was always kept locked.\"\n\n\"Yeah. It was, wasn't it? So, how did I get up here?\"\n\n\"Maybe you didn't. We've all experienced d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu. It doesn't mean\u2014\"\n\n\" _This_ means something.\" Lloyd drained his glass. \"You can take my word for that.\" He pushed himself away from the wall and clasped Harry by the elbow, swaying slightly as he did so. \"Do me a favour, will you, Ossie?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Apologize to the others for me. I'm going down to my room. I need a lie-down. Might skip dinner. Ask them to send me up a sandwich later. I'd be sorry to, er, miss out on the...grand supper, but...I just can't...at the moment...\" Lloyd's hand fell back to his side. \"I just can't. OK?\"\n\n\"OK, Jabber. They'll understand. You take it easy.\"\n\n\"Thanks. Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just need to rest.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Yeah. A rest. OK. Thanks. I'll, er, see you, Ossie.\"\n\nLloyd turned and started down the stairs, taking each step with exaggerated care, his hand grasping the rail tightly, like a man negotiating a ship's companionway in a storm. But there was no storm. Unless it was inside his head.\n\nHarry was never to speak to him again.\n**CHAPTER \nTWELVE**\n\n**D** inner that night, planned by Dangerfield as the high spot of the weekend, never quite lived up to its billing. The quality and quantity of the food and drink could not be faulted and Dangerfield did his best to jolly them along. But Lloyd's absence\u2014and the shadow cast by Askew's death\u2014took a perceptible toll. There was also the question of their stamina, both mental and physical. Harry suspected he was not alone in running short of amusing recollections of life at Kilveen in 1955, nor in yearning for a beer and a light snack followed by an early night, instead of fine wine, haute cuisine and a soak in the bar until the small hours.\n\nHis suspicion was confirmed when Gregson headed for bed as soon as dinner was over. Dr. Starkie soon followed. Then Erica made her excuses and left them to it. Harry felt he had done his duty when the longcase clock in the lounge adjoining the bar struck midnight. Judd had just proposed a few rounds of a game called Cardinal Puff they had sometimes played at the Macbeth Arms to decide who would buy the next round. Harry could not recall the rules, but was certain it was a bad idea. With slurred accusations of cowardice ringing in his ears, he took himself off.\n\nHe woke late next morning, no more than mildly hung over and relieved to realize that the reunion had nearly run its course. He would stay until Monday and travel back to London on the train with the others because that was the easy option. The truth was, however, as he explained in a phone call to Donna, that he would rather clear out straight away.\n\n\"I guess Barry was the biggest draw. I'd have enjoyed seeing him again, despite all the bad turns he's done me. If I'd known he wasn't going to show up, well, I'm not sure I'd have bothered.\"\n\n\"You'll be glad you went in the end, hon. You know you will. There'll be the pics to laugh at for a start. Taken many?\"\n\n\"Pics?\"\n\n\"You did buy a camera, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Well, er...no, I...\"\n\n\"Oh, _Harry._ I told you to. A cheap disposable. Come on. There's still time.\"\n\n\"It's Sunday. All the shops will be closed.\"\n\n\"Rubbish.\"\n\n\"Well, most of them. This is Scotland.\"\n\n\"Yeah. And this is your wife speaking. Buy camera. Take pictures. That's an order.\"\n\nAfter a bath and room-service breakfast, Harry headed out into the grey, still morning. He doubted if the post office and general store in Lumphanan would sell cameras, but the receptionist reckoned the shop would at least be open, so he had little choice but to make the effort.\n\nThe village had grown in fifty years. The view through the trees as he descended the hill from the castle revealed a lobe of modern housing east of the main street, which had been farmland back in 1955. The gaps between the old cottages in the centre had been filled in as well. Strangely, this did not make it a busier place. Sunday morning in Lumphanan was as quiet as it had ever been.\n\nThere was a modest queue at the post office, however. Newspapers, cigarettes and milk were much in demand. Harry toured the shelves in vain search of a camera, but decided he had better double-check before giving up. He joined the queue.\n\nThe man in front of Harry turned round and squinted oddly at him, then did so again. He looked local, flat-capped and dressed in ancient tweed. He was a short, lean, tanned old fellow, with an unshaven chin and watery but sharply focused eyes. There was a smell about him of damp dog and stale tobacco. Harry suspected the venerable Jack Russell terrier tethered outside was his. They made a natural pairing.\n\n\"Morning,\" said Harry in response to the second squint.\n\nThe man held the squint, then said, \"Good morning to you.\"\n\n\"Nice one, for the time of year.\"\n\n\"Aye. We get such mild springs now. Not what I'm used to. And not what you got last time you were here, I seem to recall.\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"You're staying up at the castle?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So, you're here for the reunion?\"\n\n\"I am. Yes.\"\n\n\"Then you'll understand what I mean.\" He turned away as he reached the head of the queue and handed over the money for a newspaper already folded for him to take. Then he was gone. Leaving Harry to confirm the shop's stock of necessities did not extend to cameras before making his own exit.\n\nThe old fellow was waiting for him outside, Jack Russell untethered. \"Which one are you, then?\" he enquired with a cock of the head.\n\n\"Which _one_?\"\n\n\"I remember most of your names. Let me see.\" He nodded. \"Aye. You're Barnett, I reckon.\"\n\n\"Good God. How did you\u2014\"\n\n\"It's Stronach, man. Do you not know me?\"\n\n\"Stronach.\" Of course. The gardener-handyman kept on when the University acquired the castle, whose wife had been responsible for cooking their meals\u2014if cooking was the right word to describe what she had done with food. But the couple had surely been middle-aged. Stronach had to be ninety if he was a day. \"Is it really you?\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"How are you?\"\n\n\"As you see me.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Stronach?\"\n\n\"Dead and gone.\"\n\n\"Sorry to hear that.\"\n\n\"I've had a good few years to get over it.\" He smiled crookedly. \"You'll not be surprised to know I eat better now I'm cooking for myself.\"\n\n\"I'm amazed you remember me.\"\n\n\"Well, fifty years ago is sharper in my mind than last week. And you've not changed so very much. White hair and a beer belly aren't so hard to imagine away.\"\n\nHarry laughed despite himself. \"It's good to know you still tell it like it is.\"\n\n\"Are you going back to the castle?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'll walk with you as far as my cottage.\"\n\nThey set off, rounding the corner by the Macbeth Arms at a faster pace than Harry would have expected a nonagenarian to set.\n\n\"What were you after in the shop?\"\n\n\"A camera.\"\n\n\"For some snapshots to remember your old comrades by?\"\n\n\"Something like that.\"\n\n\"It's too late to snap Askew, though, isn't it?\"\n\n\"What?\" Harry could not disguise his surprise at the question. How did Stronach know about Askew?\n\n\"They named him on the local news last night. Travelling to Aberdeen for an RAF reunion, so they said he was. And the police are keeping an open mind about the circumstances of his death. They said that as well.\"\n\n\"Did they?\"\n\n\"That'll have blown some of the froth off your get-together, I shouldn't wonder.\"\n\n\"You could say that.\"\n\n\"He was a nervy one, as I recall. Jump at his own shadow, would Askew.\"\n\n\"Not any more.\"\n\n\"Who else have you got up there, then?\"\n\n\"Johnny Dangerfield's organized the do. Then there's, er, Milton Fripp, Owen Gregson, Bill Judd, Mervyn Lloyd, Gilbert Tancred...and Neville Wiseman.\"\n\n\"What about the rest?\"\n\n\"Most of them are dead, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"Aye, well, fifty years is a long time. You'd expect that, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Why don't you come up and say hello?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\" Stronach pulled up by the gate of his cottage, a hotchpotch of brick, timber, slate and corrugated iron camouflaged by an overgrown garden. There was a well-tilled vegetable patch off to one side, but otherwise little sign of active cultivation. Picture-postcard countryman's dwelling it was not. \"I was surprised when I heard about the reunion.\" He slipped the latch, stepped through with the dog and closed the gate behind him. Harry was clearly not being invited in. \"A mite risky, that kind of thing.\"\n\n\"Risky?\"\n\n\"You never know what'll come of it, man. Simple as that.\"\n\nBut it did not seem simple to Harry. And then a thought struck him that made it even less so. \"When we were here, in 'fifty-five, the upper floors of the tower and the roof were kept locked, weren't they?\"\n\nStronach frowned. \"Aye. They would have been.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"The Urquharts, my original employers, left behind a good deal of their furniture when they moved out. It was stored in the tower. They'd not have wanted you lot clodhopping around up there.\"\n\n\"So, none of us could ever have gone up to the roof?\"\n\n\"Not in the ordinary way of things, no.\"\n\n\"Was there an _un_ ordinary way of things?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't know.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you?\"\n\nStronach's only answer was a half-smile and a faint nod of the head. \"I'm away in to read my paper, so I'll say goodbye.\" He turned towards the shrub-shrouded door of his cottage. \"Enjoy the rest of your reunion.\"\n\nHarry wandered off along the street, puzzling over Stronach's remarks. It was hard to judge whether they meant anything, or were just an old man's deliberate attempts at mystification. There was no reason why Stronach should know more of events at Kilveen than the Clean Sheeters themselves\u2014no reason, at any rate, that Harry was aware of.\n\nAs he approached the sharp bend below the church, a car nosed into view, descending the hill from the castle. It was a silver-grey Peugeot saloon, identical to one Harry had seen parked at the hotel. As it rounded the bend, he recognized the driver as Wiseman. Lloyd was sitting next to him in the passenger seat.\n\nHarry raised his hand, but Wiseman drove straight on, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, apparently oblivious to Harry's presence on the verge. Lloyd did see him, however. Their eyes met as the car passed him.\n\nWhether Lloyd said anything to Wiseman there was no way to tell. The car cruised on along the village street at a steady pace, turned onto the main road at the end and vanished from Harry's sight.\n\nHe was never to see Mervyn Lloyd again.\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTEEN**\n\n**B** ack at Kilveen Castle, Harry met Dangerfield in reception, looking far from happy. He was cross-questioning Bridget about something\u2014or rather someone.\n\n\"Is that all he said?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so, Mr. Dangerfield. Back as soon as possible. Those were his words.\"\n\n\"But we're\u2014Oh, Harry.\" Now, just like Barry's, Harry's nickname had deserted him. \"Thank God _you_ haven't run out on us.\"\n\n\"I walked into the village. Magister passed me in his hire car on my way back. Jabber was with him.\"\n\n\"Jabber too? This is bloody ridiculous. I told everyone yesterday we'd start at eleven. Well, I'm not waiting on that pair. They'll just have to catch up with us at the pub if they're not back by the time we leave. Can you tell them where we'll be, Bridget? The Lairhillock Inn.\"\n\n\"Certainly, Mr. Dangerfield.\"\n\nHarry stepped back outside with Dangerfield, whom he judged to be in need of a calming breath of fresh air. Wiseman's unexplained jaunt with Lloyd had clearly stretched his patience. He tried to raise Lloyd on his mobile, but got no answer. And he had no number to try for Wiseman.\n\n\"I'm beginning to wonder if organizing this reunion was a good idea,\" he complained as he snapped his phone shut. \"Nothing seems to be going the way I'd planned.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Magister just wanted to show Jabber some of the sights he missed yesterday.\"\n\n\"You'd think he might at least have consulted me in that case.\"\n\n\"That would have been rather out of character, wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"You can say that again.\"\n\n\"I went to the post office to try and buy a camera,\" Harry remarked in an effort to brighten Dangerfield's mood. \"Thought we ought to take a few commemorative photographs.\"\n\n\"Before there's no one left to photograph, you mean?\"\n\n\"I'm sure it's\u2014\"\n\n\"No, no. It's a good idea. I should have thought of it myself. Get one?\"\n\n\"No such luck.\"\n\n\"Never mind. We'll stop in Banchory. Should be able to buy a camera there. Smith's will be open.\"\n\n\"Great. Oh, and I, er, bumped into Stronach.\"\n\n\"Stronach? You're having me on. He must be older than Methuselah.\"\n\n\"Looked well on it.\"\n\n\"You should have asked him to join us.\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"And is he going to?\"\n\n\"No. But then he always was a miserable so-and-so.\"\n\nDangerfield sighed. \"We don't seem to be too popular, do we, Harry?\" Then he summoned a smile. \"Well, we'll just have to put a brave face on it.\"\n\nDangerfield's plan for the day comprised a visit to another well-preserved old castle, Crathes, near Banchory, a leisurely lunch at a country inn, followed by tea back at Kilveen. In the event, he delayed their departure by more than half an hour in the hope that Wiseman and Lloyd would return. But they did not. The subsequent stop in Banchory to buy a camera ate further into their schedule and a decision was taken to proceed straight to the Lairhillock Inn, several of the party freely admitting to having had their fill of castles.\n\nMuch of the conversation over lunch naturally concerned the absence of Wiseman and Lloyd. Erica, who had joined them today, while Dr. Starkie rested up at Kilveen\u2014\"He's not as fit as he pretends,\" she explained\u2014wondered if their sudden departure, destination unknown, might be connected with Lloyd's strange turn on the castle roof the evening before. He had, after all, been talking to Wiseman at the time.\n\n\"And to me, my dear,\" said Tancred. \"But, as you see, I was not invited along. I suppose it's possible Magister suggested a drive to Jabber in an effort to jolly him out of his fit of the blues.\"\n\n\"That would explain why he left you out of it, Tapper,\" laughed Judd, who was putting away the Lairhillock's beer at an impressive rate. \"Probably reckoned a succession of snide cracks by you wasn't what Jabber needed.\"\n\n\"This weekend's been a positive revelation to me, Judder,\" Tancred responded. \"I'd quite forgotten how side-splittingly funny you could be.\"\n\nHarry attempted to head off an exchange of insults between the two by describing his encounter with Stronach. Astonishment that the gruff old gardener was still alive and well was the general reaction. But Erica took a more probing and disturbingly perceptive line.\n\n\"Did you think of asking him about how easy it was to get onto the roof back then, Harry?\"\n\n\"Yes. As a matter of fact...I did.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"He said the Urquhart family furniture was stored on the upper floors. That's why they were strictly off limits to the likes of us.\"\n\n\"No exceptions?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"He was positive about that?\"\n\n\"Yes. He was.\"\n\nHarry had shied away instinctively from admitting just how ambiguous an answer Stronach had given. But he instantly regretted misrepresenting the old man, not least because the expression on Erica's face suggested she did not quite believe him. Dissembling never had been his forte.\n\nDangerfield tried Lloyd's mobile several times during lunch without success. It was not even ringing now, a circumstance which bred a number of wild theories about where he and Wiseman could be that was blocking the signal. They were evidently not en route to the Lairhillock Inn. A phone call to the hotel confirmed nothing had been seen or heard of them.\n\nThis was still the case when they returned to Kilveen in mid-afternoon. Dangerfield's exasperation had run its course by then. He suggested it was now or never where group photographs were concerned, so Matthews was drummed into service as cameraman, Dr. Starkie was lured down from his room and they all assembled in grinning formation on the castle's front lawn. Gregson, it transpired, had brought his own camera, which he had been too diffident to mention. That too was put to use. It was agreed more photographs could be taken later when Wiseman and Lloyd condescended to rejoin them\u2014assuming they did so before nightfall.\n\nSarcasm about the pair's mystery jaunt camouflaged an underlying anxiety. Harry felt sure everyone was thinking what he was thinking. It began like this with Askew. Would it end the same way? There was more going on over this weekend at Kilveen\u2014far more\u2014than the simple, light-hearted reunion Dangerfield had proposed. But Harry for one had not the remotest idea what it was.\n\nThe photographic session over, the party dispersed, some to their rooms, others to tea in the lounge. Harry took himself off for a walk around the grounds, transformed from the wilderness Stronach had presided over into artfully landscaped lawns, hedges, shrubberies and rockeries, with a winding path beyond tracing a circular route through the surrounding woodland, which Harry followed for a quarter of an hour or so.\n\nReturning via the extensive kitchen gardens, he heard the clink of mallet on ball from the croquet lawn as he was climbing the steps leading to it. At the top, he saw, to his surprise, Dr. Starkie lining up a shot\u2014and looking fit enough while he was about it\u2014with Erica Rawson watching from the sidelines, leaning on her mallet. A less likely pair of croquet players he would have been hard pressed to imagine.\n\nErica saw him a second before Starkie, who was stooped in concentration over the ball, talking as he squinted towards the targeted hoop. \"We should beware of connecting events simply because they coincide,\" he said. \"It's a classic\u2014\"\n\n\"Harry!\" Erica shouted, cutting the doctor short.\n\n\"Barnett,\" said Starkie in muted surprise, unravelling himself stiffly from his stoop.\n\n\"Hi,\" said Harry. \"Who's winning?\"\n\n\"No clear leader so far.\"\n\n\"He is,\" said Erica, with a rueful smile. \"It's just that one of his tactics is not to admit it.\"\n\n\"Aye, well, I have to try everything to compensate for the age gap.\" Starkie ventured a rare smile of his own.\n\n\"I should have thought this was one sport where age wasn't much of a factor,\" said Harry.\n\n\"It's always a factor,\" Starkie responded. \"Surely you've\u2014\"\n\n_\"Erica!\"_ The voice slicing through their conversation was Dangerfield's. They looked up to see him hurrying along the flag-stoned path from the castle towards them, his face clouded with concern.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" Erica called.\n\n\"Is there any chance you could drive me into Aberdeen in your car? I honestly don't feel up to taking the minibus.\" He arrived breathlessly at the edge of the lawn. \"It's...an emergency.\"\n\n\"What's happened?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"What? Oh, Harry. I didn't...see you there.\" Dangerfield wiped some sweat from his brow. \"Sorry. I ought to...It's...bad news. There's been an accident. Magister's in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. They've just phoned. I, er, think I ought to go and see him. The thing is, er...\"\n\n\"What about Jabber?\"\n\nDangerfield did not answer. His mouth shaped words he seemed unable to speak. His gaze met Harry's grimly across the lawn. Then, slowly and decisively, he shook his head.\n**CHAPTER \nFOURTEEN**\n\n**D** angerfield told Harry and Erica the little he knew as soon as they had started for Aberdeen. Wiseman's car had run off the B road somewhere between Aboyne and Ballater around midday and had plunged into the river Dee. Wiseman had scrambled free, but Lloyd had been trapped inside, unconscious, and had drowned.\n\n\"It sounds like that stretch I showed you yesterday, Harry, where I sometimes fish. The road runs right along the riverbank. If you lost control travelling in either direction, you could easily end up in the river. There's simply nothing to stop you. You'd have to be gunning it, though.\"\n\n\"I don't see Magister as a careful driver,\" said Harry.\n\n\"No. Neither do I.\"\n\n\"And which direction _was_ he travelling in?\" asked Erica.\n\n\"They didn't say. We can ask him. He's not in bad shape, apparently. Basically just cuts and bruises. But shaken up, of course. And shocked. He was too confused at first to get a message to us.\" Dangerfield rubbed his eyes. \"What a bloody awful thing to happen.\"\n\n\"At least this time we can be sure it was an accident,\" said Harry. But, even as he said it, he realized they could not be sure. Of that or anything else.\n\nAt the Royal Infirmary, Erica suggested she wait in the car, reasoning that three visitors\u2014one of them a woman he hardly knew\u2014might be too much of a strain for Wiseman. So Harry and Dangerfield went in without her, following the signs through a warren of stairways and corridors to the ward where he was being kept under observation.\n\n\"The doctor thinks there may have been some concussion,\" the sister explained, \"so we're keeping a careful eye on him. It'd be best if you didn't go straight in. The police are with him.\"\n\nThere was a small seating area halfway back along the corridor leading to the ward. There Harry and Dangerfield perched on plastic chairs and toyed listlessly with dog-eared magazines while the late afternoon ticked slowly by.\n\nIt had not in fact ticked very far when an unpleasant surprise materialized in the form of Inspector Geddes. Harry had assumed the sister meant a local constable was noting down Wiseman's recollections of the crash. Instead, here was Geddes, all the way from Dundee, this time _sans_ Sergeant Crawford.\n\n\"Mr. Barnett and Mr. Dangerfield. That's handy.\"\n\n\"We've come to see how our friend's doing, Inspector,\" said Dangerfield levelly.\n\n\"Not so bad, considering. Why don't you go on in and see for yourself, Mr. Dangerfield? I'd like a wee word with Mr. Barnett in private, if that's all right with him.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" said Harry, as casually as he could manage. \"Send Magister my best wishes, Danger.\"\n\n\"Will do.\" Dangerfield headed for the ward. He cast Harry a cautioning, sympathetic glance over Geddes's shoulder as he went.\n\n\"There's a room down here the sister said we could use,\" said Geddes, leading the way along the corridor.\n\nIt occurred to Harry that he and Dangerfield had not given their names to the sister, so there was no way Geddes could have known he would have the opportunity of a \"private word.\" Yet he had already arranged a venue for it. He must have been more or less certain Harry would be one of Wiseman's visitors, though in reality that had been largely a matter of chance. Vindicating the inspector's guesswork was a good way to attract suspicion, however\u2014whether inadvertently or not.\n\nThe room was small and cheerlessly furnished, with a window looking out onto a loading bay. This, Harry surmised, might be where relatives of a patient were brought to receive bad news. And bad news, he already felt certain, was coming his way.\n\n\"I'm liaising with the Grampian force on this, Mr. Barnett,\" Geddes began. \"In view of the obvious connection with Mr. Askew's death, they're happy for me to take an interest in what happened today.\"\n\n\"Is there an obvious connection, Inspector?\"\n\n\"It's obvious to me. How much do you know about the crash?\"\n\n\"Not much. We were hoping Magister\u2014Mr. Wiseman\u2014could tell us more.\"\n\n\"Aye, well, he's told me as much as he seems able to, so I'll sum it up for you. Apparently, he left his fountain pen at the hotel bar in Braemar you all visited yesterday. The Fife Arms. Remember it?\"\n\n\"Yes. That is, I couldn't swear to the name, but\u2014\"\n\n\"He phoned them this morning. They said they'd found the pen. So, he decided to drive over there in his hire car. He met Mr. Lloyd on his way out and invited him along, Mr. Lloyd having missed the trip yesterday. They got to Braemar, collected the pen and started back. He took the B road from Ballater to Aboyne, on the southern side of the Dee. He began to notice some play in the steering. Nothing too serious at first. Then it got worse. He should have stopped. He should certainly have slowed down. But he wanted to catch up with the rest of you, so...he didn't slow down. Just where the road runs close to the river, as he was approaching a bend, the steering failed completely. They went straight into the river. At some speed. Mr. Lloyd wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He probably knocked himself out on the windscreen when they hit the water. Plus the car keeled over onto his side in the current. Mr. Wiseman got out. He's not exactly sure how. He reached the bank and flagged down the next car. The driver helped him pull Mr. Lloyd out, but it took a lot of doing. And by then it was too late.\"\n\n\"Terrible,\" Harry murmured.\n\n\"You said it. Especially for Mr. Lloyd. He had a wife and grownup children, I'm told. There'll be a lot of grief going around.\"\n\n\"So there will.\"\n\n\"Your reunion's beginning to look jinxed, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes. It is.\"\n\n\"But I don't believe in jinxes, Mr. Barnett.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not. Our pathologist couldn't establish whether some of Mr. Askew's head injuries were inflicted _before_ he fell out of the train. But he couldn't rule out the possibility either. It'd be as easy to shove an unconscious man through an HST window as for a conscious man to crawl through, don't you reckon?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure.\"\n\n\"Well, _I'm_ sure. And that's what matters. It's only a theory. I grant you that. But if we find evidence that the steering on Mr. Wiseman's car was tampered with, it'll turn into a betting certainty.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Take my word for it. Now, whoever sabotaged the car was obviously out to get Mr. Wiseman. They couldn't have known Mr. Lloyd would be along for the ride. And they got lucky in a sense, with Mr. Wiseman taking that riverside route and the Dee being in spate after all the rain we've had. Of course, they also got _un_ lucky, because he survived. Maybe they were just chancing their arm. Making use of their...expertise...and seeing what might happen. You see the variables in all this, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose so. But why\u2014\"\n\n\" _Why?_ I don't know, Mr. Barnett. Why should one of you old airmen\u2014if that's who the culprit is\u2014take it into his head to start murdering people he hasn't seen for fifty years? It's a good question. But it assumes you _haven't_ seen each other for fifty years. And that isn't strictly true, is it? You and the absent Mr. Chipchase, for instance. Close friends and business partners throughout that period, I gather.\"\n\n\"You gather wrong.\"\n\n\"Do I?\"\n\n\"I haven't seen Barry in ten years. And our business association ended more than thirty years ago.\"\n\n\"What kind of business was that?\"\n\n\"A garage. Car sales and repairs.\"\n\n\"Repairs? So, you know all about...steering mechanisms, for example.\"\n\n\"Since you ask, no. I don't know anything about them.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Mr. Chipchase handled that side of things.\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact, he did.\"\n\n\"But he's attending his sister's funeral in Manchester, so we can rule him out. Or can we? Where _exactly_ did his sister live, Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"But he did have a sister?\"\n\n\"I...don't know.\"\n\n\"You're going to tell me you don't know anything about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd as well, aren't you?\"\n\n\"It's true. I don't.\"\n\n\"A nasty little scam. Investors thought they were buying into a chain of exclusive nursing homes, with guaranteed rights to see out their days in one free of charge if they needed to. But it was Mr. Chipchase's old age they were subsidizing, not their own. It looks like he suckered Mr. Askew into investing. Maybe other old RAF chums as well. Maybe some of them were hoping to settle a score with him this weekend. Him and his...partner.\"\n\n\" _Ex_ -partner.\"\n\n\"Aye. Of course. Ex.\" Geddes moved his face closer to Harry's. The suspicion that the inspector had been eating pickled onions earlier in the day became a stomach-turning certainty. But Harry's stomach was turning for other reasons as well. \"A lot of the money was never recovered. Salted away with a trusted friend for safekeeping while Chipchase served his all-too-brief prison sentence. That'd be my bet.\"\n\n\"Barry went to prison?\"\n\n\"You didn't know that either, of course.\"\n\n\"No. I didn't.\"\n\n\"Eighteen months. He got out last autumn.\"\n\n\"I had no idea.\"\n\n\"Just like you had no idea Mr. Wiseman and Mr. Askew were investors in Chipchase Sheltered Holdings.\"\n\n\"Magister's confirmed that?\"\n\n\"He was too embarrassed to admit being taken for a ride when Mr. Lloyd handed round the notice I gave him. But a dip in the Dee's cured him of that. Yes, he's confirmed it. How many others are there, Mr. Barnett? You may as well tell me.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I had nothing to do with it. I don't even live in this country any more. I was thousands of miles away when Barry was setting up his nursing home fraud. He'd have known better than try to involve me, anyway.\"\n\n\"So you say.\"\n\n\"It happens to be true.\"\n\n\"Looking forward to flying home to...Vancouver, is it?\"\n\n\"It is. And, yes, I am.\"\n\n\"Pity. I'm going to have to ask you to put that on hold.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"In fact, I'd like you to stay in the Aberdeen area, at least for a few days. Until we can draw all the forensics together and see where they lead. Perhaps Mr. Dangerfield could put you up. I gather he has a guestroom going begging.\"\n\nHarry took a long, deep breath. \"Is that really necessary, Inspector?\"\n\n\"It's purely precautionary, Mr. Barnett.\" Geddes smiled. \"But I find precautions are _very_ necessary in my line of work.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTEEN**\n\n**H** arry never got the chance to ask Dangerfield if he would be prepared to put him up. Geddes did the asking for him, before leaving the hospital. In the circumstances, Dangerfield had little choice but to agree. He was also obliged to pass on a message from Wiseman to the effect that he was too tired to see anyone else. Harry found himself turned away by one fellow Clean Sheeter and foisted on another. For this last he could only apologize, which he attempted to do as he and Dangerfield stood outside the main entrance to the hospital, watching Geddes hurry away towards his car.\n\n\"The bloody man's got it into his head that Barry and I are involved in some sort of murderous conspiracy. I'm sorry you've ended up with me as a house guest because of it, Danger. But it won't be for long. I'm sure of that. Once they establish the car crash really was an accident, he'll have to drop it.\"\n\n\"What if they establish it _wasn't_ an accident, Harry?\"\n\n\"You surely don't believe Magister's car was sabotaged.\"\n\n\"Magister believes it.\"\n\n\"What? And that I was responsible?\"\n\n\"He didn't come out and say so. But when I told him you were waiting to see him, he pleaded with me to stop you going in. He seemed...frightened.\"\n\n\"Frightened? Of me?\"\n\n\"I know. It's crazy. But what with Jabber dying in front of him and Geddes banging on about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings...\"\n\n\"You didn't invest in that, did you, Danger?\"\n\n\"No. I'd never heard of it before yesterday. Besides, Barry's been staying with me. Do you think I'd have put him up if I'd been one of the punters he ripped off?\"\n\n\"Point taken.\"\n\n\"Personally, I don't think either of you has what it takes to kill anyone.\"\n\n\"Thank God for that.\"\n\n\"Unfortunately for you, my opinion doesn't count for much.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I should go back in and try to make Magister understand how\u2014\"\n\n\"Leave it for now, Harry. He'll probably be thinking more rationally after a night's sleep. We probably all will.\"\n\nThey agreed to say nothing to the others about Harry's status as a suspect, at least for the moment. The atmosphere at Kilveen Castle for the rest of their stay promised to be strained enough without that information being added to the mix. It meant Erica had to be kept in the dark as well, which obliged both men to guard their tongues during the drive back. But when she suggested diverting to see the site of the crash, Harry did not object. He welcomed a postponement of their arrival at the castle\u2014and the torrent of unanswerable questions it would set in motion. He was also curious to see the stretch of river where his alleged plot against Wiseman was supposed to have reached its climax\u2014and where poor old Jabber had stopped jabbering for all time.\n\nBlue and white police tape fastened to stakes marked out a cordon round a set of wheel ruts cutting across the narrow grass verge between the road and the riverbank. It was the only sign of the earlier accident. Otherwise all was much as it had been during the brief stop Dangerfield had made there during his minibus tour the previous day. The Dee was a cold, grey, speeding mass of water, with dull green fields on its other side and dark, whale-backed mountains forming the western horizon. The road hugged the line of the river, hemmed in by a wooded hillside. There was a fishermen's hut tucked away under the trees and a pull-in for cars, where they stopped and gazed at the empty scene in silence for a minute or more before climbing out.\n\n\"You'd never know, would you?\" murmured Dangerfield.\n\n\"It looks so...peaceful,\" said Erica. \"I can understand why you fish here.\"\n\n\"I don't think I ever will again.\"\n\n\"That's a pity.\"\n\n\"It's all a\u2014\" Dangerfield was interrupted by the trill of his mobile. He yanked it out of his pocket and answered. \"Hello?...Oh...Yes, hello.\" Then he waved an apology to Harry and Erica and walked away out of earshot.\n\n\"Is it my imagination, Harry, or does Johnny hold himself in some irrational way responsible for everything that's gone wrong this weekend?\"\n\n\"I guess that's inevitable. The reunion _was_ his idea, after all. But none of this is his fault.\"\n\n\"He'll be left to cope with the aftermath, though, won't he, when you all go your separate ways tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Actually, I'm not leaving the area. Not tomorrow, anyway. Danger's putting me up for a few days.\"\n\n\"Good. That'll be a help. It was kind of you to suggest it.\"\n\n\"I didn't. It was Inspector Geddes's idea.\"\n\n\"Geddes?\"\n\n\"I'm his prime suspect.\" Pretence on the point seemed suddenly futile. \"Me and my supposed co-conspirator Barry Chipchase.\"\n\n\"You're joking.\"\n\n\"I wish I was.\"\n\n\"But that's ridiculous. Co-conspirators in what? A man kills himself. Another dies in a car crash. The police surely don't think...\"\n\n\"I'm afraid they do.\"\n\n\"Christ.\" Erica frowned. \"I'd no idea.\"\n\n\"It's not true, by the way.\" Harry smiled gamely. \"I didn't do it. I didn't do anything. Nor did Barry. You can trust me on that. I'd be grateful if you didn't mention this to the others just yet, though. I don't want them petitioning to have me turned out of the hotel.\"\n\n\"Now you _are_ joking, right? Anyway, don't worry. I won't breathe a word.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"You haven't got a cigarette, have you?\"\n\n\"I don't smoke.\"\n\n\"Neither do I. Usually.\"\n\n\"I stopped when my daughter was born. _Before_ she was born, actually.\"\n\n\"What about pen and paper? Got either of those? I want to write something down for you.\"\n\n\"Here.\" Harry produced a Kilveen Castle ballpoint and the copy of Dangerfield's letter about the reunion Lloyd had given him. \"Use the back of that.\"\n\n\"My mobile number. Call me if you need any help.\" Erica smiled. \"I'm sure you won't. The police will soon come to their senses. But just in\u2014\"\n\nShe broke off and handed the letter and ballpoint back to Harry as Dangerfield headed towards them, grim-faced.\n\n\"That was Jabber's daughter,\" he announced. \"The hotel put her onto me. I should have phoned her earlier. She was...pretty cut up. She's travelling up with her mother tomorrow. There'll be a lot to arrange. I said I'd give them as much help as I could, of course, but...\" He gestured helplessly. \"That'll amount to sod all, won't it? I can't bring him back.\"\n\n\"No one can,\" said Erica softly.\n\n\"No.\" Dangerfield's gaze drifted to the river. \"But if I could only turn back the clock...\"\n\n\"No one can do that either.\"\n\n\"That's a shame.\" He kicked a pebble off the bank into the water. \"A crying bloody shame.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTEEN**\n\n**N** ews of Lloyd's death and Wiseman's hospitalization killed off what little remained of the celebratory nature of the Operation Clean Sheet reunion. Toasting the memory of absent friends who had died young years in the past was one thing. Drinking in remembrance of two people who had been alive and well only a couple of days ago was an infinitely more sombre and dispiriting experience. It was possible to believe Askew had killed himself for reasons unconnected with the reunion and that Wiseman's car crash was a pure and simple accident, albeit a tragic one. But coincidence preys on the mind, whether rationally or not. Tancred summed up the feeling of all in his own Wildean style. \"To lose one old comrade may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose two looks like carelessness.\"\n\nInitial resolve to visit Wiseman in hospital before leaving diminished when Dangerfield pointed out that they would not be able to do so until Monday afternoon and would therefore miss the direct train to London they were booked on. They would also be in danger of meeting Lloyd's wife and daughter, a prospect none of them relished. With Harry volunteering to stay on and give Dangerfield what support he could, the others rapidly came round to the idea that there was no sense in delaying their departure. They had families to return to, lives to resume. They were, in truth, though no one said so, eager to be gone. They might even have wished that they had never come in the first place. The reunion had been ill-fated. They wanted no more to do with it.\n\nDangerfield did not mention he had provided the police with all their names and addresses and, oddly, no one asked if he had, perhaps because doing so would imply they believed Wiseman's crash might not have been an accident, Askew's death perhaps not suicide. Those were doors no one wished to open. Accordingly, by unspoken mutual consent, they remained closed.\n\nNor did anyone question Harry's selflessness in staying on the scene to lend Dangerfield a helping hand, though Tancred came close. After they had adjourned to the bar following a dinner nobody had shown much of a stomach for, he eyed Harry over the rim of his whisky glass and remarked, \"You're an example to us all, Ossie, you really are.\"\n\n\"Just doing my bit, Tapper,\" was Harry's lame response.\n\n\"Unlike Fission. If only your partnership had endured, perhaps then he wouldn't have ended up fleecing the likes of poor old Crooked.\"\n\n\"I doubt it. He never took much notice of me.\"\n\n\"Ah. Do I take it that Barnchase Motors might not have had a whiter than white reputation even before its lamentable collapse?\"\n\n\"Put a sock in it, Tapper, for God's sake,\" Judd interrupted. \"Ossie's doing us a good turn.\"\n\n\"Isn't that exactly what I was saying?\"\n\n\"Didn't sound like it.\"\n\n\"Then you should listen more carefully.\"\n\n\"Oh Gawd.\" Judd rolled his eyes. \"I've got seven bloody hours of this kind of malarkey to look forward to on the train. No wonder you've opted out, Ossie. Smart move.\"\n\n\"It certainly won't be a happy journey,\" said Gregson mournfully.\n\nAnd no one disputed that.\n\nHarry had peddled the same line to Donna: that he was staying on for Dangerfield's sake. It was almost true. He might even have suggested it, if he had been left any choice in the matter. It would certainly do Donna no good to be told he was a suspect in a double murder inquiry, particularly since he fully expected the crash to be confirmed as an accident and Askew's death accepted as suicide in short order. All he had to do was hold his nerve and bide his time. There had been no murders. The inquiry would soon be abandoned. And he would be free to go.\n\nSo he told himself, anyway. His subconscious remained unconvinced. He slept poorly, falling into and out of dreams that swiftly became nightmares. In one, something dark and menacing and vaguely familiar pursued him up the spiral stairs of the tower, across the roof and over the battlement. In another, he was in the back of Wiseman's car as it plunged into the river. Chipchase was sitting beside him. They started arguing about \"alterations\" to the steering\u2014\"You altered it.\" \"No, you did.\"\u2014as it sank, down and down, into the ever darker water. Then they were sitting opposite each other on a train, speeding through the night. As Chipchase dozed, Harry pulled his friend's bag from the rack, eager to see what it contained. It was an old leather suitcase, just like Askew's. He slipped the latches silently and raised the lid. And there, inside\u2014\n\nBut he could not remember, when he woke, with a jolt and a cry in the greyness of dawn, what he had seen\u2014and why it had terrified him.\n\nThey left Kilveen Castle straight after breakfast, seen off by Erica Rawson and Dr. Starkie, who could afford to make a more leisurely departure later in the morning. It was a stilted farewell, a thick, chilling drizzle encouraging no one to linger on the driveway. \"I'm sorry this hasn't worked out as you men must have hoped,\" Starkie told them. \"Try not to let it prey on your minds.\"\n\n\"I think he means he isn't going to let it prey on his,\" said Fripp, as they loaded themselves into the minibus.\n\n\"It's good advice, nonetheless,\" said Tancred. \"I for one intend to follow it.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but you've always been a cold-hearted bastard, Tapper,\" said Judd. \"That makes it easier for you than for the rest of us.\"\n\nBefore Tancred could respond with more than an icy smile, Dangerfield turned to them and said, \"You can spend the whole train journey taking digs at each other if you want. I don't care. But do you think you could lay off until we get to the station? I'm not sure I can take much more.\" Then he started the engine and pulled away. And no one said a word.\n\nTheir departure at the end of Operation Clean Sheet, on a June morning in 1955, had been very different. All fifteen of them had squeezed into the back of an RAF lorry driven by WO Trench and been ferried to Lumphanan station in time for the first train of the day to Aberdeen. A mood of \"school's out\" jollity had prevailed. Their laughter had filled the carriage. They were young and carefree, their futures alluringly uncertain. The only thing they could probably have agreed did not lie ahead of them, under any circumstances, was a return to Kilveen Castle. Yet now, fifty years later, six of them were leaving it again, its turreted bulk a receding image in the minibus's rear window. The mood was subdued. There was no laughter. But surely this time it had to be true. They would never go back.\n\nThe Northern Lights express pulled out of Aberdeen station on the dot of 9:55 that morning. Fripp, Gregson and Tancred were already in their seats, but Judd was still leaning out of the window, arm raised in farewell, as the train cleared the platform and picked up speed.\n\n\"You were on the London train with most of the others fifty years ago,\" said Dangerfield to Harry as they turned and walked away. \"Bet you wish you were today as well.\"\n\n\" _Most_ of the others, Danger? Weren't we all on it?\"\n\n\"No. I was heading farther north. To Kinloss. And somebody\u2014Babber, I think\u2014was on his way to the Shetlands. They had some radar station way up there. Saxa Vord. That was it.\"\n\n\"You're right. I'd forgotten.\"\n\n\"No reason why you should have remembered.\"\n\n\"I was bound for Gloucester. Barry was for Tangmere. Several were going to Germany. Nobody to the same place, though. They seemed determined to split us up.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Dangerfield nodded thoughtfully. \"Maybe they knew best.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSEVENTEEN**\n\n**S** weet Gale Lodge was, by Dangerfield's own admission, absurdly large for one man to live in. A terracotta-tiled, snow-white-rendered villa with a domed conservatory attached to one side and a triple garage big enough to accommodate the local Fire Brigade to the other, it sat starkly in an avenue of older, mellower, more discreet residences on the south-western fringe of the city. A career in the oil industry, Harry concluded, had left Dangerfield well provided for.\n\nThe presence of a decrepit old Renault out front indicated that the cleaning lady was on the premises. Dangerfield led Harry through the vast, open-plan lounge, half of which was double-height, overlooked by a gallery landing, to the modernistic kitchen. There they found a broad-hipped, bustling woman of about fifty, with short, grey-streaked hair and apple-red cheeks, dressed in jeans and a Fair Isle sweater, heaving a load of shirts and underwear into the washing machine.\n\n\"This is Harry, Shona,\" said Dangerfield. \"He'll be here for a few days.\"\n\n\"You never said you were having another of your old soldiers to stay,\" Shona good-naturedly complained.\n\n\"We were airmen, Shona, not soldiers,\" Dangerfield retorted. \"And Harry'll cause you no problem. He can take Barry's room.\"\n\n\"What about when Barry comes back?\"\n\n\" _If_ he comes back, we'll both be happy to stall him with a host of questions while you make up another room.\"\n\n\"Och well, I suppose...\"\n\n\"Good. I'll leave Shona to show you where everything is, Harry, while I drop the minibus back. I won't be long.\"\n\nBarry's room was as generously proportioned as the rest of the house and as minimally furnished, with a king-size bed, a pair of bedside cabinets, and a walk-in wardrobe ready to swallow Harry and his few belongings.\n\nAfter dumping his bag and stowing his toothbrush and shaving kit in the equally oversized en-suite bathroom, Harry made his way down through the parqueted wastes of the lounge back to the kitchen, where Shona had promised him coffee.\n\nShe was talking on the telephone when he entered, explaining that Dangerfield was out. Then she mentioned Harry's name, which surprised him more than a little. And then she crowned his surprise by offering him the receiver.\n\n\"It's the polis,\" she said, telegraphing her irritation that no one had warned her she might have to field calls from the boys in blue.\n\nReluctantly, Harry took the receiver. \"Harry Barnett here.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Barnett. Excellent. Detective Sergeant McBride here, Grampian Police.\" He sounded brisk and businesslike. \"Detective Inspector Geddes of the Tayside force gave us to understand you'd be staying with Mr. Dangerfield on this number.\"\n\n\"Well, so I am.\"\n\n\"Indeed. Now, would you be willing to call in at the station here in Aberdeen later today? This afternoon, perhaps.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"We were hoping you'd agree to be fingerprinted.\"\n\n_Fingerprinted?_ This sounded ominous. \"Why, Sergeant?\"\n\n\"For the purposes of elimination, sir. We may be able to lift some prints from Mr. Wiseman's car, you see.\"\n\n\"I never went near his car.\"\n\n\"Then you've nothing to worry about.\"\n\n\"I know,\" Harry said, trying to drain the terseness out of his voice.\n\n\"Good. So, you'll come in?\"\n\n\"Well, I\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, our colleagues in Tayside would appreciate a DNA sample as well. Likewise for elimination purposes. It's a very straightforward procedure.\"\n\n\"That may be, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Inspector Geddes said you were keen to help in any way you could.\"\n\n\"Yes. Of course. But\u2014\"\n\n\"So, shall we say about three o'clock?\"\n\nHarry's mind raced. He really did have nothing to worry about. He had not touched Wiseman's hire car. He had not laid a finger on Askew. Why, then, did he feel he was being lured into doing something he would come to regret?\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"OK, Sergeant.\" Harry sighed. \"About three.\"\n\nAs he put the phone down, Shona plonked a steaming mug of coffee on the marble-topped breakfast bar beside him. \"There you go.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Harry sat on one of the stools spaced around the bar and took a sip from the mug.\n\n\"This all about the car crash near Aboyne\u2014and the fellow who fell out of the train down Carnoustie way?\"\n\n\"You heard about them, then?\" Harry was not surprised. Everyone seemed to have heard.\n\n\"It was all on the local news.\"\n\n\"Yes. Of course it was.\"\n\n\"Your reunion didn'a exactly go to plan.\"\n\n\"Far from it.\"\n\n\"Heard from Barry?\"\n\n\"No. Has he phoned here?\"\n\n\"It's no for me to check Mr. Dangerfield's answering machine. He'll likely do it himself later.\"\n\n_Mr. Dangerfield,_ then, but not _Mr. Chipchase._ To Shona he was Barry. \"Barry and I...\"\n\n\"Are old friends. Aye. He said so.\"\n\n\"Did he?\"\n\n\"'It'll be good to see my old mate Harry again.' Those were his very words. Sat where you're sat now, drinking coffee, just the same. Then he got a message about his sister, so Mr. Dangerfield tells me, and had to rush off to Manchester.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Must have been a shock. Did you know the woman?\"\n\n\"Far as I know, Shona, Barry's an only child.\"\n\nShona frowned. \"An only child?\"\n\n\"Both his grandmothers died at least twice while we were in the RAF. Looks like he's still pulling the same stunts.\"\n\n\"But...why?\"\n\n\"That's what the police want to know.\"\n\n\"They surely don't think...he had anything to do with...\"\n\n\"They do. And they've roped me in as a suspect as well, on account of Barry and me being old friends and former business partners.\" Harry shaped a mock-courageous smile. \"But don't worry about it.\"\n\n\"I shan't.\" Her frown deepened. \"Maybe you should, though.\"\n\nDangerfield evidently agreed with Shona. He suggested Harry should consult a solicitor before pitching up at Aberdeen Police HQ and offered to put him in touch with one. Harry demurred. The best way to demonstrate his innocence was to arrive _sans_ legal adviser, co-operate fully and keep smiling throughout.\n\n\"Innocence isn't far from na\u00efvety,\" Dangerfield counselled as he leafed through a copy of that morning's _Press and Journal: the Voice of the North,_ then swivelled the paper round on the breakfast bar for Harry to see and pointed to an article on chapter 2. \"Read that. I'll be straight back.\"\n\n**MYSTERY OF FATAL DEESIDE CAR CRASH**\n\nPolice are investigating the circumstances that led to a car crashing off the B976 near Aboyne yesterday into the river Dee, killing one of its two occupants. The dead man was named as Mervyn Lloyd, 69, from Cardiff, who was attending a RAF reunion at Kilveen Castle Hotel, near Lumphanan, along with the driver of the car, Neville Wiseman, 71, from London. Mr. Wiseman survived and is reported to be in a satisfactory condition in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary.\n\nDetective Chief Inspector Graeme Ferguson of Grampian Police said he was not ruling out a connection with the unexplained death of another participant in the reunion, Peter Askew, 69, also from Cardiff, whose body was found beside the main East Coast railway line near Carnoustie on Friday. He went on to pay tribute to a passing motorist who came to Mr. Wiseman's aid and appealed for anyone who had information relating to either of the deaths to contact him in confidence.\n\n\"Spot the missing words?\" Dangerfield asked as he returned to the kitchen.\n\n\"What d'you mean?\"\n\n\"They don't say it was an accident, do they? Or that Crooked's death was suicide. That's because they don't believe they were.\"\n\n\"They'll have to, in the end.\"\n\n\"Maybe. Meanwhile, you ought to watch your back, Harry. I don't like how this is panning out. I've just checked the answer-phone, by the way.\"\n\n\"Anything from Barry?\"\n\nDangerfield rolled his eyes. \"What do you think?\"\n**CHAPTER \nEIGHTEEN**\n\n**D** angerfield drove Harry into the city centre in his Mercedes that afternoon, parked as close to Police Headquarters as he could and walked him the rest of the way. They had agreed to meet back at the car in an hour, before driving out to the hospital to visit Wiseman. An hour, Harry assumed, would be ample. But Dangerfield seemed less confident.\n\n\"You don't need to tell them anything, you know. You don't even have to give them your fingerprints if you don't want to. Here's my solicitor's card. Divorce and probate are his specialities, but one of his partners must handle criminal stuff. Give them a call if things turn hairy.\"\n\n\"They won't.\"\n\n\"For your sake, I hope not.\"\n\n\"You're overreacting.\"\n\n\"Am I really? Well, it's better than _under_ reacting.\"\n\nAt first, Harry sensed he had judged it right. Sergeant McBride, as cheerfully efficient in the flesh as he had sounded over the telephone, whisked him through the fingerprinting and DNA-sampling procedures, dodged his questions about the examination of Wiseman's car that Geddes had mentioned was going to be carried out and implied there really was nothing else they required of him.\n\nOnly when Harry emerged from the loo after washing the fingerprinting ink off his fingers did he find that McBride had been joined by the Chief Inspector quoted in the _Press and Journal._ Ferguson was a youthful, snappily dressed, dark-haired man with film-starry looks and the featheriest of Scottish accents. He seemed altogether _too_ young for such a senior rank and somehow the drive and ambition that hinted at worried Harry more than the challenging directness of his gaze.\n\n\"Thanks for coming in, Mr. Barnett,\" he said, with a geniality that lacked conviction.\n\n\"No problem.\"\n\n\"I wonder if I could ask you to come in again tomorrow to answer a few questions.\"\n\n\"You can ask me them now if you like.\" The delay, Harry suspected, was designed to prey on his mind\u2014as he was certain it would.\n\n\"No can do, I'm afraid. This would be a formal interview. It needs setting up. Inspector Geddes will want to be included, you see, so that we can...cover both inquiries.\"\n\n\"What time?\"\n\n\"Shall we say...eleven o'clock?\"\n\n\"Suits me.\"\n\nFerguson smiled. \"Splendid.\"\n\n\"Formal means you'll be under caution, sir,\" said McBride. \"You may wish to be accompanied by a solicitor.\"\n\n\"Another reason for giving you notice,\" said Ferguson.\n\n\"Thanks. I'll, er...think about it.\"\n\nHarry exited the station, turning over in his mind the ever-multiplying complexities of the situation in which he found himself. Ferguson and McBride must already have received some kind of report on Wiseman's car, but they did not propose to tell Harry what it contained. That, he supposed, would be sprung on him at tomorrow's interview. They were presumably hoping to match his fingerprints with some they had already found, though where he could not imagine. As for the DNA sample he had supplied, what did they hope to match _that_ with? Blood discovered under Askew's fingernails perhaps? They would not find any match, of course. But somehow that failed to reassure him.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" he murmured to himself. \"This is getting serious.\"\n\nThe afternoon had turned grey and what Aberdonians would call cool but felt plain cold to Harry. The city's stonework absorbed the greyness of the weather and amplified it. There was nothing in his surroundings to lessen his sense of isolation\u2014and an ever sharper sense of homesickness. He wondered if there was time for a stiff drink\u2014or two\u2014before meeting Dangerfield. Glancing up at the Town House clock ahead of him, he saw there was, but doubted if presenting himself at Wiseman's bedside reeking of beer was a smart move.\n\nHe was tempted, nonetheless. The Town House was preserved in his fifty-year-old memories of the city and gave him his bearings. Old Blackfriars, the pub where he and the other Clean Sheeters had done most of their drinking during their fortnightly forays into Aberdeen, lay to his left, near the Mercat Cross. He headed towards it.\n\nWithin minutes he would have been at the bar, pint in hand, but he was diverted from his course at the last moment by the red and yellow post-office sign hanging from the frontage of the newsagent's shop a few doors farther along. He had promised to send Donna and Daisy a postcard and so far had done nothing about it beyond buying the card. An airmail stamp for Canada was what he needed. He hurried in, joined the queue at the post-office counter at the back of the shop and began composing a suitably anodyne message in his head.\n\nHe had made as little progress with the message as he had in the queue when he heard a familiar voice. Glancing round, he saw Shona at the front of the shop, buying a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. But the newspaper and cigarettes were not all she was buying. The phrase that caught his ear was \"and a pack of Villiger's cigars, please.\"\n\nThe choice of brand was such a shock that he instantly lowered the hand he had half-raised to greet her. He stepped out of the queue\u2014and out of her line of sight. She paid, dropped her purchases into her bag and left. And Harry went after her.\n\nHe did not know what he was going to do. He did not really know whether the coincidence was meaningful or not. But he had to find out. Emerging from the shop, he spotted her hurrying ahead. Hanging back a little, he followed.\n\nThen, almost before it had begun, the game was up. A figure crossed the road from the Clydesdale Bank on the opposite corner and stepped smilingly into Shona's path. It was Dangerfield. And, a second later, glancing over Shona's shoulder, he saw Harry. He waved, obliging Harry to wave back. Then Shona turned and smiled at him.\n\n\"There you are, Harry,\" said Dangerfield. \"I was just telling Shona I was worried they might have clapped you in irons.\"\n\n\"I talked them out of it.\"\n\n\"Have you just come from the polis now?\" Shona asked.\n\n\"Yes. But I...took a wrong turning. Came the long way round.\"\n\n\"We're off to the hospital next,\" said Dangerfield. \"See how Magister's doing.\"\n\n\"I'll leave you to it, then,\" said Shona. \"I've some more shopping to do. I'll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Dangerfield. You too, Harry?\"\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\n\"'Bye, then.\"\n\n\"'Bye.\"\n\n\"Is Shona married, Danger?\" Harry oh-so-casually enquired as they made their way to the car park.\n\n\"Widowed. Her husband was killed in an accident on one of our rigs. Bernie McMullen. Nice guy. It was a real tragedy.\"\n\n\"A good-looking woman like her doesn't need to stay a widow, though, surely.\"\n\n\"Her druggie son could be the reason. I don't know.\"\n\n\"Does she have to travel far to clean for you?\"\n\n\"No. She lives in Torry, just over the river. Why are you so interested?\"\n\n\"Oh, just curious.\"\n\n\"You should concentrate on getting the police off your case. How did it go?\"\n\n\"Fine. But I'm not exactly out of the woods. They want to see me again tomorrow. For a formal interview.\"\n\n\"You need a solicitor, Harry. You really do.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"I've had a call from Jabber's daughter, by the way. She's on the train with her mother. They'll be staying at the Caledonian. I've agreed to meet them there this evening for dinner. I didn't mention you. It didn't seem...a good idea.\"\n\n\"It's OK, Danger. I get the message.\"\n\n\"I'm trying to be fair to everyone, Harry. You know that, don't you?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Now, are you going to phone my solicitor?\" Dangerfield flourished his mobile. \"Or am I going to do it for you?\"\n\nIt was in fact Dangerfield who did the phoning. Harry sat in the Merc, gazing vacantly at the blank wall of the car park and listening to him as he sought help from his friend and senior partner in Legg, Stevenson, MacLean. In the event, Harry did not have to say a word.\n\n\"All fixed,\" Dangerfield announced as he rang off. \"One of his juniors, Kylie Sinclair, will\u2014\"\n\n_\"Kylie?\"_\n\n\"She's good, Harry, OK? Try not to hold it against her that she's young enough to be your granddaughter. She'll be expecting to see you at ten o'clock, so you can cover the ground with her before you report to the police station. Their practice is in Bon Accord Square. You've got the address on the card. There's a street map in the pocket next to you. Borrow it if you like. We don't want you keeping her _or_ the police waiting tomorrow, do we?\"\n\n\"We do not. Thanks, Danger.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it. One thing, though.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nDangerfield turned to look at him. \"You are playing a straight bat on this, aren't you, Harry? I mean...\"\n\n\"I haven't a clue what's going on, Danger. All I know for sure is that I know nothing about it. Fair enough?\"\n\n\"Fair enough.\" Dangerfield started the car. \"I won't ask again.\"\n**CHAPTER \nNINETEEN**\n\n**A** t the hospital, Dangerfield left Harry in the same drab seating area where they had waited the day before while he went in to see how Wiseman was\u2014and to find out if Harry was still _persona non grata._\n\nTen minutes later, he was back, the expression on his face hinting at the answer before he even opened his mouth. \"He's looking a lot better. Reckons they'll discharge him tomorrow. Refuses to see you, though, Harry. Says the police obviously suspect you sabotaged his car and, until they rule you in or out, he doesn't want to have anything to do with you.\"\n\n\"Great.\"\n\n\"Advised me to kick you out of my house, as a matter of fact.\"\n\n\"Even better.\"\n\nDangerfield smiled. \"Magister always was too quick to believe the worst of people.\"\n\n\"So, what do we do now?\"\n\n\"I'll go back and try to talk some sense into him. I have to arrange for him to meet Jabber's wife and daughter, anyway. Widow and daughter, I should say. Why don't you wait in the car? Sit here long enough and there's no telling what you might catch.\"\n\nHarry wandered off glumly towards the exit. Wiseman's readiness to believe he had tried to kill him would have been risible had it not been so depressing. He was an intelligent man. Could he not grasp the absurdity of the idea? Apparently not.\n\nWhich only made it more obvious that the sooner Harry was off the hook the better. The day had yielded one tantalizingly frail lead. And he was determined to follow it.\n\nAt the hospital's main reception area, he sweet-talked the woman on duty into letting him consult a copy of the Aberdeen telephone directory. There was only one S. McMullen listed. He jotted down the address and headed for Dangerfield's car.\n\nSure enough, the street map located S. McMullen in the Torry district of the city. He had her. And therefore...\n\n\"Gotcha,\" he announced, for no one's benefit but his own.\n\nDangerfield was out within half an hour. He drove Harry away, heading straight for Sweet Gale Lodge, where he proposed to spruce himself up before heading back into the city to meet Mrs. Lloyd and her daughter. Harry, of course, was not invited.\n\n\"There's plenty to eat in the fridge. Help yourself. That goes for the wine rack too. And I've got Sky on the television. Watch a film. Or a football match. There's always one on. Take it easy. I won't be back late. I wish I was having a quiet night in myself.\"\n\n\"This relaxing evening you're sketching out for me sounds great, Danger, but contemplating my appointment with the local constabulary tomorrow and knowing how they've convinced Magister I'm party to some crazy plot to do him in isn't likely to put me in the ideal frame of mind for slurping your claret and surfing the satellite channels.\"\n\n\"Miss Sinclair will force the police to put up or shut up. In the end, it'll be the latter. Once they've admitted defeat, Magister will have to fall into line. I still think it was an accident. These hire cars get some seriously rough treatment. Magister was just unlucky.\"\n\n\"But not as unlucky as Jabber.\"\n\n\"Too bloody true.\" Dangerfield tut-tutted. \"Poor old Jabber.\"\n\n\"We'll never know now whether his memory of being on the castle roof fifty years ago was genuine or not.\"\n\n\"No.\" Dangerfield looked round at him. \"We won't, will we?\"\n\n_\"Watch out!\"_ Harry saw the van braking in front of them before Dangerfield did. By the time their own brakes were on, they were closing fast. But, thanks to Mercedes technology and a tiny margin for error, they stopped a couple of feet short of the Transit's bumper.\n\n\"Christ almighty,\" said Dangerfield, slapping his forehead. \"Nearly another bloody accident.\" He grinned crookedly. \"At least this one definitely wouldn't have been your fault, Harry.\"\n\nAt Sweet Gale Lodge, while Dangerfield took a bath, Harry phoned Donna. He did not mention the police's doubts about the crash being an accident, far less their suspicion that he was somehow responsible for it. And he did not even hint at what he intended to do that evening. As far as Donna was concerned, he and Dangerfield were dining with Lloyd's grieving relatives and giving them as much help as they could.\n\n\"I should be able to leave tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest. And you'll be pleased to know I _did_ buy a camera yesterday. So, I'll have pictures to remember this weekend by\u2014whether I want to or not.\"\n\nDangerfield set off shortly after seven o'clock, leaving Harry on the sofa, supposedly watching a Test Match in the West Indies on Sky Sports Xtra.\n\n\"I guess you don't see a lot of cricket in Canada,\" said Dangerfield as he hurried out.\n\n\"None at all,\" Harry responded, adding \"Thank God\" under his breath.\n\n\"See you later.\"\n\n\"'Bye.\"\n\nHarry waited a minute or so after the front door had closed before he prodded at the remote, silencing the commentary. He listened for the sound of the Mercedes starting, followed by the crunch of its tyres on the gravel of the drive. Then he jumped up, stabbed the off switch on the television and went to fetch his coat.\n\nHarry had to wait twenty minutes for a bus into the centre, but he was in no particular hurry. In some ways, the later he left it the better.\n\nHe would have travelled by tram back in 1955. He remembered the streets of Aberdeen as mostly cobbled, lit by gas, traversed by grim-faced people in belted overcoats, old before their time. It was a different world, as so much of his past seemed to him, despite the fact that he had lived in it.\n\nOld Blackfriars had altered little in its essentials, but the barmaids were younger and prettier\u2014and that went for most of the customers as well. Harry ordered a toasted sandwich and took his beer off to the non-smoking area to await its delivery, smiling at the thought of what he would have said fifty years ago were the chances of living to see any part of an Aberdonian pub unobscured by a blue-grey haze.\n\nHe took out the postcard he had bought in Braemar, still lacking an appropriate stamp, and made a start at filling it in. _Darlings D and D, Having a grotty time. Wish I wasn't here._ Well, that was undeniably true. As far as it went.\n\nIt had not, in fact, gone any further at all when his sandwich arrived. He washed it down with a second pint, restrained himself from ordering a third and concluded, at half past nine by the Town House clock visible through the pub window, that the time was ripe.\n\nThe number 12 bus took Harry out past the ferry terminal and the fish market, over the Dee and into Torry, an area of the city he had never previously explored. Nothing he saw as the bus trundled past down-at-heel shops and Victorian terraces suggested he had missed much. He traced his progress on Dangerfield's map and hopped out when the bus got as close to his destination as he judged it was ever going to.\n\nHe headed downhill towards the docks, a large oil storage tank squatting floodlit beyond fencing at the bottom of the street. Halfway to it, he hung a right into a short cul-de-sac of two-up-two-downs and walked slowly along towards its end, before stopping in the darkest midway point between a pair of street lamps and gazing across at the house opposite.\n\nThere was a light visible at the ground-floor window, but the curtains were closed. The window above was unlit, as was the dormer above that. The house was in fact only one of two on that side with a dormer. An extra bedroom perhaps. Converted by Bernie McMullen before his untimely death, making it more plausible still that his widow had taken in a lodger recently.\n\nBut how to prove it? Harry hesitated to march across and ring the bell. He could not force Shona to let him in, far less insist on searching the house. If she brazened it out, what was he to do? He had no Plan B to fall back on. And Plan A was hardly distinguished by its subtlety.\n\nThen, quite suddenly, in the form of leather-shod footfalls approaching from the corner, providence intervened. A hatted, raincoated figure was steering a direct course for the very door Harry was watching, moving fast, with a faintly pigeon-toed gait that was instantly familiar.\n\nThe man was on the point of sliding a Yale key into the door lock when Harry tapped him on the shoulder.\n\n\"Hello, Barry. Long time no see.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY**\n\n**H** arry,\" said Chipchase in a hoarse whisper. \"Christ Al-bloody-mighty, you nearly gave me a heart attack.\"\n\n\"Sorry about that, Barry. I know how it feels. I've had one or two nasty shocks myself recently.\"\n\n\"What the bloody hell are you doing here?\"\n\n\"I could ask you the same question.\"\n\n\"Will you keep your voice down, for God's sake. I don't want Shona knowing you've rumbled us.\"\n\n\"Hard to see how we can avoid that. Aren't you going to show me in?\"\n\n\"No, I'm bloody not.\"\n\n\"We have to talk, Barry. Seriously.\"\n\n\"All right, all right.\" Chipchase considered the problem, then proposed a solution that, given the many hours they had spent together on licensed premises over the years, hardly counted as original. \"There's a pub round the corner. We can talk there.\"\n\nCameron's Bar was a comfortless harbourside den dedicated to the consumption of strong lager, high-tar cigarettes and deep-fried snacks. Custom was slack, the atmosphere chill. Chipchase bought a couple of large Scotches, then steered Harry to a window table, as far as possible from eavesdropping bar-proppers.\n\nThe ten years and a bit that had passed since their last encounter had left their mark on Harry's old partner. He looked grey and weary. The luxuriant hair of his youth had grown thin and lank. His shoulders had acquired a despondent slump. Even his clothes were cheaper and shabbier than they would once have been. The hat and raincoat dated from happier, wealthier days, but were overdue for replacement. And the cracked leather of his shoes told its own sad story.\n\n\"How did you find me?\" growled Chipchase, dispensing with a toast as he started on his Scotch.\n\n\"Spotted Shona buying your favourite cigars.\"\n\n\"Bugger. It's always your vices that trip you up in the end.\"\n\n\"How did you persuade her to take you in?\"\n\n\"She's a sucker for a hard-luck story. Especially the kind that's true. Thanks to all the scrapes her worthless junkie of a son's got into, she's quite sympathetic to, er...what you might call...\"\n\n\"Ex-cons?\"\n\nChipchase scowled. \"Go on. Rub salt into the wound. I suppose Plod were bound to slip that juicy little morsel your way. Chokey's where you'd have predicted poor old Chipchase would end up eventually, anyway, isn't it? Does Danger know about this?\"\n\n\"Everyone knows, as far as I can tell. It's just that some knew sooner than others. I was one of the last.\"\n\n\"Sorry about that.\" An expression close to genuine regret flickered across Chipchase's face. \"Look, Harry, if I'd had any idea the Plod were going to come up with the crazy notion that we'd become partners in crime just because one of our old Clean Sheet buddies does himself in and another dies in a car crash, I'd...well, I'd have...\"\n\n\"Yeah? What _would_ you have done, Barry? I'd really like to know.\"\n\n\"I'd have warned you off, wouldn't I? What do you take me for?\"\n\n\"You didn't give me any warning when you and Jackie ran off to Spain and left me to face the music at Barnchase Motors.\"\n\n\"Christ, Harry, that was more than thirty years ago. Can't we forgive and forget?\"\n\n\"I'd like to. But leopards don't change their spots. As your recent foray into the nursing-home business clearly shows.\"\n\n\"That wasn't my fault. It could have worked if I'd been given more time. I was badly let down.\"\n\n\"Not as badly as your investors. And the jury were convinced it _was_ your fault.\"\n\n\"Bleeding-heart liberals, the lot of them. They call anything fraud these days. Let me tell you, Harry, we'd never have had an Industrial Revolution\u2014we'd never have had an _Empire_ \u2014if we'd dragged all those thrusting entrepreneurs into court every time they cut the odd corner.\"\n\nChipchase leaned back in his chair, took the telltale pack of Villiger's cigars from his pocket and lit one, his self-esteem briefly boosted by the belief that he was somehow making common cause with legendary titans of Britain's imperial past.\n\nHarry allowed him one long, savoured puff, then asked, \"How was prison?\"\n\nThe next puff was more of a sigh\u2014and a heartfelt one at that. \"Bloody awful,\" he murmured. Then he added, \"I can't go back inside, Harry. I just can't.\" And it was quite clearly the truest thing he had so far said.\n\n\"That bad?\"\n\n\"I'm a free spirit. You know me. I can't be...confined. I still catch the smell of the place in my nostrils. This godawful, sour reek. It's just a memory, of course. A rotten bloody memory. But I can't forget it.\" He summoned a grin. \"The cigars help.\"\n\n\"Going to ground when the police want to speak to you isn't the smartest way to avoid another spell inside, Barry. Surely you realize that.\"\n\n\"I didn't go to ground to avoid _them,_ did I?\"\n\n\"Who, then? Peter Askew and Neville Wiseman? Them and however many other of our old buddies you swindled in the nursing-home racket.\"\n\n\"I didn't swindle them. It wasn't a racket.\" Chipchase propped the cigar in the ashtray and slouched forward, elbows on the table. \"OK. Yes, I did a runner to avoid a face-to-face with some of my aggrieved investors. My _unjustifiably_ aggrieved investors. What else was I supposed to do?\"\n\n\"Why did you accept Danger's invitation in the first place? You must have known they were likely to turn up.\"\n\n\"Why? Because I was down on my bloody uppers, Harry, that's why. I'd never even have got the invitation otherwise. My half-brother lives in the house I grew up in. That's where the MoD sent the\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold on. Half-brother? You always said you were an only child.\"\n\n\"I thought I was. But it seems my mother had an illegitimate child before she married my father. Gave him up for adoption. He tracked her down about twenty years ago and weeviled his way into her affections. A real snake. An out-and-out bloody schemer. Managed to persuade her to leave the house and everything to him. I was...abroad at the time. Out of touch. Only heard my mother had died and he'd cheated me out of my inheritance when it was too late to do anything about it.\"\n\n\"Of course, if you'd been a more attentive\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't start, Harry. Just don't start. OK? The point is I went to see him a month or so back, hoping I could talk him into buying me out of the half-share of the house I'm morally entitled to. No such luck. He's a stone-hearted bastard. And I choose my words carefully. Anyway, he'd just received Danger's letter. That's all I got out of the visit and it wasn't much. But I was desperate. Down to my last few rolls of the dice. So, I spun Danger the story that I'd sold my house and was about to quit these shores for good, but could stay on for the reunion if only I had somewhere to rest my weary bones in the meantime. Generous sod that he is, he asked me up here. Well, Sweet Gale Lodge is a cushy billet, as you know. I wasn't complaining. I knew I'd have to do a vanishing act if Judd, Tancred and Wiseman came to the reunion, but what the hell? The state my finances are in, I don't look much further ahead than\u2014\"\n\n\"Just a minute. Judd, Tancred and Wiseman. They all invested in Chipchase Sheltered Holdings?\"\n\n\"Only Judd and Wiseman, actually. Tancred turned me down. But all three knew about it, so\u2014\"\n\n\"Plus Peter Askew?\"\n\n\"No, no. Askew had nothing to do with it. I hadn't a clue where he was, anyway, even if I'd wanted to try and sell the idea to him. I only went after those I knew I could find and who might have some spare cash I could separate them from. I'd seen Judd's name on builders' hoardings around London and I'd come across Wiseman during my brief but lucrative phase as middleman for a dealer in Middle Eastern antiquities. He put me onto Tancred, much good that it did me. I tried Maynard as well, but he turned out to be dead. As for Askew, no. Absolutely one hundred per cent not.\"\n\n\"That doesn't make sense. The police found an ad for a meeting of your creditors in his pocket. That's what pointed them towards...\" Harry's words faltered as his thoughts raced ahead. \"It was planted on him. Which means he _was_ murdered. And Wiseman's car _was_ sabotaged. With you and me lined up to take the blame.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"The police think I hid some of the proceeds of the nursing-home scam for you. They think we knocked off Askew\u2014and tried to knock off Wiseman\u2014to stop them finding out about it. They've taken my fingerprints and a DNA sample. I suppose they've already got yours. They're trying to tie us to two murders, Barry. And an attempted murder.\"\n\n_\"Bloody hell.\"_\n\n\"Can Shona supply you with an alibi for Friday afternoon?\"\n\n\"No. She was out cleaning most of the day. Danger's not her only client. I was lying low. Not much choice, really. I didn't want to risk bumping into Danger after telling him I had to fly to Manchester. Benjy saw me. That's the son. But I doubt he'd remember. Especially if he knew it'd help me if he did.\"\n\n\"And Saturday night, which is probably when Wiseman's car was got at?\"\n\n\"Shona was out with her sister till late. I can't prove I didn't borrow her motor and drive to Kilveen under cover of darkness, if that's what you mean.\"\n\n\"I suppose it is.\"\n\n\"So, where does that leave us?\"\n\n\"Well, it leaves me reporting to Police HQ at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, accompanied by a solicitor.\"\n\n\"For your sake, I hope he's a good one.\"\n\n\"It's a she, actually. And it's _our_ sake you should be concerned about, Barry. Yours and mine. Because you'll be coming with me.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-ONE**\n\n**I** n the end, Harry left Chipchase no choice in the matter. His hideout with Shona was going to be made known to the police next morning for the simple reason that Harry had no other way to prove they were not partners in crime. Words like treachery and blackmail were briefly bandied, but Chipchase soon ran out of bluster. He had the theoretical option of leaving Aberdeen before the police came looking for him, but he had nowhere to go and, as he admitted over his third double Scotch, he was too old to go on the run.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" Harry consoled him. \"It's not as bad as it looks.\"\n\n\"I don't rightly see how it could be.\"\n\n\"I mean they have no evidence against us. They won't find our fingerprints on Wiseman's car for the simple reason that neither of us has been near it. And you can prove Askew wasn't one of your investors. They'll give us the third degree, but in the end they'll have to face it. We didn't do it. Danger will back us up. We'll go and see him tonight. Together. Explain why you went into hiding. He'll understand.\"\n\n\"Yeah. All too bloody well.\"\n\n\"It'll be OK, Barry. Trust me.\"\n\nChipchase looked at Harry with barely concealed astonishment. Trust was perhaps a strange concept to introduce at this late and unexpected stage of their long acquaintance, but ultimately it was all Harry had to offer.\n\n\"Are we agreed, then?\"\n\n\"No.\" Chipchase stared lugubriously into his whisky. And gave a heavy sigh. \"But I'll do it anyway.\"\n\nThey caught the bus back into the centre, a recourse that moved Chipchase to cast a leery eye over their fellow passengers and confide to Harry: \"I never thought I'd end up travelling on corporation omnibuses with the dregs and dross of humanity, you know. We used to sell sports cars, let me remind you. Leather-upholstered bloody limousines. And I've hobnobbed with the great and good on five continents. How's it come down to this, I should like to know. Poor old Chipchase on public bloody transport.\"\n\n\"Between cars at the moment, are you, Barry?\"\n\n\"Between bloody everything. Since getting out of clink, I've gone from bad to worse. Every time I've hit bottom, it's turned out there's a basement under it I've yet to visit.\"\n\n\"What happened to that wealthy undertaker's widow you were sizing up for matrimony when we last met?\"\n\n\"Some lounge lizard in New Orleans stole her from under my nose.\"\n\n\"Bad luck.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I've had more than my share of that over the past decade, Harry old cock, let me tell you.\"\n\n\"Sorry to hear that.\"\n\n\"It's been a different story for you, though, hasn't it? Marriage to some curvaceous Canadian bluestocking, so a little bird told me, with a young daughter to dandle on your arthritic knee.\"\n\n\"Who was this little bird?\"\n\n\"Jackie.\"\n\n\"Ah. I might have guessed.\"\n\nJackie Fleetwood, their not so dizzy blonde secretary at Barnchase Motors, later Jackie Chipchase and later still Jackie Oliver, owned Jacaranda Styling, a hairdressing salon in Swindon where Harry's mother had been given free perms in recent years for old times' sake\u2014and where, no doubt, news of Harry had occasionally been dispensed. \"Oh yes,\" a voice sounded in his mind's ear. \"That boy of mine's finally settled down, I'm glad to say.\"\n\n\"Why were you in touch with her, Barry? Or is that a stupid question? Offering her an investment opportunity, were you?\"\n\n\"She turned me down flat.\"\n\n\"Surprise, surprise.\"\n\n\"But not before telling me how your slice of life had landed butter side up again.\"\n\n\"For the record, Donna's American. So's Daisy. We just live in Canada. And my knees are working perfectly.\"\n\n\"I hope that's not all that's working perfectly. Must be quite a strain for an old fellow like you, keeping a young wife happy. How much younger is she, exactly?\"\n\n\"Why don't we change the subject?\"\n\n\"Have you got one to offer that'll take my mind off the fix we're in?\"\n\nHarry considered the point for a few moments\u2014to no avail.\n\nThen Chipchase sighed. \"I thought not,\" he said gloomily.\n\nThey soon reverted to subjects very much related to the fix they were in. Upon arrival in the city centre, Chipchase insisted he needed another drink before facing Dangerfield. He took Harry into his current Aberdonian watering hole of choice, the Prince of Wales, and ordered a couple of pints. His debatable contention that it was Harry's round again led back to a question he had so far dodged.\n\n\"The police seem to think you squirrelled away some Chipchase Sheltered Holdings money they never found.\"\n\n\"Pure bloody fantasy. The receiver cleaned me out. There was nothing left. Not a bean.\"\n\n\"What makes them think there was, then?\"\n\n\"Their suspicious bloody natures, that's what. If I had a nest egg somewhere, do you seriously suppose I'd be kipping in Shona's attic?\"\n\n\"No, I suppose\u2014\"\n\n\"If you ask me, your murder theory's fantasy as well.\"\n\n\"How do you account for that notice about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings finding its way into Peter Askew's pocket, then?\"\n\n\"I don't. But unlike you, Harry old cock, I don't feel the need to account for anything. I'll leave that to the so-called professionals. Tell you what, though. You'd better hope I'm right and you're wrong and that there isn't someone systematically knocking off members of Operation Clean Sheet, just in case _we're_ next on the list.\"\n\nIt had not occurred to Harry until then that the murder plot, if there was one, might not have run its course. It was a disquieting thought, which he pretended to dismiss but in truth could not. It niggled away at the back of his mind as they left the pub, walked down to the railway station and jumped into a cab.\n\nThere were lights blazing at Sweet Gale Lodge, reassuring Harry that Dangerfield was back from his dinner with Lloyd's widow and daughter. He paid off the taxi driver and led the way to the door, Chipchase trailing a few yards behind and clearly not relishing the encounter that was shortly to follow.\n\nHarry took a few stabs at the bell and stepped back. \"Come on, Barry. Best foot forward.\"\n\n\"I'm not good at apologies.\"\n\n\"Only because of lack of practice. Get up here.\"\n\nChipchase joined him on the doorstep as he prodded the bell another few times and peered through the frosted porch window into the hall. There was no sign of movement.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"Asleep in front of the telly, like as not.\"\n\n\"It's freezing out here.\"\n\n\"Welcome to Aberdeen.\"\n\n\"Surely he can hear the bell.\" Harry left his finger on the button for several seconds. But still there was no response.\n\n\"Try this,\" said Chipchase.\n\nTurning, Harry saw a key nestling in his palm. _\"Thank you.\"_\n\nHe opened the door, calling Dangerfield's name as they advanced along the hall. The lounge to their left was filled with light. But the television was silent. And there was no recumbent figure on the sofa.\n\n\"Danger? It's Harry. I've\u2014\"\n\nHe saw the blood first, a spotlight shimmering on its dark-red surface. One further step into the lounge revealed the rest.\n\nDangerfield was sprawled face down on the parquet floor directly beneath the balustrade of the galleried landing. His head, round which the blood had pooled, was twisted, like a broken doll's, his eyes wide, staring...and sightless.\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-TWO**\n\n**A** re you sure he's dead?\" Chipchase asked as Harry stretched a shaking hand across the pool of blood to feel for a pulse beneath Dangerfield's ear. But Harry already knew he was not going to find one. The angle of Dangerfield's head to his body told its own story. A broken neck and a smashed skull were a fatal combination.\n\n\"I'm sure.\" Harry stood up and retreated to where Chipchase was standing in the doorway.\n\n\"Bloody hell. How...\"\n\n\"From up there.\" Harry pointed to the landing. \"Straight down. Smack onto the floor.\"\n\n\"Christ Almighty.\"\n\n\"Somebody did this to him. It was no accident.\"\n\n\"But...\"\n\n\"I'm going to phone the police.\"\n\n\"Hold on.\" Chipchase clasped Harry by the elbow. \"This looks bad for us, Harry. They'll try to pin it on us.\"\n\n\"What do you want to do, then? Scarper?\"\n\n\"It's an idea.\"\n\n\"A bloody stupid one. That would clinch it in their eyes. We have to phone them, Barry. Now.\"\n\nThe phone call made, they retreated to the road and waited there. Neither wanted to remain indoors. The horror of what had happened in the house held them in an ever strengthening grip. Dangerfield dead; Dangerfield murdered: a killer on the loose somewhere, identity, motive and intentions...unknown.\n\n\"He could be watching us right now, Harry. You realize that, don't you? He could be sizing us up right this bloody minute.\"\n\n\"No. He's long gone. Danger was...cold to the touch. He must have died...a while ago.\"\n\n\"You're an expert, are you?\"\n\n\"No. I'm just saying\u2014\"\n\n\"Who's doing this, Harry? Who the bloody hell is it?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"And _why_?\"\n\n_\"I don't know.\"_\n\n\"Danger was one of the good guys. Salt of the earth. He didn't deserve... _that_.\"\n\n\"There isn't something you're not telling me, is there, Barry?\"\n\n\"What the hell do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean...something that might explain what's going on.\"\n\n\"I haven't the first bloody clue what's going on.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n_\"No.\"_\n\n\"Well, that's a relief.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because neither have I.\"\n\nThe police came in waves. First one squad car. Then two more. Then several white vans and unmarked cars. Lights were set up. Radios crackled into life. Men in disposable boiler suits padded in and out of the house. A photographer arrived. Then a pathologist. And, last but by no means least, Detective Chief Inspector Ferguson and Detective Sergeant McBride.\n\nHarry and Chipchase had not been allowed back into the house. Left under the wordless supervision of a PC in one of the squad cars to await Ferguson's convenience, they exchanged apprehensive glances, shrugs and shakes of the head as the elaborate but orderly response to violent death took shape around them.\n\nThen, eventually, the PC was ordered out. McBride took his place and Ferguson slid into the front passenger seat.\n\n\"Mr. Barnett and Mr. Chipchase,\" he said, turning to look at them. \"Together at last.\"\n\n\"We didn't move anything, Chief Inspector,\" said Harry emolliently. \"It's all exactly\u2014\"\n\n\"I've heard what you've had to say for yourselves so far. You may as well know it won't wash.\"\n\n\"It happens to be the truth.\"\n\n\"Bullshit. A few hours ago, Mr. Barnett, you claimed to have no idea where your friend was. Now I'm to understand you've had an impromptu boys' night out together. At the end of which Mr. Dangerfield winds up dead. You'll forgive me if I make a connection between those events, won't you?\"\n\n\"The only connection is that we came back here and found the body.\"\n\n\"And we phoned you lot straight away,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"Can anyone vouch for what you were doing earlier?\"\n\n\"Well...\" Harry began.\n\n\"Not sure,\" Chipchase finished.\n\n\"Thought so.\" Ferguson drummed his fingers on the seat-back for a moment, then turned to McBride and said, \"Have them taken to the station, Sandy.\"\n\n\"Are you arresting us?\" Harry asked, hoping fervently that he had somehow misunderstood.\n\n\"Are we arresting them, Sandy?\"\n\n\"Aye, sir,\" said McBride. \"I think we are.\"\n\nThe ironic and remorseless circularity of life presented itself with bleak force to Harry during the largely sleepless remainder of the night. His confinement with Chipchase in the guardroom cells at RAF Stafford had led them to Kilveen Castle and the apparent salvation of Operation Clean Sheet. Now, fifty years later, their connection with Kilveen unexpectedly re-established, they were confined once more, this time to the cells of Aberdeen Central Police Station.\n\nHe had not seen Askew's body after they had scraped it off the railway line, nor Lloyd's after it had been pulled from the wreck of Wiseman's hire car. Until he had stepped into the lounge of Sweet Gale Lodge and caught his first, indelibly memorable sight of Dangerfield, lying where he had fallen, the deaths were at one remove from him, reported, imagined\u2014but not experienced. All that had changed now. The possibility that Askew committed suicide or the car crash was an accident had been replaced by the sickening certainty of murder.\n\n\"Who's doing this?\" Chipchase had asked him despairingly. \"And why?\" There was no answer that came close to making sense. Yet there was an answer. There had to be.\n\nWho? And why?\n\nIn the end, one way or another, by hook or by crook, Harry was going to have to find out.\n\nWho. And why.\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-THREE**\n\n**T** he interview room was bare, stuffy and windowless. Harry sat on one side of the central table, opposite a flint-faced triumvirate of Ferguson, Geddes and McBride. To his left sat Kylie Sinclair, petite, crop-haired, bushbaby-eyed and, Harry had to assume, quite a few years older than she looked. The fact that the victim of one of the murders about to be discussed was a client of Legg, Stevenson, MacLean had not prevented her turning up to act as legal adviser to Harry and, at his instigation, to Chipchase as well.\n\nChipchase was still languishing in his cell. Ferguson and Geddes had decided to start with Harry. Perhaps they reckoned him the easier nut to crack. His thoughts scrambled by lack of sleep and general anxiety, his stomach churning after a breakfast of brackish tea and soggy toast, he felt unable to fault their reasoning.\n\nA tape recorder stood in the middle of the table. McBride loaded the machine, started it running, announced the date, location and names of those present, then sped through the caution he had recited to Harry the previous night. \"You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if...\"\n\nHarry barely listened. Silence, he knew, would avail him little.\n\n\"Done this kind of thing before, Mr. Barnett?\" Ferguson asked when McBride had finished.\n\n\"Sorry?\" Harry was instantly wrong-footed.\n\n\"Been interviewed by the police, I mean.\"\n\n\"Oh, right.\" He watched McBride jotting in his notebook. What, he wondered, was the best\u2014the wisest\u2014thing to say. \"Well...\"\n\n\"It's either yes or no,\" said Geddes, in what was almost a snarl. \"Surely you can remember.\"\n\n\"Of course. It's just...Well, it depends what you...\" He smiled deliberately. \"I was interviewed once by the Greek police. A long time ago. It was all a...misunderstanding.\"\n\n\"Rhodes, November 1988.\" Ferguson grinned. \"It's amazing what the Europol computer can turn up.\"\n\n\"Like I said: a long time ago.\"\n\n\"A missing-person inquiry. Suspected murder.\"\n\n\"But she didn't stay missing. She hadn't been murdered. There was nothing to it.\"\n\n\"Luckily for you.\"\n\n\"Is this relevant?\" Miss Sinclair asked sharply. \"I understood you wanted to question Mr. Barnett about rather more recent events.\"\n\n\"We do.\" Ferguson acknowledged the rebuke with a faint inclination of the head. \"The death on Friday of Peter Askew. The death on Sunday of Mervyn Lloyd. The death last night of John Dangerfield.\"\n\n\"You were on the train Mr. Askew fell from,\" said Geddes. \"Correct?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you were staying in the Kilveen Castle Hotel when the car rented by Neville Wiseman on arrival at Aberdeen airport suffered unaccountable damage to its steering mechanism,\" said Ferguson. \"Correct?\"\n\n\"I don't know when or how it was damaged. Or even _if_ it was damaged.\"\n\n\"Oh, it was damaged. There's no doubt about that. And the rental company have the maintenance records to prove it left their hands in perfect condition.\"\n\n\"I'm sure they do.\"\n\n\"Which means it must have been tampered with while it was at Kilveen Castle. Where you were staying. Is that correct?\"\n\n\"I was there, yes.\"\n\n\"And you were also staying at Sweet Gale Lodge when Mr. Dangerfield was killed.\"\n\n\"Yes. I was.\"\n\n\"Did you kill him, Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Did you kill him?\"\n\n\"No. Of course not. Like I told you, we\u2014\"\n\n\"Found him dead when you got back there. Yes. We know. But there's a problem. I'm referring to your fortuitous reunion with Mr. Chipchase. How did that come about?\"\n\n\"I spotted Shona\u2014Danger's cleaner\u2014buying Barry's favourite brand of cigar. I suspected he was lying low with her. And I was right. Check with Shona if you need confirmation.\"\n\n\"Oh, we have.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Mrs. McMullen confirms he's been staying with her. But she was at home all last night and she saw nothing of you. Or Mr. Chipchase.\"\n\n\"I stopped him as he was going in. We spent the rest of the evening in a pub. Cameron's Bar. Near the docks.\"\n\n\"Start any fights?\" asked Geddes.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"It might have made your visit more memorable to the staff.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, this is\u2014\"\n\n\"A doubtful story,\" Ferguson interrupted. \"That's what it is, Mr. Barnett. Look at it from our point of view. We have two murders in which the victim was physically overpowered. It's tempting to conclude a _pair_ of murderers were responsible. Mr. Askew may not have been capable of putting up much resistance, but Mr. Dangerfield was certainly no pushover. We also have a third murder\u2014and an attempted murder\u2014in which the modus operandi requires expert knowledge of motor-car steering mechanisms. And then we have you and Mr. Chipchase. A pair. A partnership. Former co-proprietors of a car sales and repair business, no less. With a criminal conviction, in Mr. Chipchase's case, relating to a fraudulent enterprise of which the dead men may well all have been victims.\"\n\n\"Danger didn't invest in Chipchase Sheltered Holdings. He told me so himself. Nor did Peter Askew. You can check that.\"\n\n\"Can we? I doubt we'll find Mr. Chipchase kept meticulous records. Even if he did, they might lack a certain credibility, don't you think?\"\n\n\"Neither of us has anything to do with this.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll have to see about that. Mr. Dangerfield clearly knew his murderer\u2014or murderers. There was no sign of a break-in. And he certainly knew you two.\"\n\n\"We weren't there when it happened, Chief Inspector. Find the taxi driver who took us out to the house last night. He can tell you what time we arrived.\"\n\n\"Can you describe him, sir?\" asked McBride. \"Or the taxi itself?\"\n\n\"He was...middle-aged, I suppose. Local. Nothing...out of the ordinary.\"\n\n\"Pity,\" said Geddes.\n\nHarry pressed on. \"He was driving...an average saloon.\"\n\n\"Aren't they all?\"\n\n\"Even if we traced the driver and he remembered you, Mr. Barnett,\" said Ferguson with a long-suffering air, \"it wouldn't prove you didn't kill Mr. Dangerfield, then go into town and return by taxi for the specific purpose of establishing an alibi.\"\n\n\"In that event, Chief Inspector,\" put in Miss Sinclair, \"wouldn't my client have ensured he could give a better description of the taxi and its driver?\"\n\nFerguson smiled coolly. \"Perhaps he might think that...too obvious.\"\n\n\"That's very tortuous reasoning.\"\n\n\"Goes with the territory, luv,\" said Geddes.\n\n\"Mr. Barnett,\" said Ferguson, a pursing of his lips hinting at irritation with Geddes, \"I want to put it to you that Mr. Chipchase has been the prime mover in all this. You've just...tagged along. No doubt you're horrified by what's happened\u2014and your complicity in it. But I'm afraid protestations of innocence aren't going to achieve anything. We need the truth. If you volunteer it to us now...it's bound to stand you in good stead later.\"\n\n\"A man your age,\" said Geddes, \"needs to think carefully about how many years he wants to spend banged up.\"\n\n\"Do yourself a favour,\" said Ferguson. \"Nobody else will.\"\n\nMiss Sinclair shot her client a cautioning glance. They had come to the crunch.\n\nHarry cleared his throat. \"Let me make this very clear. Neither Barry nor I had any part in these murders\u2014if that's what they all were. We're innocent men. And while you're trying to prove otherwise, Johnny Dangerfield's murderer is out there somewhere, busily covering his tracks\u2014and laughing at you.\"\n\nA brief silence fell. Ferguson rolled his eyes. McBride scribbled in his notebook. Then Geddes leaned across the table and fixed Harry with a stare. \"No one's laughing, Barnett. No one at all.\"\n\nAnother silence followed, broken this time by Kylie Sinclair. \"Do you intend to charge my client, Chief Inspector? Your case against him so far seems wholly circumstantial. I note you've made no mention of forensic evidence linking him to any of the killings, presumably because there is none.\"\n\n\"Not yet, maybe,\" said Ferguson. \"We're still awaiting the results of several tests.\"\n\n\"And while you do?\"\n\n\"All right.\" Ferguson stroked his chin. \"If Mr. Barnett's prepared to surrender his passport, we'll release him on bail. To return here...one week today...for further questioning.\"\n\nMiss Sinclair leaned close to Harry's ear. \"The passport request's not unreasonable in view of your Canadian domicile,\" she whispered. \"I suggest you agree.\"\n\n\"Yes, but...\" Relinquishing his passport created a practical obstacle to what he most desired: an early return to domestic bliss in Vancouver with Donna and Daisy. It also seemed sickeningly symbolic of the gap opening up between him and the comfortable simplicities of family life. It was an admission of what he most feared: that his circumstances were bound to worsen before they improved\u2014if they were to improve at all. And yet...there was nothing else for it. \"OK,\" he said, pointedly ignoring Geddes and looking straight at Ferguson. \"I agree.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-FOUR**\n\n**K** ylie Sinclair told Harry before he left the police station that she was confident of securing Chipchase's release on the same terms as his. \"Assuming,\" she added, with a narrowing of her gaze, \"he tells the same story.\"\n\n\"It's the only story either of us _can_ tell, Miss Sinclair. It's the truth.\"\n\n\"Good. Let me know where you'll be staying, won't you? And make an appointment for you both to come in and see me. As soon as possible. We need to talk about next week.\"\n\n\"OK. How long before they let Barry go, do you reckon?\"\n\n\"If the questioning proceeds much as yours did...an hour or so.\"\n\n\"Can you tell him I'll wait for him in the Prince of Wales?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Feeling in need of a drink, Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"Yes. And if I know Barry...\"\n\n\"He will be too.\" She nodded. \"I'll tell him.\"\n\nSergeant McBride also expressed an interest in Harry's future whereabouts when he saw him on his way.\n\n\"We'll need to have an address for you by the end of the day, sir.\"\n\n\"You'll know as soon as I know.\"\n\n\"Fine. But you do appreciate you can't return to Sweet Gale Lodge, don't you? It's sealed off as a crime scene and it'll stay that way for quite a while.\"\n\n\"What about my belongings?\"\n\n\"We let Mrs. McMullen pack a few things for you. They'll be with her. Bar what we retained as evidence, of course.\"\n\n\"Such as?\"\n\n\"A disposable camera found in your room. I'll give you a receipt for it.\"\n\n\"Half a dozen snaps of the gathering at Kilveen Castle. You call that evidence?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Of what, exactly?\"\n\n\"Ah well...\" McBride smiled. \"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?\"\n\nA cold, grey morning greeted Harry on his exit from the station. Tired, hungry and unshaven, his thoughts manoeuvring ineffectually around the many problems he was beset by, he focused as best he could on the one thing he had to do without delay. He bought a high-value phone card at the first newsagent's he came to and rang Donna from the nearest call-box.\n\nIt was the middle of the night in Vancouver, but Harry knew Donna would be worried by the lack of a call the previous evening. She answered with the speed of someone who had not been sleeping soundly and was certain who the caller would be. Initially, she was simply relieved to hear his voice. But her relief did not last long.\n\n\"Johnny Dangerfield's dead?\"\n\n\"The police are treating it as murder.\"\n\n\"My God, Harry, this is serious. There really is a murderer on the loose?\"\n\n\"Looks like it.\"\n\n\"I want you on the next plane home.\"\n\n\"I want that too. But the police have other ideas. They've confiscated my passport.\"\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"There's nothing I can do, Donna. I have to stay here until they've ruled out Barry and me as suspects.\"\n\n\" _Suspects_? They can't be serious.\"\n\n\"I only wish they weren't.\"\n\n\"Right. If you can't come to me, I'll come to you. There's nothing else for it.\"\n\n\"Don't do that. Please. It'd put you in hot water at the University and\u2014\"\n\n\"You think I value my job above your welfare?\"\n\n\"Of course not. But it's unnecessary. They _will_ rule us out. It's just a question of time.\"\n\n\"How much time?\"\n\n\"A week or so.\"\n\n\"During which I'll be worried sick about you and unable to do a single damn thing to help.\"\n\n\"You couldn't do anything even if you were here, Donna.\"\n\n\"That's not the point.\"\n\n\"It is. Because if you came _I'd_ be worried about _you._ And Daisy would be worried about both of us. Whereas this way she needn't know there's any cause for concern. Not that there is, of course. Not really.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah?\"\n\n\"Listen. I can't leave the country. But I don't have to stay in Aberdeen. I'll go back to Swindon. Probably tomorrow. Clear the house out, as planned. I'll take Barry with me. We can watch out for each other. Next week, we'll come back up here and sort everything out.\"\n\n\"You hope.\"\n\n\"The solicitor's adamant they'll...eliminate us from their enquiries.\"\n\n\"You've hired a solicitor?\"\n\n\"Reckoned I needed to.\"\n\n\"And what about Barry? He's not exactly a trustworthy guy, hon, is he? Are you sure he's...on the level?\"\n\n\"He's never been 'on the level' in his life. But he's as much in the dark about all this as I am. Until next week we're going to have to stick together. It's the only way.\"\n\nThe only way amounted to rather more than Harry was letting on. He had no intention of passing his week on police bail clearing out his mother's house, with or without Chipchase's assistance. But what he meant to do instead was not for Donna's ears.\n\nHe phoned Shona next, intending to ask if he could come and pick up his bag before booking into a hotel. But she had other ideas.\n\n\"You can stay here, Harry. Then you and Barry can tell me what in God's name is going on. Who'd want to kill Mr. Dangerfield? He was such a kind and gentle man. How did you work out Barry was staying with me? And what are the two of you going to do now?\"\n\nShe had, it soon became apparent, many more questions than Harry had answers. He accepted her invitation and said he and Chipchase would see her later.\n\nSeveral brief calls followed: to the police, leaving a message for McBride to the effect that he could be found at the McMullen house, at least for a day or so; to Legg, Stevenson, MacLean, making an appointment with Kylie Sinclair for five o'clock that afternoon; and to the hospital, confirming that, as expected, Wiseman had been discharged.\n\nAnxious to assure Wiseman of his and Chipchase's innocence, Harry then tried the mobile number listed for him in Dangerfield's letter about the reunion. But he was soon to regret doing so.\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Magister, this is Harry...Ossie. I\u2014\"\n\n\"What do you mean by phoning me? Are you no longer in custody?\"\n\n\"No. But listen. Barry and\u2014\"\n\n\"They've told me Danger was murdered. And that you and Fission are under suspicion. For that _and_ sabotaging my car. I've no idea what the hell's going on or\u2014\"\n\n\"Neither have we.\"\n\n\" _Or_ what you've been up to. But in the circumstances I'm amazed\u2014 _horrified_ \u2014that you should try to harass me in this way.\"\n\n\"I'm not harassing you. I'm just\u2014\"\n\n\"Phone me again and I'll report it to the police.\" Wiseman ended the call there and then. And Harry did not redial.\n\nInstead, he made one further call with what little credit remained on his card: to Erica Rawson. But she was not answering. He could do no more than record a message.\n\n\"You said I should get in touch if I needed help. Well, I do. Badly. I expect you've heard about Johnny Dangerfield. There's something I'm hoping you can tell me. It's important. Could we meet up? Soon? I'll call again later. 'Bye.\"\n\nThat done, he headed for the Prince of Wales.\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-FIVE**\n\n**H** arry did not have to wait long for Chipchase to join him. He was making inroads into a second pint of Bass when a familiar and disgruntled figure hove into view through the pub's prevailing murk.\n\n\"Those bastards,\" was all Chipchase managed to say before he made a start on a pint of his own, accompanied by a whisky chaser. Then he grew more eloquent. \"Those sadistic bloody bastards.\"\n\n\"Did they take your passport?\"\n\n\"No. But only because I didn't have it on me. I've got to deliver it to Smiley Kylie for onward transmission by the end of the day.\"\n\n\"That's handy. I've made an appointment for us to see her at five o'clock.\"\n\n\"For words of good cheer and encouragement, I sincerely bloody hope.\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\"\n\n\"Yeah. So do I. We're up the creek without a paddle, Harry old cock. You know that, don't you? They want my passport to stop me dashing off to Z\u00fcrich and cleaning out that numbered bank account where they've convinced themselves I stashed the Chipchase Sheltered Holdings missing millions. And they want to pin these murders on us by any means it takes, fair or bloody foul.\"\n\n\"They've certainly convinced Magister we're guilty. I phoned him. He threatened to have me arrested just for doing that.\"\n\n\"Paranoid prat.\"\n\n\"At least Shona's standing by us. She's invited me to stay at her house for the duration.\"\n\n\"The woman has a heart of gold. I've always said it. But is that what the next week holds, Harry? You and me bunked up at Shona's waiting to see if Plod fits us up before the barking bloody madman who's really doing this decides to pay us a call?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't recommend it.\"\n\n\"No. Neither would I. So, what _are_ we going to do?\"\n\n\"I've told Donna we'll head for Swindon.\"\n\n\"Swindon? That's all I need. A stroll down bad memory lane.\"\n\n\"It's safer than waiting here.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But\u2014\"\n\n\"Anyway, waiting isn't exactly what I had in mind.\"\n\n\"Got a get-out-of-jail card tucked up your sleeve, Harry? If you have, let me tell you: it's time to play it.\"\n\n\"Somebody's killed three men, Barry. Three friends of ours. Who did it? And why?\"\n\n\"Haven't a bloody clue.\"\n\n\"Do you want to let them get away with it?\"\n\n\"Of course I don't. Danger was a good bloke. And I wouldn't have wished ill on the other two either. But just at the minute I'm more concerned with getting you and especially me out of the frame rather than putting someone else in it.\"\n\n\"Same difference.\"\n\n\"Come again?\"\n\n\"You said you hadn't a clue. Well, I've got one. Several, in fact. Since the police don't seem to want to follow them up, I\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold up. I'm not playing Dr. Watson to your Sherlock bleeding Holmes.\"\n\n\"I'm just talking about asking a few questions, Barry. That's all.\"\n\n\"Yeah. And that's all it'd take for friend Ferguson to pull us in for obstructing his enquiries. One night in the cells is more than enough for me.\"\n\n\"He's not making any enquiries. Not in the right place, anyway.\"\n\nChipchase frowned sceptically. \"Going to tell me where the right place is, are you?\"\n\n\"What sparked off the killings? The reunion, yes?\"\n\n\"Well, I...\"\n\n\"The notice about your nursing homes fraud was planted on Askew to\u2014\"\n\n\"Fraud my left buttock,\" Chipchase barked. \"How many times do I have to explain to you that\u2014\"\n\n\"All right, all right.\" Harry raised a placatory hand. \"Your sadly unsuccessful business venture. Call it what you like. I don't mind. The point is that the subject was dragged in to deflect the police's attention from where it should have been focused: on Kilveen Castle fifty years ago.\"\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"Something happened there that you and I missed. Something linking the dead men _and_ some of the others. Something they were\u2014and are\u2014keeping secret.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"Because nothing else makes sense. Danger organized the reunion. Now he's dead. So, it's too late to ask him why he _really_ organized it. Even supposing he'd have told us. Which I don't. Not for a moment.\"\n\n\"I thought it was for old times' sake.\"\n\n\"Think again. There was a hidden agenda from the start, Barry. Askew as good as told me that at Waverley station. I just wasn't listening. Lloyd started behaving oddly as well. Then Stronach\u2014\"\n\n\"Stronach? Are you telling me the old buzzard's still alive?\"\n\n\"And kicking. He called the reunion 'risky.' As if we were tempting providence by getting back together. As if...\" Harry paused for a reflective slurp of beer. \"I don't know. But we've got to find out what it was really all about.\"\n\n\"How are we going to do that?\"\n\n\"Like I said: ask questions. And see what answers we get.\"\n\n\"Starting with who?\"\n\n\"Erica Rawson. She's as close to a neutral observer as we're going to find. I phoned her earlier and left a message.\"\n\n\"You're talking about Starkie's research assistant?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, any excuse for a chat with a sexy girl, I suppose. Bit of a looker, as I recall.\"\n\n\"As you recall?\" Several seconds passed before the discrepancy assembled itself in Harry's mind. \"When did you meet Erica Rawson?\"\n\n\"I didn't exactly _meet_ her. She was driving out of Sweet Gale Lodge when I got back there...Thursday afternoon. Yeah, that's right. Danger told me who she was. He'd already mentioned she was going to be at the reunion. Missing out on a closer encounter with her was the only thing I regretted, to be honest.\" A nervous grin suddenly crossed Chipchase's face. \"Well, that and a chinwag with you, of course.\"\n\n\"Of course. Did Danger say why she'd called round?\"\n\n\"No. I assumed...to confirm she and Starkie were going to turn up. I don't know. I didn't really think much about it. I was too busy putting together my cover story for doing a runner come Friday.\"\n\nChipchase's explanation for Erica's visit to Sweet Gale Lodge was by far the likeliest. Somehow, though, Harry was unconvinced. And troubled. Maybe she was not so neutral after all. \"Is there a payphone here?\"\n\n\"Think so. Yeah. At the far end of the bar.\"\n\n\"Wait here. I'm going to give her another call.\"\n\nIt was a vain effort. There was, once again, no answer. This time, Harry did not bother to leave a message. He did not want her to think he was badgering her. If he had brought his mobile with him\u2014and charged it\u2014he could have left a number for her to call him back on. But he had not. It seemed there truly was a price to pay for resisting the intrusions of technology.\n\nChipchase had lit a cigar in Harry's absence. He had grabbed a discarded newspaper from a nearby table and was studying the racing page between puffs.\n\n\"You're back soon. No joy?\"\n\n\"She's probably busy.\"\n\n\"Or giving you the brush-off. If you'd had the benefit of my salutary experiences in life, Harry old cock, you'd know people go right off the idea of answering the phone to you once you've got into a spot of bother.\"\n\n\"She suggested I call her if I was in trouble,\" said Harry stiffly.\n\n\"Just busy, then.\" Chipchase's expression implied he suspected otherwise. \"Like you say.\"\n\nA minute or so of silence followed, while Chipchase continued to scan the odds. Then he sighed heavily.\n\n\"It's tragic, really. Even if I won a fortune on a five-hundred-to-one outsider in the three thirty at Kempton Park, I couldn't jet off to the French Riviera to spend the money and forget my troubles, could I? No bloody passport. At any price. Nope. I'd still be stuck here, bulging wallet or no. Or maybe in Swindon. Which isn't exactly a glamorous alternative. With you, though, either way. Waiting, like a pair of turkeys, for Christmas to\u2014\"\n\n\"All right.\" Harry drained his glass. \"Drink up. We're off.\"\n\n\"Where to?\"\n\n\"Wait and see. I've had an idea.\"\n\n\"God help us.\"\n\nHarry stood up. \"Are you coming?\"\n\nChipchase polished off his whisky, clamped the cigar between his teeth, grabbed his hat and coat and rose to his feet. \"Apparently,\" he mumbled.\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-SIX**\n\n**W** hen Chipchase discovered that their destination was the Caledonian Hotel, he expressed the candid view that Harry was mad.\n\n\"Ferguson will have given Lloyd's widow and daughter the clear impression we sabotaged Wiseman's motor. How do you think they'll react to us popping in for a cup of tea and a chat?\"\n\n\"Danger was going to assure them of our innocence.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but look what happened to him.\"\n\n\"We have to make them understand how absurd that whole idea is, Barry.\"\n\n\"Easier said than done.\"\n\n\"And the daughter can tell us more about what happened during Askew's overnight stay at her house in London.\"\n\n\"Did anything happen?\"\n\n\"I don't know. That's what we're going to find out.\"\n\nIt was, however, as Chipchase had pointed out, easier said than done. The receptionist at the Caledonian informed them that Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Morrison, her daughter, were both out. This was no real surprise, given why the pair had come to Aberdeen in the first place.\n\nHarry retreated to a table in the foyer to record a message for Mrs. Morrison on a sheet of hotel writing paper. It was hard to know how to word it and harder still to concentrate on the task with Chipchase craning over his shoulder. But he persevered.\n\nDear Mrs. Morrison,\n\nI hope you do not feel we are intruding on your grief. Please accept our condolences. Your father was a good man. The police are mishandling their enquiries into his death. We only want to learn the truth. I am sure you do too. Could we meet to discuss what happened? It might be helpful for all of us. You can contact us on\u2014\n\nHe broke off to remind himself of Shona's phone number. But, as he was delving into his pocket, Chipchase said, \"You can give her my mobile number, if you like.\"\n\nHarry stared at him in amazement. \"You've got a mobile?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\" Chipchase plucked a smart-looking model from inside his coat. \"You should get up to speed with the communications revolution yourself.\"\n\n\"But...you let me troop off to the payphone in the pub. You even directed me to it.\"\n\n\"A man in my straitened financial circumstances has to watch his budget. This is a strictly pay-as-you-go jobby. I can't have you holding rambling conversaziones on it. You'll be dialling the delectable Donna before I know it. But for _receiving_ calls, in an emergency, which I suppose this counts as, well...\" Infuriatingly, Chipchase smiled. \"Be my guest.\"\n\nHarry finished the note and delivered it to the receptionist; then, with a sarcastic excess of politeness, he asked if he might possibly make brief use of Chipchase's mobile. He rang Erica, who was still incommunicado, but this time he was able to leave a message complete with a number to call back on.\n\nAfter a late and hurried pizza-parlour lunch, they took a taxi out to Torry and kept it waiting while Chipchase fetched his passport. Shona was wherever her Tuesday afternoon cleaning duties took her and Benjy mercifully absent. The house was small and cramped, a Victorian dock worker's dwelling not dissimilar to 37 Falmouth Street, Swindon, but more fashionably furnished. Chipchase spared a moment to draw Harry's attention to the convertible sofa he was destined to spend the night on\u2014\"Looks like a real back-breaker, doesn't it?\"\u2014before they left.\n\nNext stop was Legg, Stevenson, MacLean, where Chipchase left Harry to pay the taxi driver, arguing that the fare could be offset against future phone usage. It had not taken long, Harry reflected, for his former partner to revert to freeloading type.\n\nKylie Sinclair was in clinically efficient mode, relieving Chipchase of his passport and making a note of their address in Torry before giving them an unvarnished assessment of their situation.\n\n\"What happens when you return to the police station next week depends entirely on what Chief Inspector Ferguson and his team learn in the interim. If there's anything to your disadvantage you think they _might_ learn, you should tell me about it now. Forewarned, gentlemen, _is_ forearmed.\"\n\n\"There's nothing,\" said Harry.\n\n\"Less than nothing,\" added Chipchase. \"Ferguson's barking up the wrong baobab.\"\n\nMiss Sinclair puzzled for no more than a fraction of a second over Chipchase's weakness for colourfully customized metaphors. \"I need to know any and all relevant information. You do understand that, don't you?\"\n\n\"We do,\" Harry responded. \"And we're being completely open with you.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"What really worries me, though, is what I pointed out in my interview. By concentrating on us, the police are giving the real murderer ample opportunity to cover his tracks.\"\n\n\"Or hers,\" Chipchase chimed in unhelpfully.\n\n\"Quite,\" said Miss Sinclair. \"Well, that really is their problem, isn't\u2014\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" Chipchase interrupted. \"It's _our_ bloody problem if we're next for the chop.\"\n\n\"Are you genuinely concerned about such a possibility?\" The expression on Miss Sinclair's face suggested it had simply not occurred to her until now that they might be.\n\n\"Of course we are. Wouldn't you be? Say, if several of the legal eagles who qualified at the same time as you started turning up dead in suspicious circumstances.\"\n\n\"It's an unlikely scenario.\"\n\n\"Well, it's the scenario we happen to be in, unlikely or not.\"\n\n\"Perhaps. But I don't see\u2014\"\n\n\"We've thought of checking out a few possibilities ourselves,\" Harry cut in. \"You know? Ask some of the questions we reckon the police should be asking but aren't.\"\n\n\"That would be most unwise. Chief Inspector Ferguson could interpret such behaviour as interference in his conduct of the case and hence a breach of your bail conditions.\"\n\n\"A complete no-no, then?\" asked Chipchase.\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\n\"Despite\u2014\" An electronic travesty of the theme music to _The Great Escape_ suddenly started jingling inside Chipchase's coat. \"Sorry,\" he said, pulling out his mobile. \"I should have...Hello?...Ah, yes. Of course. Hi. Er, good of you to...\" He rolled his eyes meaningfully at Harry. \"Yes. Well, it's, er...\"\n\n\"If we're barred from taking any action ourselves, Miss Sinclair,\" Harry said, speaking loudly enough to distract her attention from Chipchase's burblings and improvising as he went, \"are we also barred from taking ourselves off to what we think might be a safer location? My mother's house in Swindon, for instance. We could stay there until next week, couldn't we? We can't flee the country without our passports, so what would be the objection to us getting out of Aberdeen for a few days? I mean, it's not as if\u2014\"\n\nHarry broke off as Chipchase ended his conversation with the words, \"See you then,\" and sheepishly tucked his phone back into his pocket. \"Sorry,\" he said, grinning apologetically. \"Mrs. McMullen. Checking up...on our whereabouts. Where, er, were we?\"\n\n\"Discussing the possibility of you spending the period between now and your appointment at the police station next Tuesday in Swindon,\" said Miss Sinclair.\n\n\"Ah. Right. Excellento. Swindon-by-the-Sea. The Wiltshire Riviera. Can't beat it.\"\n\nOnce again, Miss Sinclair was only momentarily bemused by Chipchase's badinage. \"Well, I can't see any reason why you shouldn't base yourselves there in the interim. Citing a concern for your safety could even make a favourable impression. Chief Inspector Ferguson might ask you to report to the police in Swindon while you're there, but he has no justification for vetoing the trip. If you give me the address...I'll run it past him.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" said Harry.\n\n\"Great,\" said Chipchase.\n\nThere was a pause. Miss Sinclair looked at them expectantly. \"So, do you have any other questions?\"\n\nA few minutes later, they were walking away from the practice's imposing Georgian front door.\n\n\"That thing we assured Smiley Kylie we wouldn't do,\" said Chipchase. \"You remember? Interfering in the case, sticking our noses in where they aren't wanted.\"\n\n\"I remember,\" said Harry.\n\n\"We start doing it in half an hour. Helen Morrison's agreed to speak to us.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-SEVEN**\n\n**H** elen Morrison was a pear-shaped, middle-aged woman with frizzed hair and a moon face, the skin around her eyes red and puffy from recent shedding of tears. The dark suit she was wearing looked to have been bought when she was at least one dress size smaller. This, together with the nervous tremor in her hands, made Harry want to comfort her with a hug. But bland words were all that he felt able to offer.\n\n\"It's good of you to see us, Mrs. Morrison,\" he said, as he and Chipchase settled in their chairs round the corner table where they had found her waiting for them in the bar of the Caledonian Hotel. \"Jabber\u2014your father\u2014was a good friend to us back in our National Service days. His death's a real tragedy.\"\n\n\"But we didn't have anything to do with it,\" said Chipchase, his bluntness causing Harry to suppress a wince. \"The police have got it all wrong.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Mrs. Morrison.\n\n\"You do?\" Harry could hardly disguise his surprise.\n\n\"That's why I'm, well, glad you phoned. I haven't told Mum, by the way. Arranging for Dad's body to be flown back to Cardiff is as much as she can cope with at the moment. As for this...murder business...well, she can't really get her head round it.\"\n\n\"The police are trying to connect the deaths with a company I used to run,\" said Chipchase, in a tone that implied it could have been ICI.\n\n\"So they said. But that doesn't make sense.\"\n\n\"Delighted you realize that, Mrs. Morrison.\"\n\n\"What makes you so sure it doesn't?\" asked Harry, catching but ignoring a glare from Chipchase.\n\n\"Well, for a start Dad never invested in...whatever it was called.\"\n\n\"No. But\u2014\"\n\n\"And then there was the chat I had with him over the phone Saturday evening. Real worried, he was, after what had happened to Peter Askew; Crooked, as he called him. He wanted me to check the room Crooked had slept in Thursday night. See if he'd left anything there. Well, he hadn't, unless you count the contents of the wastepaper basket. I'd emptied it by then, of course, but Dad wanted me to fish through the rubbish to see what there was. I told him not to be so daft, but he sounded that worried I promised to do it. I went through it with a fine-tooth comb. There was nothing there. Nothing at all. I phoned Dad later and told him so.\"\n\n\"How did he take the news?\"\n\n\"He seemed...disappointed. I asked him what he'd been hoping for. And he said: 'Something linking this with the other deaths.' Those were his exact words. _'Something linking this with the other deaths.'_ \"\n\n\"You repeated that to Chief Inspector Ferguson?\"\n\n\"Oh yes. And the other thing Dad said. The last thing, before he rang off. The last thing he _ever_ said to me, apart from ' 'Bye, love.' _'Ossie doesn't see it. But I do.'_ \"\n\n\"'Ossie doesn't see it,'\" Harry echoed under his breath. \"'But I do.'\"\n\n\"You're Ossie, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"That's what convinced me you couldn't have...well, killed anyone.\"\n\n\"It doesn't seem to have convinced Ferguson,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"No, well, he never stopped going on about that company of yours. Fraudulent, he called it.\"\n\n\"He would.\"\n\n\"When I told him what Dad had said about 'other deaths,' he said to his sergeant, 'We'll have to trawl through all the investors.' I took him to mean he thought some more of them might have...been killed.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell. Doesn't he ever give up?\"\n\n\"But I don't think those could have been the deaths Dad meant. I don't think that's what he had in mind at all.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Harry. \"I don't think so either.\"\n\nHelen Morrison asked two favours of them as they were leaving. \"Please don't come to the funeral. My brothers are hot-headed and don't think straight at the best of times. I'll have to tell them what the police have said about you two in case they get to hear about it some other way and think I'm holding out on them. There might be trouble. And Mum couldn't take that. But if you find out what really happened\u2014why Dad was killed\u2014you will call me, won't you? I want to know. Whatever it is. Good or bad. _I want to know._ \"\n\nThey retreated to the Prince of Wales to talk over what they had learned. To Harry's surprise, Chipchase did not dispute which deaths Lloyd must have been referring to, especially after he had heard more about the Welshman's behaviour during the reception on the castle roof.\n\n\"It's got to be the Clean Sheeters who have died over the years, hasn't it?\"\n\nHarry nodded. \"Reckon so.\"\n\n\"Have you still got Danger's round-up of who's done what and where?\"\n\n\"Right here.\" Harry pulled out his by now seriously crumpled copy of Dangerfield's letter and smoothed it flat as best he could. \"Four dead'uns and one as good as.\" He ran his finger down the names. \"Babcock: stroke; Maynard: AIDS; Nixon: drowned; Smith: heart attack; Yardley: motorbike crash.\" The recital of the names stirred a recent memory. \"Askew talked abut Nixon's death on the train. I've just remembered. He asked me if I thought Nixon might have been murdered.\"\n\n\"And Lloyd heard him ask?\"\n\n\"He'd have been bound to.\"\n\n\"Did Askew mention the others?\"\n\n\"No. There was some...joke running. Yardley came into it. I...can't quite recall.\"\n\n\"Pie-eyed by that stage, were you?\"\n\n\"We all were. Except Askew. He'd drunk a good bit, but he seemed...horribly sober, now I look back. I didn't take what he said seriously. Well, why would I? But now...\"\n\n\"Victims of AIDS, a stroke and a heart attack we can forget about. I actually spoke to Maynard's old boyfriend when I called round to try and solicit an investment in Chipchase Sheltered Holdings. He gave me a graphic account of how the poor bugger had died. Not a diddy doubt about the nature of _his_ demise, I think we can safely say.\"\n\n\"Nor Smith's, I imagine.\"\n\n\"Right. A motorbike crash and a drowning, on the other hand, _could_ be iffy.\"\n\n\"But they're both so long ago. Forty years in Yardley's case. Twenty in Nixon's.\"\n\n\"Maybe the murderer's operating on a long cycle. You know, like a comet.\"\n\n\"A _comet_?\"\n\n\"There was this book on astronomy I read while I was in...\" Chipchase studied Harry's bemused expression. \"Forget it. You're right. They _are_ a long time ago. Too long for us to go ferreting after the facts.\"\n\n\"Not necessarily. Danger doesn't spell out how he got all his information. But for Nixon\u2014and for Smith, I see\u2014he gives a widow's address, in case we might want to send them our condolences.\"\n\nChipchase sighed. \"One of the best, Danger. Always...doing the right thing.\"\n\n\"So he was.\" Harry examined the note about Nixon with heightened concentration. \"This phrase he used to describe Nixon's drowning.\n\n'Circumstances unknown.' That's odd, isn't it, if he'd spoken to the widow? Surely she must know how her husband came to drown.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she didn't want to talk about it.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, perhaps it's time she was persuaded to. You know what they say. It's good to talk.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-EIGHT**\n\n**S** hona assured Harry that he would be welcome to stay with her as long as he needed to. But if, on the other hand, he and Chipchase felt safer quitting town...\n\n\"You lads had better do what you think is best. The polis don't always see past the ends of their noses. That Ferguson fellow struck me as all fast-track management training and no real experience. Somebody murdered Mr. Dangerfield and they'll get away with it if it's left to the likes of him.\"\n\n\"So, tell me,\" said Chipchase, after Shona had taken herself off to bed, leaving the lads, as they were charmed to be described, to their late-night whisky. \"When do we leave?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. I want to speak to Erica if I can before we go. But she still hasn't phoned back. I've no address for her. Or any phone number other than her mobile. It's odd she hasn't called. I don't understand it.\"\n\n\"Simple enough, Harry old cock. We've had our collars felt. We're unclean.\"\n\n\"She wouldn't shun us.\"\n\n\"Don't you believe it.\"\n\n\"Well, I do believe it. And there it is.\"\n\n\"Tried the phone book?\"\n\n\"Ex-directory.\"\n\n\"Aren't they always?\"\n\n\"Hold on, though.\" Harry jumped up and hurried out into the hall, where a battered copy of the Aberdeen phone book was stored on a shelf under the telephone. He grabbed it and returned to the sitting room.\n\n\"I thought you just said she isn't listed.\"\n\n\"She isn't. But I'm hoping...Yes. Here he is. Starkie, Dr. D. At least we can pay him a visit.\"\n\n\"Starkie? You'll get nothing out of that old Dryasdust.\"\n\n\"We'll see, won't we? At the very least, he can hardly deny knowing where Erica's to be found.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, I suppose so. But just remember: the answer could be nowhere.\"\n\nTrue to Chipchase's prediction, a night on Shona's sofa-bed was an experience not to be recommended, other than to someone with a keen interest in medieval torture instruments. To add interruption to likely injury, one of Harry's few spells of sleep was ended by the flinging open of the door. The hall light was on, initially blinding him. For a few seconds, he believed he was about to be set upon by the person or persons who had done for Dangerfield. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a tall, spectacularly thin, grungily dressed young man, with long hair sprouting from beneath a condom-tight beanie hat, swaying in the doorway. Benjy he had to be.\n\n\"Who the fuck are you?\" came the slurred question.\n\n\"Harry. A...friend of Barry's.\"\n\n\"Harry and Barry. A regular fucking...rhyming couplet.\"\n\n\"Didn't your mother mention me?\"\n\n\"Who knows, man? Who cares? She can screw who she likes\u2014and ask his mates round. It's...fuck all to me.\" Benjy turned and stumbled off up the stairs, mumbling inaudibly as he went and conspicuously failing to turn off the light.\n\nHarry struggled out of the pitiless embrace of the sofa-bed, staggered into the hall and flicked the light switch off, then staggered back into the sitting room, slamming the door shut behind him and savouring the thought that Benjy might meet with an accident on the suddenly darkened stairs. But, though accident there was imminently to be, Benjy was not the victim.\n\n\"Why are you limping, Harry old cock?\" Chipchase enquired as they left Shona's house next morning and headed for her car, which she had generously said they could borrow. \"All this running around getting to you, is it? Can't say I'm surprised. If they had MOTs for humans, you'd need a lot of work in the body shop even to scrape a pass.\"\n\n\"Since you ask, I bashed my knee on the TV stand when I got up in the night.\"\n\n\"Ah. The old bladder can't manage eight hours' kip without a toddle to the lav, hey? It's a bugger, isn't it, living past your prime?\"\n\n\"You're chirpy, I must say.\" Harry could not help wondering if Chipchase's cheery mood had anything to do with Shona, Benjy having succeeded in planting a suspicion in his mind that their relationship might be closer than he had supposed.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" said Chipchase with eerie ambiguity as he flung the passenger door open for Harry. \"It won't last.\"\n\nThey started away, heading for the bridge over the Dee. Harry was on the point of describing his nocturnal encounter with Benjy, minus a few conversational details, when Chipchase asked, \"Why didn't you phone Starkie before we left to make sure he'd be in?\"\n\n\"To be honest, I thought he might make some excuse not to see us.\"\n\n\"Give us the cold shoulder, like Erica?\"\n\n\"I just didn't want to give him the chance.\"\n\n\"But we could find he's simply not at home.\"\n\n\"He doesn't strike me as the type to stray far.\"\n\n\"Are you saying we might have to lie in wait for him?\"\n\n\"It's possible, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Great. That should make for a really exciting day.\"\n\nStarkie's address was a ground-floor flat in a converted Georgian house in Old Aberdeen, close to the University, where cobbled quadrangles and ancient college buildings preserved an Oxbridgian atmosphere of studious separateness.\n\nThere was no response to several rings on Starkie's bell and a squint through his window revealed many signs of him\u2014a disorderly desk, books and magazines piled here and there, a glass on a side-table with what looked like whisky still in it\u2014but not so much as a glimpse of the man himself.\n\nChipchase was in the midst of a semi-serious suggestion that they try the post office, in case it was the good doc's pension day, when the front door was flung open by a plump, pinch-faced woman of indeterminate age, trussed up in a raincoat and headscarf (though it was neither raining nor blowing a gale), who gave them a thin, cautious smile as she emerged, carefully closing the door behind her.\n\n\"Is it Dr. Starkie you're after?\"\n\n\"It is,\" said Harry, smiling ingratiatingly.\n\n\"He's no in.\"\n\n\"Apparently not. We, er, met him at the weekend and, er...\"\n\n\"At the Kilveen do?\"\n\n\"Oh, he mentioned it, did he?\"\n\n\"Aye. He did.\"\n\n\"So, where do you, er, think he might...\"\n\n\"You're out of luck, I'm afraid. He had to go away.\"\n\n\"Away?\"\n\n\"His sister died. Down south, somewhere. Manchester, I believe. It was awful sudden.\"\n\nHarry cast a wide-eyed look of sickened astonishment at Chipchase, who responded in kind.\n\n\"Did you know the lady?\"\n\n\"No. Er...We didn't.\"\n\n\"Only you look upset.\"\n\n\"You could say we are.\"\n\n\"Och, well, I'm sorry, but there it is. I must be about my business.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" As she moved past them a thought struck Harry\u2014half hopeful, half despairing. \"Oh, by the way...\"\n\n\"Aye?\" She turned back and looked at him.\n\n\"I wonder if you know a former pupil of Dr. Starkie's. She's probably visited him here. Erica Rawson.\"\n\n\"No. I canna say I do.\"\n\n\"She teaches at the University.\"\n\n\"Rawson, you say?\"\n\n\"Yes. In the Psychology Department.\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"There's no one of that name on the academic staff.\"\n\n_This could not be,_ Harry told himself. _This was not possible._ \"How can you be...so sure?\"\n\n\"I work part-time in the University office. There's definitely no Rawson on the payroll. I can tell you that for a fact.\"\n\n\"But...\"\n\n\"You're sure you're thinking of _Aberdeen_ University? People get confused since they upgraded the old Institute of Technology. Though I doubt that has a psychology department.\"\n\n\"I'm positive. Aberdeen.\"\n\n\"Some misunderstanding, then.\"\n\n\"Some sort. Yes.\"\n\n\"Sorry I can't be more helpful.\"\n\n\"That's all right. Actually, you've been very helpful. Thanks.\"\n\n\"You're welcome. Goodbye now.\"\n\n\"'Bye.\"\n\nThey watched her walk away along the street. A few moments of reflective silence passed. Then Chipchase cleared his throat. \"Ever been had, Harry old cock?\" he enquired lugubriously.\n**CHAPTER \nTWENTY-NINE**\n\n**T** he North Sea was grey and turbid, heaving to a slow, queasy rhythm. Harry stared out through the windscreen of Shona's car at its chill, blurry expanse from a parking bay on Aberdeen's esplanade, with Chipchase alternating heavy sighs and muttered curses beside him.\n\n\"Got a fag?\" Chipchase asked suddenly.\n\n\"I gave up years ago.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"Haven't you got your cigars with you?\"\n\n\"I never smoke cigars before lunch. Lunch _time,_ anyway. A man buffeted by the cruel winds of fate as I've been can't be sure of\u2014\"\n\n\"Put a sock in it, for God's sake.\"\n\n\"No need to be so tetchy.\"\n\n\"Really? I'd have said there was every need.\"\n\n\"The dead sister in Manchester was a low punch, it's true. I'd never have thought old Starkie had a sense of humour, albeit a sadistic one. Just shows how wrong you can be.\"\n\n\"What are they up to, Barry?\"\n\n\"Him and the now-you-see-her-now-you-don't Miss Rawson? Christ knows. Something deep and dark would be my guess. Bloody deep. And bloody dark.\"\n\n\"Danger must have known all along Erica wasn't what she claimed to be.\"\n\n\"So he takes a header from his own landing. And she disappears. Along with Starkie. Q. E. bloody D. We're Conference against Premiership here, Harry. Way out of our league.\"\n\n\"We've got to do something.\"\n\n\"You could try her mobile again.\"\n\n\"Very funny.\"\n\n\"Or we could just...head for the hills.\"\n\n\"Which hills, exactly?\"\n\n\"I don't know. We could make it to Ireland without passports. Lose ourselves out west. Hope they don't come looking for us.\"\n\n\"But they would.\"\n\n\"Not such a bright idea, then. Besides, I hear all the bars there are non-smoking now. Bloody savages.\"\n\n\"We _should_ head for the hills, though. The Aberdeenshire ones. I've just had an idea.\"\n\n\"Here we go.\"\n\n\"Start driving, Barry.\"\n\n\"Where to?\"\n\n\"Lumphanan.\"\n\nThe Clean Sheeters were scattered. Starkie and Erica Rawson had fled. But one horse, if Harry was any judge, would still be in his stable.\n\n\"Stronach knows something,\" he said, as they sped west out of Aberdeen. \"I'm sure of it.\"\n\n\"He was just the castle handyman, Harry. What _could_ he know?\"\n\n\"He kept his eyes peeled. He missed nothing.\"\n\n\"If you say so.\"\n\n\"He called the reunion risky.\"\n\n\"Anything seems risky to a man like him. He's spent his whole miserable life in that village. Can you imagine how bloody narrow-minded that must make him? He's probably never been to Edinburgh, let alone London.\"\n\n\"I'm not interested in his take on the zeitgeist, just his pin-sharp memories of Kilveen Castle fifty years ago.\"\n\n\"Sharper than ours, you think?\"\n\n\"I'm betting on it.\"\n\n\"Barnett,\" said Stronach by way of expressionless greeting when he opened the door of his cottage. \"And Chipchase. A well-matched pair, if ever there was. What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"You can call this bloody dog off for a start,\" shouted Chipchase, who had retreated towards the gate in the face of the Jack Russell's barking proximity to his ankles.\n\n\"You canna keep a good ratter down.\"\n\n\"What the hell's that supposed to mean?\"\n\n\"Don't make such a fuss, man. He won't bite, and, if he did, it'd only be a wee nip.\"\n\n\"Can we come in?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"You're no fugitives, are you?\"\n\n\"No, we are not.\"\n\n\"I just wondered. The _P and J_ said the polis had taken in a couple of suspects for questioning after Dangerfield's murder. You two came straight into my head.\"\n\n\"Did we really?\"\n\n\"I told you you shouldn't have had any truck with a reunion.\"\n\n\"So you did.\"\n\n\"Och, well, come in, then, if you want. You'll have to take me as you find me, though, I warn you. I'm not exactly geared up for entertaining.\"\n\nThe degree of understatement in Stronach's warning was evident as he led them into a kitchen equipped in an antique style the National Trust would be proud to preserve, but not maintained in a fashion they would be pleased with. Most of the metalwork of the range was invisible under a crust of dried spillages and the table looked to be permanently laid for one, with a drift of breadcrumbs, tea leaves, bacon rind and tobacco covering most of its surface. At one end a pipe, pungent even though unlit, was propped in a saucer next to an egg-smeared plate and grease-stained copy of the _Press and Journal._\n\nStronach poured himself a cup of some treacle-coloured liquid from a teapot on the range and sat down at the table. He did not offer his guests any refreshment, for which Harry for one was grateful. The dog followed them into the room, paying close attention to Chipchase but no longer barking at him and not seeming to pose an immediate threat.\n\n\"What's brought you out here, then?\" Stronach asked, eyeing them hardly less suspiciously than the dog.\n\n\"Why was the reunion such a bad idea?\" Harry responded bluntly.\n\n\"You tell me.\"\n\n\"We don't know.\"\n\n\"What makes you think I do?\"\n\n\"You said it was risky. Why?\"\n\n\"I sensed it, you might say.\"\n\n\"How about saying a bit more?\"\n\n\"I know nothing, man.\" Stronach loaded some tobacco into his pipe. \"For a fact.\"\n\n\"Forget facts. What do you _sense_?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. I never have been.\" The pipe was lit in what seemed a deliberately protracted procedure. \"But something wasn'a right up at Kilveen. You know that as well as I do. Probably better. Why were you there in the first place, for instance?\"\n\n\"An experiment in teaching techniques.\"\n\n\"Aye. Well, that was the story, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"It was the bloody reality as well,\" said Chipchase. \"We should know. We sat through it.\"\n\n\"Did you? Sure of that, are you now?\"\n\n\"Of course we're bloody sure.\"\n\n\"Aye. I'd have said the same. I didn'a see so much of you, but Mrs. Stronach cooked for you every day. Regular as clockwork. The whole time.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I still get indigestion thinking about it.\"\n\n\"What are you driving at, Stronach?\" Harry asked, trying not to become impatient.\n\n\"Just this. You're not the first of your Clean Sheet band to come here, asking me questions about your spell up at the castle. No, no. Not by a long chalk. Nor by a long time. It must be more than twenty year since the black boy called round to see me.\"\n\n\"The black boy? You mean Leroy Nixon came here?\"\n\n\"He did that.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Like I say. More than twenty year ago.\"\n\n\"It'd have to be. He died in 1983.\"\n\n\"And how did that happen?\"\n\n\"He drowned.\"\n\n\"Did he now? Do they have that down as suicide, accident\u2014or another murder?\"\n\n\"We don't know the circumstances.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sorry to hear it, anyhow. He was a good lad. Though far from a lad when I last saw him.\"\n\n\"Do you think that was the year he died? Or earlier?\"\n\n\"I canna say. He mentioned he was living in Brixton. There'd been race riots reported there. I asked him about them. You could place it from that, I dare say. It was this time of year, though. Spring. I'm sure of that.\"\n\n\"What did he want to know?\"\n\n\"It was...vague stuff. Like with yourselves. Something niggling at him. Some...doubts that wouldn'a go away.\"\n\n\"He came all the way here from bloody Brixton to share a few _doubts_ with you?\" snapped Chipchase. \"Pull the other one.\"\n\n\"It wasn'a just that.\" Stronach paused for a puff at his pipe. \"Maybe I shouldn'a tell you. It could get us all into a lot of trouble. It might have got him drowned. And these other men killed. But at my age...\" He smiled crookedly. \"I'm risking death every night just by going to sleep.\"\n\n\"What did he want to know?\" Harry repeated.\n\n\"Whether any of you had ever left the castle. Whether there were times I went up there and some of\u2014or even all of\u2014you were gone.\"\n\n\"We were stuck there for the bloody duration,\" said Chipchase. \"Bar a fortnightly booze-up in Aberdeen.\"\n\n\"Aye. I know. That's what I told him.\"\n\n\"How did he react?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"He seemed pleased at first. Relieved, I suppose you'd say. But I don't know that he wasn'a just...acting that way...for my sake. It's a strange thing, but, looking back, I don't think he really believed me. I don't think I told him what he wanted to hear.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY**\n\n**Y** es, OK...Well, like you say, it's fair enough...No, no. It's quite clear...Yes, we'll make sure of it...Without fail...OK...See you then...Thanks. 'Bye.\"\n\nChipchase ended the call and slipped his mobile into his pocket. He picked up his pint of beer, still three-quarters full, whereas Harry's was nearly empty, and downed several large gulps.\n\nThey had been in the front bar of the Boat Inn at Aboyne for an hour or more, hoping food and drink would aid their analysis of what Stronach had told them. So far, little progress had been made, other than in depleting the landlord's stock of Thrappledouser bitter. Even Chipchase's call to Kylie Sinclair had been born of necessity rather than inspiration.\n\n\"Well?\" prompted Harry.\n\n\"Oh yeah.\" Chipchase set down his glass. \"It seems Ferguson has no objection to us decamping to Swindon. According to Smiley Kylie, he's actually in no position to stop us. But he does insist on us registering with the local Plod. She wants us to let her know when we plan to leave.\"\n\n\"The sooner the better.\"\n\n\"So we can stop en route and quiz Nixon's widow?\"\n\n\"Don't you think we should?\"\n\n\"I think Coker was off his head. That's probably why he managed to drown himself. You know, I know, Stronach knows, that none of us left Kilveen during Operation Clean Sheet. Even if my grandmother really _had_ died while I was there, I'm not sure they'd have let me off to go to her funeral. So, all we're likely to accomplish by visiting the widow Nixon is to drag up a lot of sad memories for the poor woman.\"\n\n\"But remember what Lloyd was looking for? A 'connection with the other deaths.' Nixon's is one of them. And he was clearly preoccupied with Operation Clean Sheet. It's only logical to follow it up.\"\n\n\"It's over twenty years ago, Harry. If you're seriously suggesting Nixon was knocked off by the same ruthless bloody killer who did for Askew, Lloyd and Dangerfield\u2014assuming they _were_ all murdered\u2014perhaps you'd like to explain to me why he waited a cool couple of decades to tick off some more names on his death list. And, just to be generous, I'll give you time to think about it. A few minutes, anyway. I'm off to splash my boots.\"\n\nHarry did his best to apply his mind to the problem during Chipchase's absence, but found himself unable to focus his thoughts, thanks in part to the sudden activation of the Boat Inn's special attraction for children: a model steam train that chugged and whistled its way round the bar on a shelf above the picture rail. Harry watched its progress, knowing Daisy would have called it \"silly\" but would have enjoyed the spectacle nonetheless. If he could only climb on a train now that would bear him straight back to her and Donna, he surely\u2014\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase, returning to the table. \"You look as if you've cooked up some hare-brained theory you think I might actually swallow.\"\n\n\"'Fraid not, I was just...\"\n\n\"Daydreaming?\"\n\n\"Home thoughts from abroad. You know?\"\n\nChipchase sat down and grimaced. \"If I had a home in this country or any other, I suppose I'd know what you mean.\"\n\n\"I can't give you the explanation you want, Barry.\"\n\n\"Thought not.\"\n\n\"But there is a link between Nixon's death and the others. Not much of one. But it _is_ a link. Nixon was asking whether he\u2014or anyone else\u2014had left Kilveen during Operation Clean Sheet. On the train up here, Askew was questioning the purpose of Professor Mac's experiment. Then Lloyd had his fit of d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu on the castle roof. They were all, in different ways...querying the record.\"\n\n\"What about Danger? What was he querying?\"\n\n\"Well...nothing...\"\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\n\"He must have known Erica Rawson wasn't on the University staff, though. Which means he must have known what she and Starkie were really up to.\"\n\n\"One up on us, then.\"\n\n\"Except that he's dead.\"\n\n\"Too bloody true. Which is not what I want to be in the near future.\"\n\n\"Nothing ventured...\"\n\n\"Nothing lost.\"\n\n\"Unless you count our passports. And perhaps our liberty, if we leave Ferguson to concoct a case against us.\"\n\n\"Harry, Harry. Listen to yourself, will you? It's all so...bloody half-cocked. You seem to have conveniently forgotten, for instance, that Lloyd only died because _Wiseman's_ car was sabotaged.\"\n\n\"Ah.\"\n\n\"Yes. _Ah._ \"\n\n\"I have thought about that, actually.\"\n\n\"Oh, good.\"\n\n\"Why couldn't it have been sabotaged at Braemar? While they were in the pub, collecting Magister's fancy fountain pen and no doubt toasting its recovery with a drink or two. They could have been followed there from Lumphanan. The steering took a long time to fail if it was tampered with at the castle. Not so long if Braemar is where it was got at. In which case, Lloyd _could_ have been the target.\"\n\n\"OK. Say I give you that. Provisionally. But who targeted him? _Who_ was the saboteur?\"\n\n\"I don't know. The killer isn't one of us. He wasn't at the reunion. He can't be in two places at once: Braemar _and_ the pub where we all had lunch. But I suppose he has to be working with one of us. To be tipped off about what Askew said on the train so that he could get on later in the journey and deal with him. To\u2014\"\n\n\"Who heard what Askew said on the train?\"\n\n\"Who? Well, me, Lloyd, Fripp, Judd, Tancred. We were all there. Not Gregson, though. He stayed behind when we went to the restaurant car.\"\n\n\"Right. And we can rule you and Lloyd out as suspects. Which leaves...\"\n\n\"Fripp, Judd and Tancred.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\" Chipchase rubbed his eyes. \"I'm getting as bad as you. I have to believe one of those is a party to multiple murder?\"\n\n\"If my theory's right, then...\" Harry felt surprised by the unavoidability of the conclusion. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"But it's a bloody big if. And there's an even bigger hole where their motive should be.\"\n\n\"There'll be a motive. We just have to find it.\"\n\n\"Starting with Mrs. Leroy Nixon?\"\n\n\"Well, unless you have a better suggestion...\" Harry spread his hands. \"Yes.\"\n\nHe phoned Donna from Shona's house late that afternoon\u2014breakfast-time in Vancouver\u2014to console her with the news that (a) he was all right and (b) he was about to leave Aberdeen.\n\n\"We're catching the sleeper. Next time I call we'll be in Swindon.\"\n\n\"Well, that's something. I'll feel happier knowing you're out of harm's way.\"\n\n\"Me too.\"\n\n\"If you really will be. There's nothing going on you're not telling me about, is there, Harry?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not. Come next week the police will have to give up hounding us. We'll be free to go. And I'll be heading straight home.\"\n\n\"That sounds good.\"\n\n\"Until then, try not to worry.\"\n\n\"Are you serious? Of course I'll worry.\"\n\n\"I only said _try._ \"\n\n\"You will be careful, won't you, hon?\"\n\n\"As careful as can be.\"\n\n\"Don't let Barry talk you into anything...stupid.\"\n\n\"No chance.\"\n\n\"Really and truly?\"\n\n\"None at all.\"\n\nHe had not told Donna the real reason for travelling by sleeper was to speed their arrival in London and give them a day in the capital to pursue the truth about Leroy Nixon's death back in 1983. But nor had he lied by insisting he would not be persuaded by Chipchase to take any risks, simply because it was he who had done the arm-twisting on this occasion. Chipchase had told Kylie Sinclair at his instigation that they would be travelling to Swindon tomorrow. They were thus not expected to register with the local police until Friday. Their stopover in London was a scheduling sleight of hand. The credit for whatever came of it\u2014or the blame\u2014would be solely Harry's.\n\nShona drove them to the station that evening. She too was concerned for their welfare, though perhaps more for Chipchase's than for Harry's. The farewell kiss she gave Chipchase was certainly more than a friendly peck.\n\n\"You'll look after yourselves, won't you?\" she called to them as they headed for the train.\n\n\"Like cats with only one of their nine lives left,\" Chipchase called back. \"Don't worry about us.\"\n\n\"'Cats with only one of their nine lives left,'\" Harry said to him under his breath. \"Is that supposed to be reassuring?\"\n\n\"No. It's supposed to be an all too bloody accurate description of you and me, Harry old cock. I intend to keep a firm grip on that ninth life. And I advise you to do the same.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-ONE**\n\n**N** ot having booked sleeping berths in advance, Harry and Barry were banished to the seated coach on the train. Chipchase's response to this hardship was to stock up with enough tins of lager to ensure oblivion, failing genuine slumber, for at least part of the journey. Harry was manoeuvred into paying for them, despite having already been obliged to buy both their tickets, Chipchase pleading an unspecified difficulty with his credit card.\n\nIn the circumstances, Harry felt drinking his fair share was a point of principle. The predictable result was a raddled, hungover arrival in London the following morning. Breakfast at Euston station after the indignity of washing and shaving in the underground loo failed to redeem their start to the day. Nor did a Tube journey at the fag end of the rush hour fill their hearts with glee.\n\nThey emerged at Stockwell into a muggy, drizzly morning and headed towards Brixton, navigating by an _A\u2013Z_ bought at Euston. Their destination, Colsham House, was one of several drably similar blocks of flats in an area that prompted various chunterings by Chipchase suggestive of a lack of enthusiasm for the concept of a multiracial Britain.\n\n\"Can you see any other white faces around here, Harry?\" he muttered as they waited at a pelican crossing with a group of local residents. \"'Cos I can't. Not a single one.\"\n\n\"Now you know how Coker felt all the time.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Foreign.\"\n\n\"We're _from_ a foreign country, Barry. Didn't you know? It's called the past.\"\n\nColsham House boasted a ramshackle but evidently functioning entry-phone system. Harry pressed the button for number 112 and braced himself for a tortuous, static-fuzzed conversation with Mrs. Nixon. But the only response was the decisive buzz of the door release. They went in and made for the lift.\n\nThe door of flat 112 was a short step along an open landing on the fifth floor. Somewhat to their surprise, it stood ajar, in readiness for their arrival.\n\n\"Hello?\" Harry called as he stepped cautiously into the flat, Chipchase lagging even more cautiously behind.\n\nEmpty white spaces met Harry's gaze. More accurately, empty primrose-yellow spaces, accompanied by the distinctive smell of fresh paint. \"You're early for once, Chris,\" came a lilting female voice. Then a bustling, sturdily built young woman in blue jeans and a red T-shirt emerged into the passage from an adjoining room. A mass of dreadlocked hair framed her broad, smiling face. But her smile was fading fast. \"Shit,\" she said. \"Who are you guys?\"\n\n\"We're, er...looking for Mrs. Nixon,\" Harry replied. \"Mrs.... Leroy Nixon.\"\n\n\"My mom?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose...\"\n\n\"Who _are_ you?\" The woman frowned and placed her hands on her hips. \"What do you want with Mom?\"\n\n\"We used to, er...\"\n\n\"We were friends of your father, luv,\" said Chipchase. \"Leroy. Well, Coker to us, but\u2014\"\n\n\"It was a long time ago,\" Harry cut in.\n\nThe frown lifted slightly. \"You mean...you're some more of Dad's RAF buddies?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Harry with some relief. \"That's right.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\" asked Chipchase. _\"Some more?\"_\n\n\"If you're part of the group that guy in Aberdeen wrote to Mom about a few months back, you must know she isn't here.\"\n\n\"Must we?\" Harry suspected his expression answered the question succinctly enough.\n\n\"You're friends of Gilbert Tancred, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Tancred? Yes. We are.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah,\" said Chipchase, determined, it seemed, to over-egg the pudding. \"Tapper and us are like that.\" He raised his hand, second finger folded around index finger to confirm undying if wholly fictitious amity.\n\n\"So, you surely know he paid for the trip.\"\n\n\"What trip would that be?\" asked Harry, as nonchalantly as he could contrive.\n\n\"Mom's cruise to the Caribbean. Her first chance to see Antigua again in more than forty years. It was really kind of him. With her fear of flying, she thought she'd never set foot on the island again. We're redecorating the flat while she's\u2014\"\n\n\"When's she due back?\"\n\n\"Not for another six weeks.\"\n\n\"Thanks to...Gilbert?\"\n\n\"Yeah. That's right. It's all down to him. Didn't he tell you?\"\n\n\"No. He didn't breathe a word.\"\n\n\"Just like the bloke.\" Chipchase grinned broadly. \"Good deeds discreetly done are Tapper's speciality. Isn't that so, Harry?\"\n\n\"Absolutely. Yes. Hides his light under a bushel.\"\n\n\"Gold bar for a heart.\"\n\n\"One of the best.\"\n\n\"They just don't make them like him any more.\"\n\n\"More's the pity.\"\n\n\"They broke the mould after\u2014\"\n\n\"Will you two cut it out?\" The young woman had folded her arms. Her brow was sceptically furrowed. \"Anyone would think he had some sinister motive, the way you're going on.\"\n\nJoyce\u2014as it transpired Nixon's daughter was called\u2014offered them tea, which they accepted. The absent Chris rang while she was making it to report that, far from being early, he would actually be quite late. With a tranche of spare time suddenly wished upon her, she had no objection to sitting down in the kitchen and talking to Harry and Barry about her late father, her Antigua-bound mother...and the uncommonly generous Gilbert Tancred.\n\n\"I was only two when Dad died. I don't remember him at all. Mom never used to talk about him. What I know I got mostly from other people. Just mentioning him was seriously taboo when I was growing up. Mom's opened up a bit more about him these last few years, but not a whole lot. He was troubled, though. Even before they got married. That I do know. There were...demons inside his head. I think Mom hoped she could heal whatever was hurting him. But it was beyond her. He'd go off, apparently, for weeks at a time. Searching for something. But nobody ever knew what. Then, one day, Mom heard he'd been drowned. Lost overboard from a ferry off the coast of Scotland.\"\n\n\"Where was the ferry going?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"I don't know. Nobody ever said. Is it important?\"\n\n\"Probably not.\"\n\n\"The letter from your friend Johnny Dangerfield was forwarded from the house where they used to live in Lewisham. Mom wrote back and explained Dad had passed away. Then your other friend Gilbert Tancred showed up, asking how it had happened. I didn't like him at first. He comes across as seriously up himself. But when he offered to pay for this cruise for Mom...She was so thrilled there was no way we could turn him down. I had a postcard from her only a couple of days ago. From Bermuda. She's having the time of her life.\"\n\n\"That's good to know.\"\n\n\"Honestly, it's the best thing that's ever happened to her.\"\n\n\"I'm sure it is.\"\n\n\"So, why do you both still look as if you suspect Gilbert is...up to something?\"\n\n\"It's our twisted personalities, luv,\" said Chipchase. \"He's put us to shame and we're finding the idea hard to get used to. That's the pitiful truth. Maybe we should force ourselves to call in on Tapper and congratulate him for what he's done for your mother. What d'you reckon, Harry?\"\n\n\"Well-nigh essential, I'd say.\"\n\n\"That's it, then. We'll do it.\"\n\n\"So you'll be seeing him soon, will you?\" asked Joyce.\n\nHarry exchanged a glance with Chipchase before replying. \"I should think so.\"\n\n\"Then, can you tell him how much Mom's enjoying the cruise?\"\n\n\"No problem.\"\n\n\"And pass on my thanks, will you?\"\n\n\"Oh, we'll be sure to.\"\n\n\"Does anyone know where your father went on his wanderings, Joyce?\" Harry asked as they were leaving.\n\n\"No. Except that last time. And even then...not really.\"\n\n\"When were the riots here, d'you know?\"\n\n\"The _Brixton_ riots?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The year I was born. 1981. Why?\"\n\n\"Because Leroy was in Scotland that year as well, luv,\" said Chipchase. \"It's probably where he always gravitated to.\"\n\n\"Why did he go there?\"\n\n\"We don't know.\"\n\n\"But we intend to find out,\" Harry added. \"You could say we have to.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-TWO**\n\n**W** hen were you planning to pay Tapper this little social call, then?\" Chipchase asked as they trudged back towards Stockwell Tube station.\n\n\"Right now,\" Harry replied. \"We've got his address, thanks to Danger.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Leafy Carshalton. All right for some, hey?\"\n\n\"Did he ever strike you as the impulsively generous type?\"\n\n\"Anything but. There were moth holes in his ten-bob notes.\"\n\n\"So, why would he send Mrs. Nixon off on a luxury cruise, all expenses paid?\"\n\n\"To get her out of the way. To ensure she couldn't let slip anything significant about Coker's long-ago, mysterious demise.\"\n\n\"Good to know we're thinking along the same lines, Barry.\"\n\n\"We make a good team, Harry. You know we do. The old firm back together. A winning combination.\"\n\n\"You've said that before.\"\n\n\"Have I?\"\n\n\"Quite a few times. And every one of them...has been the prelude to disaster.\"\n\nCarshalton was a far cry from Brixton. Cherry trees were in blossom round the old village pond, the quacking of ducks audible above the rumble of traffic. They crossed a park where several pedigree Carshaltonians were exercising their pedigree hounds, then walked along a well-spaced row of half-timbered, double-gable-fronted houses with Land Rover Discoveries and E-class Mercedes gleaming on the driveways.\n\nTancred's contribution to the vehicular excess was a sleek, sporty Jaguar. Its owner, dressed for golf in check trousers and bottle-green sweater, was loading a bag of clubs into the capacious boot as Harry, with Chipchase as usual in the rear, turned in from the road.\n\n\"Tapper.\"\n\n\"What?\" Tancred whirled round. \"Good God. Ossie. And...yes, it's Fission, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Long time no dirty looks, Tapper,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"What brings you two here?\"\n\n\"You've heard about Danger?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Yes. Magister phoned. I should tell you that he didn't...speak kindly of you.\"\n\n\"He's a little overwrought.\"\n\n\"Forgivably so, I rather think.\" Tancred closed the boot and jangled his car key. \"I have no idea what you're mixed up in, of course, but\u2014\"\n\n\"A triple murder inquiry, Tapper. That's what we're mixed up in. And it's not a pleasant experience, let me tell you. Especially when you consider that we're innocent.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you are. Nevertheless, someone did murder Danger, didn't they? We can be sure of that, I gather. And you were on the scene, so I also gather. I suppose it's inevitable you'd come under suspicion.\"\n\n\"Aren't you just an itty-bit worried in case some homicidal bloody maniac's knocking off us Clean Sheeters one by one?\" Chipchase asked in a challenging tone.\n\nTancred smiled nervously. \"I confess I am.\"\n\n\"You don't look it.\"\n\n\"Appearances can be deceptive. They also have to be maintained. I haven't told my wife there's any cause for concern, so...I'm obliged to carry on as normal.\"\n\n\"Is your wife in at the moment?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Er, no. She isn't.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we could step inside for a word, then. If it's convenient.\"\n\n\"It's not, actually. I'll be late for my round of golf if I don't leave soon.\"\n\n\"It won't take long.\"\n\n\"Even so, I\u2014\"\n\n\"It concerns a Caribbean cruise you recently paid for.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Coker's widow, Tapper,\" said Chipchase. \"You put her out of our reach, didn't you?\"\n\n\"I certainly did nothing of the\u2014\" Tancred broke off, shaped a friendly grin and waved to a neighbour strolling past the end of the drive, leading a Dalmatian. \"Morning, Hugh.\"\n\n\"Morning, Gilbert.\" Hugh waved back.\n\n\"All right,\" said Tancred reluctantly, once Hugh and the Dalmatian had moved on. \"Come in if you must. But I can't spare you more than a few minutes.\"\n\n\"Don't worry, Tapper,\" said Chipchase as they headed down past the double garage towards the side door of the house. \"We won't stay any longer than we need to.\"\n\nThey got no further than the kitchen, Tancred seeming unwilling to let them invade his domain any further. They were there, his frowning, pettish expression made clear, strictly on sufferance.\n\n\"One or two nice vintages here, Tapper,\" said Chipchase, eyeing the wine rack. \"You're obviously more of a Bordeaux man than a\u2014\"\n\n\"Shall we cut the small talk? _If_ that's what you'd call it. The fact of the matter is that Magister specifically warned me you might be in touch. When I tell him of your visit, he'll take it as confirmation of your complicity in a plot against him. I was inclined to regard that plot, or at any rate your involvement in it, as a figment of his imagination, but I'm beginning to think I may have to...reconsider my position.\"\n\n\"We're under suspicion,\" said Harry. \"That much is undeniable. So, we're having to do what the police don't seem prepared to do. Find out what's really going on.\"\n\n\"Well, you're wasting your time, then. I certainly can't tell you. It's as big a mystery to me as you say it is to you.\"\n\n\"Not quite. We don't know why you paid for Mrs. Nixon to go a-cruising. But you do. So, why not fill us in?\"\n\n\"It's none of your business.\"\n\n\"Oh, but it is. We wanted to talk to her about Coker's death. Your...generosity...has stopped us.\"\n\n\"Sorry, I'm sure. Naturally, I had no idea it would prove so inconvenient.\"\n\n\"What would she have told us, Tapper?\"\n\n\"Nothing of any relevance, I strongly suspect.\"\n\n\"Why did you do it, then? Why did you send her away?\"\n\n\"I didn't _send_ her. I simply...enabled her to go.\"\n\n\"But _why_?\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't I?\"\n\n_\"Why?\"_\n\n\"All right.\" Tancred slapped the flat of his hand irritably on the work top. \"I'll explain. Even though I strongly object to being obliged to. Danger suggested I call on her and pay my respects\u2014 _our_ respects. The visit...stirred my conscience. I used to patronize Coker. You know that. Several of us did. Spectacularly unfunny remarks about bananas and coconuts and so forth. Looking back, I'm...pretty ashamed of how I treated him. Paying for Glenys to see Antigua again was...\" He shrugged. \"My way of making up for it.\"\n\n\"You expect us to believe that?\" snapped Chipchase.\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Why did you keep it such a secret?\"\n\n\"Isn't that obvious? To avoid having to admit to you and the others why I did it. I dislike...showing my feelings. I always have. I strongly disapprove of the current vogue for soul-baring. I believe some things\u2014perhaps even _most_ things\u2014are best left unsaid.\"\n\n\"Can you lend me a hanky, Harry?\" Chipchase sarcastically enquired. \"I think I might be about to blub.\"\n\n\"You must have chatted with Glenys at some length before coming up with the cruise idea,\" said Harry.\n\n\"What if I did?\"\n\n\"Discuss Coker's death with her, did you?\"\n\n\"Briefly.\"\n\n\"What did she say?\"\n\n\"Nothing of any significance. He was depressed. Unstable. Mentally ill, it seems clear now. The drowning could have been suicide...or an accident. Who knows?\"\n\n\"He fell overboard from a Scottish ferry.\"\n\n\"So I believe.\"\n\n\"You never mentioned it when we were talking about him on the train.\"\n\n\"I didn't want my arrangement with Glenys to be satirized by you lot. I've already told you that. So, I...pretended to know as little as everyone else.\"\n\n\"Where was the ferry sailing to, Tapper? And where was it sailing _from_?\"\n\n\"I don't believe I asked. To or from one of the islands, probably. Inner Hebrides. Outer Hebrides. I really can't say. Does it matter?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. What do you think?\"\n\n\"I think it's probably...unimportant.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Chipchase. \"I bet you do.\"\n\n\"Have we covered the ground?\" Tancred fired back. \"I really do need to get on.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Harry, confronting the dismal certainty that they would get nothing more out of him\u2014and the disturbing thought that there was nothing more to be got. \"We're going.\"\n\n\"But we're not going _away._ \" Chipchase winked at Tancred. \"Know what I mean?\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-THREE**\n\n**H** ard by Carshalton Pond stood the Greyhound Inn, a mellow-bricked Georgian watering hole. In its bar, as thinly populated at noon on a Thursday as might be expected, Harry and Barry sat by a window, drinking Young's bitter and debating the credibility of local worthy Gilbert Tancred.\n\n\"He might be telling the truth,\" said Harry. \"His explanation made a certain amount of sense.\"\n\n\"Then again,\" said Chipchase, \"he might be lying through his teeth.\"\n\n\"There's no way to tell, is there?\"\n\n\"Yes there bloody is. He was a merchant banker, wasn't he? So it stands to reason you can't believe a word he says. Besides, you were adamant: one out of him, Fripp and Judd had to be in on the plot.\"\n\n\"I was, wasn't I? But, thinking about it, Fripp's a non-starter. He didn't know about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings.\"\n\n\"One out of two, then. And Tancred's the one who's had to cobble together a cover story.\"\n\n\"But we can't _prove_ it's a cover story, Barry. We can't prove a damn thing.\"\n\n\"What are we going to do, then?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Any suggestions?\"\n\n\"Well, we could...rattle Judd's cage. See how he responds to some...gentle pressure.\"\n\n\"I can't see him being mixed up in murder.\"\n\n\"Neither can I. But...\"\n\n\"It's worth a try?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Particularly when there's nothing else _to_ try.\"\n\nEpping was at the far eastern end of the Central line. The journey there from Carshalton was long and slow enough to prompt numerous doubts about its wisdom. A walk of a mile and a half from the station to Judd's large mock Tudor house on the edge of Epping Forest converted those doubts into grumblings of outright discontent on the part of Chipchase, who falsely claimed that he had recommended phoning ahead, whereas Harry's recollection of the plan hatched at the Greyhound was quite otherwise.\n\nA short-haired, snub-nosed woman of middle years dressed in a velour tracksuit was power-hosing a behemoth-proportioned Jeep on the driveway as they limped in off the road, Harry still bothered by his injured knee, Chipchase by rank unfitness and thin-soled shoes. The woman switched off the hose as they approached and semi-rural quietude suddenly descended.\n\n\"Afternoon,\" said Harry. \"Judder about, is he? Er, Bill, I mean.\"\n\n\"Sorry, no,\" she replied. \"What did you, er...?\"\n\n\"We're a couple of his...old RAF chums, luv,\" panted Chipchase.\n\n\"Oh, right. You must have been at this thing in Scotland, then.\"\n\n\"We were,\" said Harry. \"Reckoned we might drop by and see what he made of it.\"\n\n\"'Fraid you've had a wasted trip. He and Mum flew to Fuerte-ventura yesterday. They've got an apartment there. They won't be back for a week or so.\"\n\n\"A _week_?\"\n\n\"At least. Could be longer. Well, they're free agents. That's the beauty of retirement, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Oh yeah,\" said Chipchase. \"There's just nothing to beat it.\"\n\nTheir dishevelled, footsore appearance moved Judd's daughter to offer them a lift to the station, which they gratefully accepted. Slumped aboard a lumbering Tube as it bore them back into London, they found nothing to say. Even recriminations were beyond Chipchase now. Somewhere in the vicinity of Snaresbrook, he fell asleep. And somewhere not much farther on, so did Harry.\n\nThey woke at Ealing Broadway, roused by the sputtering death rattle of the train's motor and the draught from its open doors. Chipchase looked much as Harry felt, which was a long way short of top form. \"Where are we?\" he growled as they grabbed their bags and stumbled out onto the platform. And Harry's answer was grimly apt. \"The end of the line.\"\n\nIt seemed pointless to backtrack to Paddington now they had come this far west, so they caught a stopping train to Reading and carried on from there to Swindon. Their arrival on a grey, chill, drizzly evening was altogether about as miserable as Harry had feared it might be.\n\nAccordingly, he raised no objection when Chipchase suggested stopping off at the Glue Pot en route to Falmouth Street. It had to be more than thirty years since they had last drunk there together. They went in and toasted old times with best bitter.\n\n\"Who'd have thought it, hey? The two of us back in the Pot.\" Chipchase managed a weary smile. \"We've sunk a good few pints here between us.\"\n\n\"I've pulled a few too. I had to take a job behind the bar when you and Jackie skipped to Spain.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell. We're not going to go over that again, are we?\"\n\n\"Just making an observation, Barry. That's all.\"\n\n\"Well, try making a bloody cheerier one.\"\n\n\"None springs to mind.\"\n\n\"Pity.\"\n\nThey said no more, but drank on in silence as the pub gradually filled around them.\n\nThe door of 37 Falmouth Street did not open with its normal fluidity when they made the short transit there from the Glue Pot two hours later. Harry had to yank a tangle of letters out from beneath it to complete their entrance.\n\nMost of the letters were junk mail for Mrs. Ivy Barnett, the computers that had generated them remaining stubbornly impervious to her death. But one was for Harry, a surprise which registered even through the beery blur that fogged his mind. It was a padded envelope, addressed by hand in large, jagged capitals. He tugged it open and a computer disk slid out into his palm. He peered inside the envelope in search of an accompanying note. But there was none.\n\n\"What the bloody hell's that?\" asked Chipchase, peering over his shoulder.\n\n\"What it looks like.\" Harry held the disk up. \"Shame I haven't got a computer to run it on.\"\n\n\"Is this something...you were expecting?\"\n\n\"No. I wasn't expecting any post at all. Other than a bill from the undertaker. Which somehow I don't think this is.\"\n\n\"Who sent it?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Harry peered at the envelope. \"Posted in...Edinburgh...last Friday.\"\n\n\"Know anyone who was in Edinburgh last Friday?\"\n\n\"Yeah. So do you. Me, Askew, Lloyd, Fripp, Gregson, Judd and Tancred. Our train stopped at Waverley station for about ten minutes.\"\n\n\"Long enough to post a letter if you looked lively?\"\n\n\"Probably. But only two of us got off.\" Harry replayed his encounter on the platform with Askew in his mind. Askew had been breathing heavily. Had he just run to and from the nearest postbox? It was possible. It was definitely possible. \"Only two of us. Me and Peter Askew.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-FOUR**\n\n**W** e're fine. Honestly. Everything's OK. I'll call you tomorrow. There's a kiss coming down the line. And one for Daisy too. 'Bye, Donna. 'Bye.\"\n\nHarry put the telephone down and returned to the front parlour, where he had left Chipchase with the Drambuie bottle his mother had made such negligible inroads into since receiving it as a gift on her ninetieth birthday. Chipchase, to his surprise, did not seem to be putting it away with much abandon either. He was, in fact, just concluding a call on his mobile when Harry entered.\n\n\"Who was that?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Abracadabra Cabs. They'll be here in about ten minutes.\"\n\n\"You've ordered a taxi?\"\n\n\"I have. We're off to see the wizard. Or, in this case, the witch.\"\n\n\"What the hell are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Ah, well, while you and Donna were billing and cooing, I did some thinking. We need access to a computer to find out what Askew sent you on that disk. Who do we know in Swindon who might let us use theirs? Jackie. That's who.\"\n\n\"You phoned Jackie?\"\n\n\"I did. Caught her at a good time. Hubby's away. Out of her life or just out of town I'm not sure, but it doesn't really matter, does it? She's willing to give us the use of her PC, this very night. So, let's high-bloody-tail it over there...and see what we've got.\"\n\nJackie had moved house at least once since Harry had last paid her a social call some seventeen years previously. Her new property was smaller but more tasteful, almost Cotswoldian, in fact, as far as he could judge in the exurban depths of a moonless night.\n\nThe transition from dolly-bird secretary to mature, elegant businesswoman was one Jackie had managed with greater aplomb than Harry would ever have predicted. Quite why she was dressed in an expensively flattering black trouser suit for an evening originally destined for domestic solitude was unclear, but her outfit was not the only puzzling aspect of her appearance. Some hints of grey had been permitted to enter her expertly styled blonde hair, but her looks were magically youthful and her figure, as Chipchase eagerly remarked, was a tribute either to her genes or to her gymnasium.\n\n\"From what I remember of your mother, darlin', it's got to be the gym that's kept you in such good shape.\"\n\n\"If your hand slides one millimetre farther in the direction it's going, Barry, I'll demonstrate some of my martial arts skills for you. I didn't acquire them from my mother either.\"\n\nChipchase's hand recoiled from her hip. \"Sorry, darlin'. Old habits and all that.\"\n\n\"How are you, Harry?\" Jackie treated him to a more lingering kiss than her ex-husband had received. \"I was sorry to hear about Ivy. She was a lovely lady.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Jackie. It's, er, good to see you again. And to, er...see you looking so good.\"\n\n\"Divorce has put a spring in my step. I recommend it. Not to you, of course, with...Donna, isn't it?...waiting for you in Vancouver. But...\" She smiled. \"Generally.\"\n\n\"Divorce, Jackie?\" queried Chipchase. \"Are we to take it Tony's had the heave-ho?\"\n\n\"You are. He's history.\"\n\n\"That must make me _ancient_ history.\"\n\n\"Guess so. Do you two want a drink?\"\n\nNeither of them objecting to the idea, Jackie lithely led the way into a spacious, modernistically furnished, spotlit lounge. She had opened a bottle of something straw-yellow from New Zealand, which Chipchase happily agreed to join her in a glass of. For Harry, however, a bottle of ale from Swindon's very own brewer, Arkell's, had been provided.\n\n\"Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is what you used to drink in the Plough at lunchtimes.\"\n\n\"Well remembered.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's nothing wrong with my memory.\" She looked darkly at Chipchase. \"Nothing at all.\"\n\n\"How's hairdressing?\" Chipchase asked after coughing down a mouthful of wine.\n\n\"Profitable, thanks. I'm opening a salon in Oxford next month. That'll make six.\"\n\n\"A real entrepreneuse, aren't we? I taught you well, darlin'. No doubt about it.\"\n\n\"You were an education, Barry. There's no doubt about _that._ \" She smiled coolly at him, then more warmly at Harry. \"I must say I never expected to see the pair of you together again.\"\n\n\"Neither did I,\" said Harry.\n\n\"I'm one up on both of you there, then,\" said Chipchase. \"I always reckoned our paths through life would converge again sooner or later. It was written in the stars.\"\n\n\"Why _are_ you together?\" asked Jackie, still looking at Harry.\n\n\"Long story.\"\n\n\"And one you're keeping to yourselves?\"\n\n\"Safer that way,\" Chipchase answered. \"We don't want to get you mixed up in anything dodgy.\"\n\n\"Or dangerous,\" said Harry.\n\n\"Shouldn't you be leading quieter lives at your age?\"\n\n\"Definitely.\"\n\n\"No bloody choice in the matter, darlin',\" said Chipchase. \"We're in a spot of bother. Through no fault of our own.\" He grinned. \"Naturally.\"\n\n\"More than a spot,\" added Harry.\n\n\"How much more?\" Jackie asked.\n\n\"You're better off not knowing.\"\n\n\"But the contents of this...disk...could get you out of it?\"\n\n\"It's possible.\"\n\n\"Either way, we need to know,\" said Chipchase. \"A.s.a. bloody p.\"\n\n\"When I started work with you two,\" Jackie remarked as they entered her study-cum-office, \"high tech meant an electric typewriter. Times certainly change.\"\n\n\"That they do,\" mused Chipchase. \"1968: the summer of love. And miniskirts. Micro-mini in your case, Jackie. I bet you'd still look great in one.\"\n\n\"Well, you're not going to find out. Where's the disk?\"\n\nHarry handed it over and watched Chipchase trace in the air with an appreciative hand the curve of Jackie's bottom as she stooped to slide the disk into the tower under the desk. Then she slipped into the ergonomically cutting-edge swivel chair in front of the screen and began clicking the mouse.\n\n\"What have we got?\" Chipchase asked, craning over her right shoulder while Harry craned over her left.\n\n\"First up is some kind of message. See for yourselves.\"\n\nPeter: what follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I entrust it to you as I once entrusted my heart. You knew what to do then. You will know what to do now. Tread carefully. But do not tread too fearfully. My love goes with you. Les.\n\n\"You know these people?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Harry replied. \"It's to Peter Askew. From...Lester Maynard?\"\n\n\"Has to be,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"I didn't know they were...\"\n\n\"You do now.\"\n\n\"But what follows? What...'went before us'?\"\n\nJackie clicked the mouse. The next message, however, was less revealing. _Please enter password to proceed._ \"You can only open the attached file if you know the password. And I have this funny feeling you're going to say you don't.\"\n\n\"We don't.\"\n\n\"It's nine digits.\"\n\n\"Might as well be ninety-nine,\" growled Chipchase. \"We still bloody don't.\"\n\n\"You've no idea at all?\"\n\n\"What about their nicknames?\" said Harry. \"Crooked and Piggott.\"\n\n\"They're both seven letters each,\" objected Jackie.\n\n\"Alzheimer's setting in, is it, Harry?\" snapped Chipchase. \"Didn't you hear what Jackie said? Nine bloody digits.\"\n\n\"Well, if you can supply them, Barry, be my guest.\"\n\nBut Chipchase could not. His own surname was one of only two associated with Operation Clean Sheet that fulfilled the nine-digit quota and neither it nor MacIntyre did the trick. This was no surprise to Harry, who pointed out that Professor Mac's name was actually spelt McIntyre and thus contained only eight letters. Combinations and permutations of other names fared no better. Nor did hopeful stabs in the dark. Askew's address in Cardiff and Maynard's in Henley-on-Thames were mined for the answer, to no avail. Altogether, Jackie must have typed in several dozen words, many of them no better than anagrammish gibberish, before, with a heartfelt sigh, she called a halt.\n\n\"We're not getting anywhere here, are we, boys?\"\n\nHarry shook his head despondently. \"No.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase.\n\nJackie closed the computer down and removed the disk. \"Find the magic password and you're in business,\" she said, handing it to Harry. \"Otherwise...\"\n\n\"We're sunk.\"\n\n\"That bad?\"\n\n\"Could be, Jackie.\" Harry nodded. \"Could very well be.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-FIVE**\n\n**J** ackie drove them back into Swindon that night in her top-of-the-range BMW. Chipchase, banished to the rear, rapidly fell asleep. But Harry, sitting alongside Jackie in the front, remained wide awake.\n\n\"You should have gone straight back to Canada after your mum's funeral, Harry,\" she said as they cruised through a sprawl of neon-lit suburbia entirely unknown to him.\n\n\"You're right. I should've.\"\n\n\"Why not go now?\"\n\n\"It's too late.\"\n\n\"Because of him?\" She flicked her head in the direction from which Chipchase's snores were emanating.\n\n\"Not really. For once, this isn't Barry's fault.\"\n\n\"He looks as if he's had a rough few years since I last saw him.\"\n\n\"He has.\"\n\n\"Poor old sod.\"\n\n\"Feeling sorry for him, Jackie?\"\n\n\"On a scale of one to ten, it clocks in at two and a half. I've got the sentiment well under control. I hope you have too. Want some advice?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Go it alone. Whatever the problem, the solution isn't teaming up with Barry. I learned that the hard way.\"\n\n\"If you remember, so did I.\"\n\n\"So you did.\" She gave him a rueful smile. \"Well, then?\"\n\n\"I've no choice in the matter, Jackie. Barry and I are in this together now. For good or bad.\"\n\nIt seemed clear to Harry that there was really only one course to follow if they were to stand any chance of learning the secret Maynard had entrusted to Askew. The following morning, over a spartan breakfast, he put it to Chipchase.\n\n\"You said you'd spoken to Maynard's old boyfriend. That's right, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Pernickety little blighter. Clifford...something.\"\n\n\"Why don't we renew your acquaintance? Henley's not far. We can go there after registering at the police station. He might be able to tell us the password straight off.\"\n\n\"Able isn't necessarily willing. News of Maynard's pash for Askew could knock him sideways.\"\n\n\"We'll have to do what Maynard recommended in that message, then. Tread carefully.\" Harry grinned gamely. \"But not too fearfully.\"\n\nThe formalities at the police station were brief and painless, though disagreeable nonetheless. Harry resented having to notify the local constabulary of his presence in his home town, while Chipchase was plunged into sour-faced gloom by every aspect of their visit. His mood picked up quickly when they left, however, and by the time they had reached the railway station he had become, if not cheerful, at least less taciturn.\n\n\"Tell me, Harry old cock,\" he said as their train pulled out, \"did you have any inkling back when we were all together...about Askew...and Maynard?\"\n\n\"Not the remotest,\" Harry replied, accurately enough. \"You?\"\n\n\"The same. Despite sharing a Nissen hut with the pair of them. They hid it well. I'll say that.\"\n\n\"You had to in those days.\"\n\n\"Even so, I'd have thought we might have...sensed something.\"\n\n\"Would you? It seems to me, Barry, that there was an awful lot going on then we didn't notice. And most of it we still haven't come close to uncovering.\"\n\n\"Funny, ain't it? The whole kit and caboodle could be on that tape. The answer to every question, nestling in your inside bloody pocket. But we can't get at it.\"\n\n\"I've been thinking about that. Why would Askew send it to me unless he thought I could access the information?\"\n\n\"Maybe he did it on the spur of the moment.\"\n\n\"Exactly. He must have realized he was in danger. And that means he must have been in danger _because_ of the disk. He was killed for it, Barry. I'm sure of it. But his killer went away empty-handed.\"\n\n\"What's on it must be dynamite, then.\"\n\n\"Reckon so.\" Harry thought for a moment. \"Let's just hope it doesn't blow up in our faces.\"\n\nHenley-on-Thames was the end of the branch line from Twyford. The house Lester Maynard had owned until his death was a short walk from the station. His partner Clifford had been living there at the time of Chipchase's futile fundraising visit. The route took Harry and Barry along the riverside and the finishing stretch of the regatta course. They had attended the regatta once, during Barnchase Motors' sadly brief heyday, as guests of tyre-trade titan Brian Cosway. They had both drunk far too much of the free-flowing Pimm's, of course, and the memory of a stripe-blazered Chipchase falling into the river at a late stage of the proceedings was graphically clear in Harry's mind. Charitably, he refrained from mentioning it. Then Chipchase did it for him.\n\n\"Maynard was probably watching the regatta himself that day we were here, Harry. His pad actually overlooks the river. We might have passed him on the towpath without knowing it. He might even have seen me being fished out of the bloody river. Strange, isn't it? The past. And the dead people in it. So near and yet so bloody far.\"\n\n\"Steady, Barry. That sounds almost philosophical.\"\n\n\"Don't worry. I'll soon snap out of it.\"\n\nBelle Rive was an elegant, gabled, brick-and-render villa, boasting, like several of its neighbours, a boathouse and a lawn running down to the river. The Thameside life of Lester Maynard, comedy writer, had clearly been a pleasant one. Belle Rive had been divided into flats since his death. Chipchase identified the bell labelled _C. Enslow_ as the one they wanted and gave it a good long press.\n\n\"Remember,\" Harry whispered. \"The disk's hot stuff. We can't risk telling him about it directly.\"\n\n\"We just ask him the password without explaining what it's the password _to_. Yeah. Should be a piece of cake.\"\n\nThe practicality or otherwise of this tactic was to go untested in the immediate future, however. There was no response from Clifford Enslow to the repeated ringing of his bell. Eventually, one of the windows in the ground-floor bay opened and a clearly irritated woman leaned out.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" she enquired snappishly.\n\n\"Sorry to disturb you,\" said Harry, reprising his multipurpose ingratiating smile. \"We're looking for Clifford Enslow. It's a matter of, well, some importance. I don't suppose you...\"\n\n\"I believe this is one of his charity-shop mornings. You should find him sifting through holey jumpers and dog-eared paperbacks at Age Concern in Duke Street.\"\n\nEnslow was in fact sifting through nothing when Harry and Barry entered the Henley branch of Age Concern ten minutes later. A tall, thin, gaunt-featured man with a dusting of white hair on his half-bald, half-shaven head, he was dressed in what might once have been donations to the shop and was standing listlessly behind the counter, sipping from a mug and staring into space. It appeared that they had caught him at a quiet time.\n\n\"Remember me, Cliff?\" Chipchase launched in. \"Barry Chipchase. Old friend of Lester's. This is Harry Barnett, ditto.\"\n\n\"Chipchase?\" Enslow frowned. \"Ah yes. I _do_ remember. Two or three years ago.\"\n\n\"Any chance of a word in private? There are a couple of things we, er...\"\n\n\"Were you at the reunion in Scotland?\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"At Kilveen Castle.\" Enslow looked sharply at them. \"I had a letter from a Mr. Dangerfield a couple of months ago. Well, it was addressed to Les, but I dealt with it. Then, earlier this week, I saw a small piece in the paper reporting that two people attending the event had died in mysterious circumstances.\"\n\n\"It's three now,\" said Harry.\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"Johnny Dangerfield's dead too.\"\n\n\"Good God.\"\n\n\"We're trying to get to the bottom of it. Making what enquiries we can. We'd really like to talk to you about Lester.\"\n\n\"What's Les got to do with this? It's eighteen years since...\" A shadow of half-buried grief crossed Enslow's face. \"He's been gone a long time.\"\n\n\"We know, but even so...\"\n\n\"Well, I can't talk to you now. And frankly I fail to see what I could tell you that would be of the slightest value.\"\n\n\"Let us be the judge of that, Cliff,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"Why don't you allow us to buy you lunch?\" Harry suggested, eager to take the edge off Chipchase's faintly threatening tone. \"It's the least we can do. In return for a little information.\"\n\n\"Lunch?\" Enslow's expression brightened. \"Well, I suppose...\"\n\n\"Excellent. Where and when would suit?\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-SIX**\n\n**E** nslow's choice for lunch alighted upon Henley's very own Caf\u00e9 Rouge. Harry and Barry would naturally have preferred to be tucking into pie-and-pint pub fare. Chipchase had ample opportunity to complain about the salad-oriented menu while they waited for Enslow to join them. But he was all smiles when their guest arrived promptly at 12:30, ordering a bottle from the expensive end of the wine list with an alacrity that suggested he intended Harry to pay for it.\n\n\"I was sorry to hear Lester had died,\" Harry said after they had started on the wine. \"You and he...were together a long time?\"\n\n\"Twelve years.\" Enslow sighed. \"Looking back, it seems hardly any time at all.\"\n\n\"Did he ever mention any of us? Peter Askew, for example.\"\n\n\"Wasn't he one of the two who died last weekend?\"\n\n\"Yes. He was.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't remember the name cropping up.\"\n\n\"They might have been close,\" said Chipchase. \"At some point, you know. Before you and Les...\"\n\n\"They might,\" Enslow coolly agreed. \"I wasn't in the habit of interrogating him about...earlier attachments. Nor he me.\"\n\n\"So,\" said Harry, \"he never talked about the RAF\u2014or Operation Clean Sheet?\"\n\n\"I didn't say that. As a matter of fact...\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"It's all so long ago. It can't have any bearing on...\" Enslow shook his head. \"I'm sure there's no connection.\"\n\n\"Why don't you run it past us?\" said Chipchase. \"Then we'll _see_ whether there's a connection.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well.\" Enslow took a healthy swallow of wine. Harry topped up his glass. \"Les told me about Operation Clean Sheet after hearing of the death of someone who'd been involved in it with him. This would have been in...1983.\"\n\n\"Leroy Nixon,\" said Harry.\n\n\"That's correct. Nixon. Drowned, evidently. Lost overboard from a ferry off the coast of Scotland.\"\n\n\"Any idea what route the ferry was on?\"\n\n\"None. I'm not sure I ever knew. I wasn't particularly interested and frankly I couldn't understand why Les was. But it became for him...something of an obsession. He went up to Scotland that autumn. And again the following year. I offered to go with him, but he insisted on travelling alone. And he refused to tell me where exactly he was going. But I know he met the old professor at Aberdeen who'd set up the experiment.\"\n\n\"Professor Mac? Les visited McIntyre?\"\n\n\"Yes. He did. Les was ill by then. Further travelling became impossible. And McIntyre died, of course. Of old age. Unlike poor Les. When I think of what he went through...\" Enslow looked away. \"I'm sorry. It still upsets me. They could save him now, you know. They could give him back a normal life. But not then. Then he was doomed. He used to spend hours on his computer\u2014all day sometimes, all _night_ \u2014searching for a cure. At least, I suppose that's what he was searching for. When I looked through the material he'd stored\u2014after his death, I mean\u2014I couldn't make any sense of what he was working on. It didn't seem to have any relevance to his illness at all. He was researching a drug I've never heard of before or since called MRQS.\"\n\n\"What does that stand for?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It was never spelt out. Even if it had been, I doubt it would have meant anything to me. He was in touch with a laboratory in Reading about preparing a sample of the stuff when he...went into his final decline.\"\n\n\"Have you still got this...material, Cliff?\" asked Chipchase.\n\n\"No. There was so much. I got rid of it. Well, I had to, really, with Belle Rive passing into other hands. Oh, here's lunch, I think.\"\n\nTheir meals had indeed arrived. A hiatus ensued, while the waitress served them and Chipchase blithely ordered a second bottle of wine. An oddity remained lodged in Harry's mind during this period, which he raised as soon as he was free to.\n\n\"Who inherited the house, Cliff?\"\n\n\"Ailsa Redpath. She's been very kind to me. I pay much less rent than the other tenants.\"\n\n\"How was she related to Les?\"\n\n\"She wasn't, as far as I know. Not as such.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Harry judged from the frown on Chipchase's face that he too had counted the letters in Ailsa Redpath's name without arriving at the magical figure of nine. \"What was their connection, then?\"\n\nEnslow gave a sheepish little half-smile. \"I don't really know.\"\n\n\"Come again?\" Chipchase stared quizzically at him.\n\n\"It's true. In fact, I've never actually met her. The whole thing was handled through solicitors. And an agent deals with everything concerning the house. Mrs. Redpath never comes down here.\"\n\n\"Down from where?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"Did I say down?\" Enslow looked briefly discomposed, as if caught out, not necessarily in a lie, but certainly in a misrepresentation. \"Over would be more accurate. She lives abroad.\"\n\n\"Whereabouts?\"\n\n\"Er, Italy. Why do you\u2014\"\n\nSuddenly, _The Great Escape_ was under way\u2014at least musically. Chipchase plucked out his phone. \"Hello?...Yes...Sorry?...Oh, _hello_...Yes. Just hold on.\" He looked across at Harry and Enslow. \"Sorry. I'll have to take this call. You carry on without me.\" The sidelong grimace he gave Harry as he rose from the table failed to convey whatever meaning was intended. He headed for the exit, phone clamped to ear.\n\n\"I hate mobiles,\" said Enslow, watching Chipchase go. \"I hate the false urgency they confer on mind-numbingly insignificant exchanges.\"\n\n\"Me too,\" said Harry, sensing Enslow was keen to deflect him from the subject of Ailsa Redpath. The name sounded Scottish to him; distinctly so. \"You don't think Les met Mrs. Redpath during his trips to Scotland, do you?\"\n\n\"It's possible. I really couldn't say.\"\n\n\"You must have been curious, though. About how they knew each other.\"\n\n\"I was. I still am. But the lady values her privacy. And I'm her tenant. On very favourable terms. I'm sure you can understand why I'm disinclined to rock the boat.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"It's as I warned you. There's nothing I can tell you that will shed any light on these recent deaths.\"\n\n\"Lester's, er...researches...\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Did he...safeguard them in any way?\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, with a...password or somesuch?\"\n\n\"Password?\"\n\n\"On his computer.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see what you mean. Mmm.\" Enslow considered the point while assembling a forkful of Caesar salad, which then remained poised between plate and mouth as he continued. \"Well, yes, he did. But I knew what it was, of course.\"\n\n\"And, er...what was that?\"\n\n\"It hardly matters now.\" Enslow swallowed his forkful of salad. \"You should be able to guess, anyway.\"\n\n\"Should I?\"\n\n\"Sorry about that, chaps,\" Chipchase announced, startling both of them with his uncharacteristically soft-footed return to the table. \"Irritating bloody things, aren't they, these mobile jobbies? But handy in emergencies.\" He flopped down onto his chair. \"Where were we?\"\n\n\"Cliff was just about to tell us the password Les used in his computer.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah?\" Chipchase stiffened alertly.\n\n\"Apparently we should be able to work it out ourselves.\"\n\n\"You might be overestimating us there, Cliff. Brain teasers aren't our Trust House. Know what I mean?\"\n\nThe blank look on Enslow's face suggested he did not. \"Forte,\" Harry explained.\n\n\"Wordplay evidently _is_ your speciality,\" said Enslow drily. \"Les's password was his RAF nickname.\"\n\n\"Piggott.\"\n\n\"Exactly. Conferred by your good selves, perhaps. Or some other rapier wit you served with. But, as I explained, the files are long gone. Along with the computer. And Les too, of course.\" Enslow sighed. \"A long time gone. So, the password is utterly unimportant.\" He looked narrowly at them. \"Which makes your disappointment all the harder to fathom.\"\n\n\"Disappointed?\" Chipchase prodded himself in the chest. \"Us?\"\n\n\"I'd say so, yes.\" Enslow gave them a thin, faintly puzzled smile. \"Palpably.\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-SEVEN**\n\n**D** o you want the good news or the bad news?\" Chipchase whispered to Harry as Enslow took himself off to the loo straight after placing an order for dessert and coffee.\n\n\"Are they both connected with that phone call you took?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Give me the good, then. I could do with some after drawing a blank on the password.\"\n\n\"Helen Morrison is more than ever convinced we're innocent and Plod's barking up the wrong tree.\"\n\n\"That was her on the phone?\"\n\n\"It was.\"\n\n\"She didn't call just to say that?\"\n\n\"No. That's where we get onto the bad news.\"\n\n\"OK. Spit it out.\"\n\n\"She's in Cardiff with her mother. When she heard about it on the local news this morning, she double-checked, so there's no\u2014\"\n\n\"Heard about _what_?\"\n\n\" _I'm trying to tell you._ There was a fire at Askew's flat last night. The place was gutted. Everything destroyed.\"\n\n\"Good God.\"\n\n\"The Fire Brigade suspect arson. So do I, come to that. The question is\u2014\"\n\n\"Who did it? And why?\"\n\n\"We shook Tancred's tree yesterday. Cause and effect, do you reckon?\"\n\n\"Could be. Then again\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold up. Cliff's back. Smile, Harry. You're on Enslowvision.\"\n\nHarry and Barry said little as lunch drifted to a close. Enslow took up the conversational slack with his less than riveting observations on the changes he had seen in Henley over the years. Eventually, even these petered out. Harry paid. Enslow thanked them. They left.\n\nHarry walked out with Chipchase onto Henley Bridge. They gazed up the regatta course and watched Enslow's beetling progress along the riverside in the direction of Belle Rive. The sun was out, making a pretty scene of the lawns and the weeping willows and the graceful sweep of the Thames. But gloom had settled on Harry. Every question they asked either went unanswered or raised more questions. With every step they took, they slipped back at least as far.\n\n\"Well, he got a free lunch out of that,\" growled Chipchase, pointing with his thumb at Enslow's receding figure. \"What did we get?\"\n\n\"You got a free lunch as well, Barry. Since you ask. I got...precious little.\"\n\nThere was a pause, during which Chipchase apparently decided to ignore the reference to his freeloading. \"Nixon and Maynard were both after the same thing in Scotland, weren't they?\" he asked.\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\n\"But we haven't a clue what that was.\"\n\n\"Oh, we've got a clue. On disk. We just can't get at it.\"\n\n\"Do you think Askew's flat was searched before it was torched?\"\n\n\"Who knows? Maybe that's _why_ it was torched. To destroy the evidence of a break-in.\"\n\n\"But the disk is what they were after?\"\n\n\"Has to be.\"\n\n\"Then we've got to find out what's on it.\"\n\n\"If you know how to do that without the password, Barry, now's the time to say.\"\n\n\"I don't.\"\n\n\"Somehow, I thought you didn't.\"\n\n\"But I know a man who might.\"\n\nChipchase's \"man who might\" was Andy Norrington, former fellow inmate of Channings Wood Prison. A bank clerk who had siphoned money from clients' accounts to fund his cocaine habit, his credentials as a manipulator of computer technology were undeniable. Released several months before Chipchase, he had written to his old cell-block neighbour urging him to make contact when he got out. \"But that was the last thing I wanted to do. He'd only have reminded me of the whole ghastly bloody experience just when I was trying to forget it.\" So, Norrington had gone uncontacted. Until now.\n\nFour trains and three hours later, they arrived at the Beckenham bungalow of Norrington's parents, fervently hoping he had not moved on to a place of his own. The mobile-phone number he had given in his letter was no longer active and his e-mail address was of little use to the low-tech pairing of Harry and Barry. Tracking him down was more than a little hit or miss.\n\nThe door was answered by an elderly, gentle-voiced lady who confirmed that she was Mrs. Norrington. When Chipchase mentioned Andy, however, her face froze. All she managed to say was, \"Oh dear, oh dear. Oh Lord.\" Chipchase was halfway through a stumbling explanation of how he knew her son when Mr. Norrington, a stooped and shuffling old man with vast, greasy-lensed spectacles as thick as milk bottles, appeared in the hall.\n\n\"You're a friend...of Andy's?\" he wheezed.\n\n\"That's right. From...Well, er, we met...inside, if you know what I mean. He may have mentioned me. Barry Chipchase.\"\n\nNorrington looked blankly at his wife and she looked blankly back at him. \"I...don't think so,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh dear, oh dear. Oh Lord. You tell them, Perce. I can't...\" With that Mrs. Norrington turned and tottered away out of sight.\n\n\"Tell us what?\" Harry prompted.\n\n\"Well...\" Norrington swayed slightly and placed one hand against the door to steady himself. \"Thing is...Andy's no longer...with us.\"\n\n\"He's moved away?\" Chipchase responded.\n\n\"No, no. I mean...he's...\"\n\n\"No longer with us,\" Harry whispered into Chipchase's ear, having already grasped what the old man meant. \"Passed away. Gone to a better place. _Dead_.\"\n\n\"It was the drugs,\" said Norrington. \"He went back on them...when he couldn't...get on as he'd hoped. Only it...was worse than before and...one day he...\"\n\nThe exact circumstances of Andy Norrington's fatal overdose were never spelt out. They hardly needed to be. He would not be cracking codes for anyone. Harry and Barry made their way back to the station with nothing to show for their visit.\n\n\"A waste of time, I'm afraid,\" said Harry, for no very good reason beyond breaking the silence that had settled glumly upon them.\n\n\"And bloody depressing too,\" said Chipchase. \"I'd have backed Andy to make it on the outside. I thought he had what it took. I thought I had what it took. I'm not so sure any more, Harry. I've got the skids under me. Maybe the bastard who did for Danger would be doing me a favour if\u2014\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Barry, it's not that bad.\"\n\n\"Isn't it?\"\n\n\"While there's life, there's hope.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Trouble is, it's false hope every bloody time.\"\n\nThe journey back to Swindon did nothing to boost Chipchase's spirits. The rush hour's encroachment into early evening made it sweatily crowded as well as agonizingly slow. Conversation was ruled out by the seats they managed to find being widely separated and none was stimulated by their weary trudge from the station to Falmouth Street. Chipchase stopped short at the Glue Pot, where Harry undertook to join him after phoning Donna.\n\nHe caught her on her mobile at the University, as he had banked on doing.\n\n\"Do you think your colleagues in the chemistry department will have heard of a drug called MRQS, Donna?\"\n\n\"What does it stand for and what does it do?\"\n\n\"No idea on both counts.\"\n\n\"It's going to be a tough call, then. I'd have to persuade one of them to spend a chunk of time checking their databases.\"\n\n\"What about that guy Samuels? Isn't he a chemist? The way he was looking at you at the Christmas party, I'd say he was eminently persuadable.\"\n\n\"I don't actually want to encourage Marvin, Harry. How important is this?\"\n\n\"Could be very.\"\n\nThere was a lengthy pause before Donna said: \"Oh God. All right, then. I'll see what I can do. On one condition.\"\n\n\"Which is?\"\n\n\"Take extra care, OK? Just for me, hon. I'm still worried about you, you know. If not more so.\"\n\nTaking extra care, as Harry had promised to do, was easy in one way. There were no other avenues left to explore. All they could do now was sit tight in Swindon. And tight he and Chipchase certainly were after an evening in the Glue Pot imbibing a beer with the ominous name Monkey's Revenge. When they returned home, Harry found a message from Donna waiting for him on the telephone. \"Marvin's on the case. Speak to you tomorrow. Lots of love from me and Daisy.\"\n\nHarry slept poorly, disturbed by vivid dreams and Chipchase's snoring in the next bedroom. His brain began grinding its way through possible nine-letter passwords to no avail. Then the past closed around him, as it was always likely to do in that bed and that room and that house, where he had slept both as child and adult and where virtually nothing had changed in all the years of his life.\n\nWhen he heard the noise he thought at first he was dreaming, even though he believed himself to be awake. There was a crash from below, a whoomph of ignition, a slowly growing roar. His senses responded sluggishly, his brain wrestling stiffly with what it could not assimilate. The night grew lighter, bewilderingly so. There was a crackling now, buried within the roar. He sat up. And saw, through the half-open door, the source of the sound and the sallow, flickering glow.\n\nFire was climbing the stairs.\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-EIGHT**\n\n**B** y the time Harry reached the landing, the stairwell was engulfed in flame. There was no escape that way. All he had on was pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, but he could not turn back to fetch any of his clothes. He had been caught in a house fire once before. He knew how quickly he might be overwhelmed. Thick, dark smoke was billowing up to the ceiling. His chest was already tightening.\n\nHe rushed into the next bedroom, where Chipchase was still asleep, snoring for Britain. Harry jostled him awake, shouting his name in his ear.\n\n\"Wha...What...What the bloody hell?\" Chipchase opened his eyes and instantly broke into a cough. There was a haze of smoke thickening around them. The speed with which the blaze was taking hold was frightening.\n\n\"Get up, Barry. Quick. The house is on fire. We've got to get out of here.\"\n\nAmid woozy blinks and phlegmy coughs, Chipchase put his feet to the floor and sat up. He stared transfixed at the plume of flame beyond the door, roaring up from the hall as if from the mouth of a furnace. \"Bloody hellfire,\" was all he found to say. But it was apt enough.\n\nHarry slammed the door shut. \"We'll go this way,\" he shouted, pointing to the window. It overlooked the sloping roof of the kitchen. Never had it mattered so much to him that the houses of the Railway Village were originally built without separate kitchens, which were added later as single-storey extensions. That one detail of obscure architectural history was suddenly a lifeline. Harry ripped the curtain aside and yanked up the sash. \"Come on. Hurry.\"\n\nChipchase loomed at his shoulder, in the act of pulling on his threadbare bathrobe. \"Bugger me, Harry. Is this safe?\"\n\n\"A lot safer than staying put. You go first. _Move._ \"\n\nCoughing and spluttering, Chipchase hoisted one hastily shod foot over the sill. He clambered out onto the slates, one of which instantly slid from under him. \"Bloody hell,\" he cried, grasping the window frame and grimacing back at Harry.\n\n\"Move over to the chimney.\"\n\nIn a lurching slither that loosed another couple of slates, Chipchase made it to the stack of the chimney that had once served the range. Harry climbed out onto the roof, regretting as he did so that he had not stopped to put on shoes himself. Then a glance behind reminded him that it might have proved fatal if he had. The landing was evidently ablaze now. Flames were licking and snapping round the bedroom door.\n\nHe moved towards where Chipchase was clinging to the brickwork of the chimney and tried to reassure him. \"It's OK, Barry. We're going to be all right.\"\n\n\"How do we get down without breaking our bloody necks?\"\n\n\"Follow me out over the privy. We can climb down from there.\"\n\n\"I can't see where I'm bloody going.\"\n\n_\"Just follow me.\"_\n\nThe roof of the old outdoor loo, set at right angles to the kitchen, took them farther from the fire, whose flames lit their path across the slates. The heat at their backs was growing with every second. The contents of the house were being consumed in a crackling inferno. A petrol bomb or something of the kind must have been pushed through the letterbox. Nothing else, it seemed to Harry, could explain the swiftness of the destruction.\n\nHe reached the edge of the roof, crouched down and lowered himself gingerly into the gulf of shadow below, where he eventually set his foot on the dustbin. He let go of the gutter and shouted up to Chipchase. \"It's easy. Come on.\"\n\nIt had not been easy, of course. As Chipchase's awkward, scrambling descent made apparent. \"We're both too old...for this kind of thing,\" he panted. And Harry could only agree.\n\nThey stood together, in the backyard, gulping air and coughing, shaking from what they had done as well as the mental buffeting it had given them. The chill of the flagstones seeped up through Harry's bare feet. He was shivering from the cold, but at his face beat the full heat of the blaze, which had spread now to the kitchen. The house where he was born and where his mother had lived through all the years of her marriage and the many more of her long widow-hood had become an inferno.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase. \"We're lucky...to have got out of that alive.\"\n\n\"We'd better call the Fire Brigade. If the neighbours haven't already.\"\n\n\"We'll have to go to one to do it. My mobile's in there. Along with my clothes. Everything.\"\n\n\"Same here.\"\n\nChipchase looked round at him. \"Including...the disk?\"\n\nHarry nodded. \"Melted by now, I should think.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Like you say, Barry. Bloody hell.\"\n\nThe neighbours had indeed already called the Fire Brigade. The first engine arrived within minutes. Several more soon followed. Once they had put their hoses and extinguishers to work, the fire was rapidly brought under control and prevented from spreading. But the conflagration at number 37 was strong and stubborn. Harry and Barry watched the firemen's struggle with it from the shelter of the house opposite, where Mrs. Jenkins gave them tea, as well as blankets to wrap themselves in. And the loan, in Harry's case, of a pair of her late husband's slippers.\n\nBy the time the police arrived, they had already told the fire officer in charge that they had no idea what had started the blaze. \"We were woken by the smoke and got the hell out.\" It was true as far as it went. The evidence of arson would eventually be uncovered and Harry sensed the less they said for the moment the better. The police settled for that and left. But they would be back. It was inevitable. Especially when they realized the two occupants of 37 Falmouth Street were the same two the Grampian force had asked them to keep an eye on.\n\nAs the fire abated, Harry walked across for a closer look, hobbling as he went, his climb to safety having aggravated the injury to his knee he had suffered in Aberdeen. The neighbouring houses had escaped largely unscathed, he saw, but his old home had been reduced to a burnt-out skeleton. Hoses were still being played on the smouldering interior. The walls between rooms were just about the only features that remained recognizable. The rest\u2014doors, windows, stairs, furniture and all\u2014had been reduced to heaps of ash and blackened wreckage.\n\n\"You the tenant?\" a fireman asked, approaching from one of the engines.\n\n\"Er, yes. Yes, I am.\"\n\n\"I picked this up.\" He handed Harry a framed photograph. \"It's a pity not to save something.\"\n\nHe walked away, leaving Harry to squint in the lamplight at the Commonweal School group photograph of September 1948, which had hung on his bedroom wall from then until this last night of the Barnetts' presence in Falmouth Street, Swindon. It was over now. It was finished. Not much sooner but a lot more brutally than he had anticipated, the end had come.\n\nBack in 1948, Harry had mischievously run round behind the group after the camera had begun shooting, in order to appear at both the left- and right-hand extremities of the picture, grinning triumphantly. As he looked at it now, however, he saw the heat of the fire had not only cracked the glass but had singed the edges of the paper. A dark brown scorch mark obscured all but the middle third of the group. There was Dr. Jones, the headmaster, flanked by his staff. And there, behind them, were the central ranks of boys and girls. But of Harry, at either end, no trace remained. His grin had disappeared in both places. He had been erased twice over.\n\n\"What's that?\" Chipchase asked, materializing at his elbow.\n\n\"Nothing worth keeping,\" Harry replied, tossing the picture down among the broken glass and other debris in front of them. \"That's for sure.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase, looking up at the house. \"What a mess.\" He wrapped a consoling arm round Harry's shoulder, which had to amount to the warmest gesture of friendship he had ever displayed. \"It's a facer and no mistake.\"\n\n\"You could say that, Barry. Yes, I think you could.\"\n\n\"But look on the bright side.\"\n\n\"Is there one?\"\n\n\"Certainly. You don't have to clear the place out now, do you?\"\n**CHAPTER \nTHIRTY-NINE**\n\n**T** he Fire Brigade were still on the scene, albeit at a reduced level, when a new day dawned, preposterously bright and vernal. Sunlight glinted on the puddles of water in Falmouth Street, limned with rainbow slicks of diesel, and shafted through the smoke drifting up from the hollow, blackened walls of number 37.\n\nHarry surveyed the dismal scene through the window of Mrs. Jenkins's front parlour. It was a small mercy for which he was duly grateful that his mother had not lived to witness the destruction of her home. But he was aware that it was really no mercy at all. If she had still been alive, he would be safe in Vancouver with Donna and Daisy, blissfully unaware that an Operation Clean Sheet reunion had even been held, let alone disrupted by murder. And the house he had been born in would be as he remembered it, not the gutted, smouldering ruin he saw now.\n\nThe door opened behind him and Harry turned to see Chipchase, wearing one of Mrs. Jenkins' home-knitted cardigans and a pair of her late husband's capacious bowls trousers under his bathrobe, looking as a result like a bewildered fugitive from a down-market nursing home. Harry might have laughed, but for the knowledge that his own outfit was not one he would wish to be seen in on the streets of Swindon.\n\nAs far as that was concerned if no farther, Chipchase was the bearer of good news. \"Jackie's going to buy us some clothes as soon as Marks and Sparks opens and bring them round. She knows my size and you're about the same. It's the spring '05 leisure look for you and me, Harry old cock. She said she'd pop into Boots, as well, and kit us out with a toothbrush and razor each. She never took such good care of me when we were married, I can tell you. I'm seeing a whole new side of her.\"\n\n\"I hope she's not expecting us to pay her for all this stuff.\"\n\n\"She knows we got out with nothing but our hides. Play our cards right and she might even...extend us a loan.\"\n\n\"We'll need one.\"\n\n\"At least until Donna wires us some cash, right?\"\n\n\"Ah. Donna.\"\n\n\"You'll be telling her about this, won't you?\"\n\n\"Actually...I'm not sure.\"\n\n_\"Not sure?\"_\n\n\"I'm worried how she'll react. Until we decide what to do next...\"\n\n\"What can we do without the disk?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Barry.\" Harry looked back through the window at the remains of number 37. \"I just don't know.\"\n\nJackie arrived shortly after 9:30 with two large M&S carrier bags bulging with clothes and an offer of emergency accommodation at her house. Chipchase was all for accepting, but Harry felt obliged to object.\n\n\"Somebody tried to kill us last night, Jackie. They might try again. We'd only be endangering you by staying at your place.\"\n\n\"You really think it's as bad as that?\"\n\n\"Every bloody bit,\" Chipchase reluctantly agreed.\n\n\"Then you should tell the police.\"\n\n\"They'll realize it was arson soon enough. But as for catching the arsonist...they're more likely to conclude we did it ourselves to get us off the hook with Grampian CID.\"\n\n\"Surely not.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Chipchase gloomily. \"They very well bloody might.\"\n\n\"Give them the disk. They'll have the resources to\u2014\" Jackie broke off and looked at each of them in turn. \"You don't have it any more, do you?\"\n\n\"It's just a lump of goo under a scorched floorboard now. I should have grabbed it as I left the bedroom. But...\" Harry shrugged. \"I didn't.\"\n\nThere was a brief silence. Then Jackie asked, almost plaintively, \"What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"I asked him that myself earlier,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"And I still don't have an answer,\" said Harry.\n\nAn answer of sorts, though hardly a reliable one, had emerged by the time they checked in at the police station. The duty sergeant gave no hint that he had any knowledge of the previous night's fire\u2014or their connection with it. Nor did he react much at all to Harry's announcement that they were planning to return to Aberdeen the following day.\n\n\"Very good, sir. We'll let them know.\"\n\n\"We're not going back to Aberdeen tomorrow, are we?\" Chipchase asked as they threaded their way through the Saturday morning crowds in the Brunel Centre.\n\n\"We have to go back there sooner or later.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, in the meantime you and I need to conduct what you might call a strategic overview. I get the distinct impression we're in a canoe heading for the rapids without a paddle between us.\"\n\n\"OK. Where do you want to go for this...tactical talk?\"\n\n\"Well, the Pot should just have opened.\"\n\n\"Good idea. But they'll expect us to pay for our drinks. So, first things first.\"\n\nThe hairdresser whose eye they caught upon entering Jacaranda Styling's Swindon New Town salon waved them through to the back office, where Jackie was waiting.\n\n\"There you are, Harry,\" she said, handing him a bulging wallet. \"I guess I'm settling a debt that's been outstanding ever since I let Barry talk me into running out on you all those years ago. So, I added some interest to what you asked for. I even bought you something to keep the money in. If I were you, I'd dole it out to Barry in single-note instalments, strictly as the need arises.\"\n\n\"Thanks for the vote of confidence, darlin',\" said Chipchase, smiling ruefully.\n\n\"I still think you should tell the police everything.\"\n\n\"Maybe we will,\" said Harry.\n\n\"And maybe we won't,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"I suppose it's pointless urging you to be careful.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Harry. \"It isn't. We will be careful. Believe it or not, we have been. All along.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Chipchase. \"And look where that's got us.\"\n\n\"You know,\" Chipchase announced after a first swallow of the first pint of Monkey's Revenge pulled at the Glue Pot that morning, \"I was pretty sure last night I'd drunk enough of this stuff to guarantee a steam-hammer hangover. Instead, my head's clear as a bell. Must be down to all that night air I got the benefit of. How are you feeling?\"\n\n\"Great,\" Harry replied. \"Just great.\"\n\n\"You don't look it.\"\n\n\"That's because I'm aware somebody wants us dead and may be determined to finish the job they started last night.\"\n\n\"Plus of course beige isn't your colour. Or would you call that taupe?\"\n\n\"Maybe we _should_ go back to Aberdeen. Today rather than tomorrow. Protective custody could be our safest bet.\"\n\n\"You're obviously not feeling at your most sparklingly optimistic.\"\n\n\"Nor should you be. Someone's after our blood, Barry. You do understand that, don't you?\"\n\n\"Of course I do. But old Chipchase doesn't turn tail and run at the first whiff of grapeshot. Counter-attack. That's what we've got to do.\"\n\n\"But counter-attack _who_? We still haven't a clue who's doing this. Or why.\"\n\n\"My money's on Tancred.\"\n\n\"What's his motive?\"\n\n\"Beyond a twisted personality? Well, I don't actually...\" Chipchase's boldly launched analysis of their options trickled away, like water into desert sand. He grimaced and gulped down some more beer.\n\n\"Exactly. No plausible motive. And not a shred of evidence. We've got\u2014\"\n\n_\"Harry,\"_ the barman called.\n\n\"Yeah?\" Harry looked round.\n\n\"Woman on the phone for you.\" He held up the receiver.\n\nHarry was vaguely aware that he had heard the telephone ringing a few minutes before. It would never have occurred to him, however, that it had been ringing for him. He advanced cautiously to the bar and took the receiver.\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Harry, this is Erica Rawson.\"\n\n_\"Erica?\"_\n\n\"Yes. Returning your call. The mobile number you left is out of order. Something to do with last night's fire, perhaps.\"\n\n\"You know about that?\"\n\n\"Certainly. We've been doing our best to keep tabs on you ever since you left Aberdeen.\"\n\n_\"We?\"_\n\n\"Well, as you know, I don't work for Aberdeen University. But I do work for another organization. So, _we_ is appropriate, I think.\"\n\n\"What organization is that?\"\n\n\"Not something I can discuss over the telephone, I'm afraid. Which is why I suggest we meet face-to-face. If you and Barry leave the pub now, you'll be at the station in ample time for the next London train. Get off at Didcot. I'll meet you in the long-stay car park.\"\n\n\"Hold on. I\u2014\"\n\nBut the line was dead. Harry had been summoned. And the possibility that he might refuse to answer the summons was simply not allowed for.\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY**\n\n**C** hipchase devoted most of the short journey to Didcot to an unconvincing explanation of how he would have extracted more in the way of solid information from Erica before agreeing to meet her. \"You've danced to her tune a sight too long, Harry. She's going to be disappointed if she expects old Chipchase to be as meek and mild as you've been.\"\n\nIt was futile to point out that Chipchase was in no position to say how meek or mild Harry had been. It was futile, indeed, to speculate what Erica wanted with them\u2014what for that matter she had wanted all along. They would find out soon enough. Shaken by their experiences of the night before, Harry for one was content to wait until they did.\n\nIt was 12:30 when the train reached Didcot. Harry and Barry got off, trailed through the subway and followed a knot of people obviously bound for the car park as they headed along the main platform, then took a path that led to a footbridge over the lines, beyond which serried ranks of commuter cars filled the tarmacked expanse of what had once been a goods yard.\n\n\"How are we going to find her in the middle of that lot?\" Chipchase demanded as they crossed the bridge.\n\n\"Maybe she'll find us.\"\n\n\"She could have found us at the Glue Pot. Why we've had to come to this godforsaken hole for the privilege of a chat with Miss High and Bloody Mighty I don't\u2014\"\n\n\"Neither do I, Barry. OK? Ask her, not me.\"\n\n\"I will. If I get the chance.\"\n\nThe people ahead of them peeled off to their vehicles. Doors slammed. Engines started. Cars nosed out of parking bays. Harry and Barry wandered towards the farthest, emptiest corner of the car park, drawing ever closer as they did so to the huge, squat, gently steaming chimneys of the nearby power station.\n\nA black four-by-four with reflective windows stood conspicuously alone near the distant boundary fence. Its headlamps flashed once as they approached. The passenger door opened and a tall, barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man dressed in jeans and windcheater climbed out. He lit a cigarette, then wandered slowly away from the car, leaving the door open behind him.\n\n\"Who the bloody hell's that?\" muttered Chipchase.\n\n\"Never seen him before.\"\n\n\"Looks like a bloody bouncer.\"\n\n\"Well, just as long as he's not planning to bounce us.\"\n\n\"Think he'd give me a fag? I could just do with one.\"\n\n\"You really want to find out?\"\n\nChipchase thought for a moment. \"Maybe not,\" he said with a sigh. \"The poor sod's probably only lit up now because Her Nibs told him he couldn't inside the car.\"\n\nThey covered a few more yards towards the four-by-four in silence. Harry caught sight of Erica, seated behind the wheel, dressed casually in jeans and fleece. She glanced coolly at him, her face expressionless.\n\n\"That definitely her?\" whispered Chipchase.\n\n\"Yup.\"\n\n\"You really know how to pick 'em, don't you?\"\n\nHarry let the remark pass, despite the fact that he had in no sense picked Erica. If anything, _she_ had picked _him._ He stopped by the open passenger door and looked in at her. \"Hello, Erica,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"Hello, Harry.\" Her reply was neutrally pitched, giving away no more than her calm, unflinching gaze. \"And Barry, I presume.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" growled Chipchase.\n\n\"Get in. Please.\"\n\nHarry climbed into the seat beside her. Chipchase opened the rear door and clambered in behind him.\n\n\"Something wrong with your knee, Harry? You seem to be limping.\"\n\n\"It's nothing.\"\n\n\"What he means,\" said Chipchase, \"is that it's the least of his problems.\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose it must be.\"\n\n\"Who's your chum?\"\n\n\"A colleague.\"\n\n\"What sort of business do you have to be in to get a colleague like him?\"\n\n\"I'm sorry I had to...misrepresent myself...in Aberdeen. And I'm sorry I can't be specific about what I do for a living. Or the nature of my interest in your...old airmen's reunion. But there it is. Those are the ground rules.\"\n\n\"A bit bloody limiting, aren't they?\"\n\n\"Yes. But they are what I'm obliged to operate within. Why don't you shut the doors? It's a little draughty in here.\"\n\nThe doors closed in a single synchronized clunk. Marlboro Man came into view, prowling the empty parking bays in a slow arc, drawing on his cigarette while never taking his eyes off the four-by-four and its three occupants.\n\n\"You didn't need to bring a bodyguard, Erica,\" said Harry.\n\n\"I know. But he insisted.\"\n\n\"You're not a psychologist, are you?\"\n\n\"An amateur one, maybe. But no. For your purposes, I'm not.\"\n\n\"And you're not with the police.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Some other branch of the forces of law and order, then?\"\n\n\"Not exactly.\"\n\n\"Secret bloody Service,\" put in Chipchase. \"That's what it is, isn't it? MI bleeding five.\"\n\n\"You're jumping to conclusions, Barry.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, it beats jumping for your life from a burning house, I can tell you. From personal bloody experience.\"\n\n\"You had a lucky escape.\"\n\n\"Too true we did, darlin'. So, how about making our day and laying on a lucky escape for us from all our recent troubles?\"\n\n\"What exactly did you have in mind?\"\n\n\"Who's been killing our old comrades, Erica?\" Harry asked. \"And trying to kill us?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Why would anyone want to?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"What makes Operation Clean Sheet so important all these years after the event?\"\n\n\"I can't say.\"\n\n\"Significant change of tone there, Harry old cock. Did you notice?\" Chipchase leaned forward between the seats. \"Some things she doesn't know. Others she can't say.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Erica softly.\n\n\"You invited me to call you if I needed help, Erica,\" said Harry. \"Well, I called. Because I do need help. We both do. Badly.\"\n\n\"I know. But my freedom of movement's become...limited.\"\n\n\"What the bloody hell's that supposed to mean?\" snapped Chipchase.\n\n\"It means I can't help you as much as I'd like to.\" She glanced round at Harry and he held her gaze.\n\n\"How about at all?\"\n\n\"That depends.\"\n\n\"On what?\"\n\n\"How much you know. How much you've learned. How much you've...deduced.\"\n\n\"That's easily answered,\" said Chipchase. \"Sweet FA.\"\n\n\"For your sakes, I hope not.\"\n\n\"We've figured out a few things,\" said Harry. \"But not enough to understand what's going on.\"\n\n\"The fire at Askew's flat in Cardiff suggests the murderer feared there might be evidence to be found there pointing to his identity. Could the fire at your house in Swindon have been started for the same reason?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Do you mean you have such evidence?\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"If you can lead us to the killer, I can do something for you. Get the police off your backs. Arrange safe passage...wherever you want to go. We looked after Starkie. We can look after you.\"\n\n\"What did Starkie do for you?\"\n\n\"What we asked him to.\"\n\n\"And Dangerfield?\"\n\n\"What have you got for me, Harry? What's the evidence? It has to be quid pro quo. I'm not authorized to operate any other way. Tell me you have something to trade.\" She looked intently at him, eager, it seemed, to be told a deal could be done. \"Please.\"\n\n\"Askew sent me a computer disk. We've been trying to decrypt it. Without success.\"\n\n\"Where is it?\"\n\nHarry shook his head.\n\n\"It wasn't...destroyed in the fire?\"\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"Oh dear.\" She sighed. \"How sad.\"\n\n\"Is that sad for you, darlin'?\" Chipchase asked. \"Or us?\"\n\n\"Principally you, I'm afraid. There's nothing I can do without it. Or something like it. My hands are tied.\"\n\n\"No chance you could _untie_ them?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"So, where does that leave us?\"\n\nShe did not answer directly. Her gaze shifted. She pursed her lips and stared into the middle distance. Harry exchanged a helpless glance with Chipchase. A silent minute slowly elapsed. Then, at last, she spoke. But all she said was: \"I'm sorry. I really am.\" Then she started the engine.\n\n\"Are we going for a spin, darlin'?\" asked Chipchase.\n\n\"No, Barry. I'm afraid it's time to say goodbye. Would you mind getting out? I need to be on my way.\"\n\n\"Tell us what's going on, Erica,\" said Harry, no longer trying to conceal his desperation. \"Please. I'm begging you.\"\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"Rules were made to be broken,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"Not these rules.\"\n\n\"Our lives could be on the line,\" said Harry, the pitch of his voice rising. \"You realize that, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She closed her eyes briefly. \"I do.\"\n\n\"Then\u2014\"\n\n\"It's no good, Harry.\" She raised her hand. It was a prearranged signal to Marlboro Man. He tossed away his cigarette and started towards them. \"You're on your own.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-ONE**\n\n**A** s a venue for what amounted to a council of war, the buffet at Didcot railway station left something to be desired. But since neither Harry nor Barry had felt able to suggest a smart move in any direction after watching Erica's four-by-four roar out of the car park, destination unknown, the buffet it had to be. It catered for people in transit, after all: those who had set off on a journey but not yet reached its end; and that was Harry and Barry to a tee.\n\n\"Fat lot of bleeding good coming here did us,\" Chipchase complained, slurping McEwan's Export between drags on the first cigarette in a newly purchased pack.\n\n\"It was impressive the way you controlled the discussion from start to finish, certainly,\" Harry observed, his tolerance of Chipchase's reproachful tone wearing thin.\n\n\"What did you expect me to do? She's some kind of spook. _And_ she had a minder. She said her freedom of movement was limited. Well, it's better than no bloody freedom at all.\"\n\n\"It's not as bad as that, Barry. Here we are, with money in our pocket and the run of the rail network. Where d'you want to go? Penzance? Pembroke? Pwllheli?\"\n\n\"The money's in _your_ pocket, since you mention it. And, without passports, making a run of it's a waste of what little time we have to play with before Plod starts twitching on our leash.\"\n\n\"True enough.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\nHarry leaned back in his comfortless chair and rubbed his eyes, which were still smarting from the smoke they had had to contend with the night before. \"Meeting Erica wasn't the total washout you seem to think, Barry.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"Well, like you said, she turns out to be a spook. MI5. MI6. One or the other\u2014or similar. The point is, there's some kind of overlap between Operation Clean Sheet and the Secret Service. God knows what it is. But no one who does know is going to tell us. We're on our own. She said so, didn't she? She made that very clear.\"\n\n\"If you're trying to cheer me up, you're\u2014\"\n\n\" _I'm trying to tell it like it is._ Listen. Erica doesn't know who the murderer is. Or what their motive is. So, the murders can't be directly connected with the spy angle to Operation Clean Sheet, whatever _that_ is. They're about something else. Which means we're as well placed to figure out the answer as anyone.\"\n\n\"Go on, then. Figure it out.\"\n\n\"Back at the Pot, you were all for counter-attacking. Was that just the beer talking?\"\n\n\"It might have been the humming of the chorus. Indecision's the real bugbear. I can't decide whether I'm angrier than I am frightened. But on balance...\" Chipchase took a long draw on his cigarette. \"Probably more frightened. Come to think of it...a lot more. And that makes me angry. That and being left in the lurch by Miss Four-by-Four. It all makes me bloody livid, as a matter of fact.\"\n\n\"Me too.\"\n\n\"So, I guess I still favour counter-attack.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"But what\u2014or who\u2014do we go after?\"\n\n\"Well, I'll phone Donna as soon as it's a civilized hour in Vancouver. See if she's turned up anything on Maynard's mystery drug\u2014MRQS.\"\n\n\"What if she hasn't?\"\n\n\"Then we'll go back to Enslow. He lied to us about Ailsa Redpath. I'm sure of that. She doesn't live in Italy. He didn't want to tell us her real address in case we decided to pay her a visit. Now, why d'you think that might be?\"\n\n\"Dunno.\" Chipchase stubbed out his cigarette and smiled manfully. \"But I'd be willing to try and find out if it involved giving the fragrant Clifford a hard time.\"\n\nThanks to the vagaries of Great Western's Saturday afternoon connections at Reading and Twyford, it was nearly four o'clock when they reached Henley. The sole advantage of their late arrival was that it was now breakfast-time in Vancouver. Armed with an international phonecard bought before leaving Swindon and a cover story fine-tuned along the way, Harry called Donna from a payphone at Henley station, while Chipchase paced up and down outside and made further inroads into his cigarette supply.\n\nThere was something subtly wrong in Donna's tone even before Harry embarked on his explanation of why he was not ringing from his mother's. He tried to tell himself he was imagining it, that his guilt about lying to her was getting to him. But he remained, on some level, unconvinced.\n\n\"They've disconnected Mother's phone. God knows why. Some misunderstanding, obviously, but I can't sort it out over the weekend. My mobile doesn't seem to be charging either and Barry's has been cut off. No need to ask why that might be. So, I'm reduced to call-boxes. Any news on MRQS?\"\n\n\"None at all, Harry. Marvin drew a blank. But he's volunteered to follow a few more hunches, so he might turn up something yet. He's horribly eager to oblige. You can count on him doing his best. It might help if you told me how you came to hear of the drug in the first place.\"\n\n\"It's a long story. And these payphones fairly gobble credit. MRQS could be an anti-AIDS drug from a while back. Or it could be for something else altogether. I just don't know. I don't even know if it's important.\"\n\n\"But it may be?\"\n\n\"Maybes are all I have to go on at the moment.\"\n\n\"And you're being careful? Like you promised you would.\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm being careful. I'm practically following the Green Cross Code every time I reach the kerbside. There's nothing for you to worry about.\"\n\n\"I wish I could believe that.\"\n\n\"You can. I'll phone again later. I've got to go now. Have a nice day. Love you. And Daisy. 'Bye.\"\n\nStill troubled by an inflexion in Donna's voice that he was not sure had really been there at all and unable to recall anything in her actual words to substantiate his concern, he rejoined Chipchase outside the station.\n\n\"No joy on MRQS,\" he tersely reported.\n\nChipchase shrugged. \"Can't say I'm surprised. Whatever this is about, I don't see how the battle against AIDS comes into it. In the days of Operation Clean Sheet, there was nothing worse than a dose of the clap to worry about, whichever way you hung your flag.\"\n\n\"All right. Let's go and see Enslow.\"\n\n\"That's more like it. Old crocks we may be, Harry, but I reckon we can put the squeeze on Cliff. And it'll be interesting to see what oozes out when we do.\"\n\nThey took a cautious peer into the Age Concern shop, but there was no sign of Enslow behind the counter. Chipchase popped in for a flirtatious word with the lady in attendance and was rewarded with the information that he had just left.\n\nThey agreed it was likely he would go straight home, so made a beeline for Belle Rive. Their route took them past Caf\u00e9 Rouge, where they had entertained him to lunch only the day before, though to Harry it felt far longer ago. Everything prior to the destruction of his old home in Swindon had a distant, sepia-tinged quality to it now, as if most of his life had gone up in smoke along with his mother's brica-brac and mementoes of the family's past.\n\n\"There he is,\" said Chipchase, interrupting Harry's gloomy train of thought with a grab at his elbow.\n\nEnslow was ambling along a footpath through an old graveyard that was clearly a short-cut to the next street and the lane serving Belle Rive and neighbouring properties. Harry and Barry overhauled him in half a dozen strides.\n\n\"Afternoon, Cliff.\"\n\nEnslow started at Chipchase's words and whisked round. \"What? Oh. Good God. You two.\"\n\n\"Yeah. We just can't stay away from heavenly Henley.\"\n\n\"Really? I\u2014\"\n\n\"Actually, it's you we can't stay away from.\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"Got what you might call a supplementary question for you. Arising from our little chat yesterday.\"\n\n\"Surely we...covered everything.\"\n\n\"Not everything.\" Chipchase grinned. \"There's one tiny point we somehow overlooked.\"\n\nHarry summoned a grin of his own to match Chipchase's. \"You know what they say. There's no such thing as a free lunch.\"\n\n\"We need you to tell us where Ailsa Redpath lives,\" Harry explained after they had piloted Enslow to a nearby bench and settled beside him. \"But before you do that, I ought to make a few things clear. Firstly, we know she doesn't live in Italy, so don't waste your breath on the Tuscan villa cover story. Secondly, you ought to be aware the Grampian police have us in the frame for those murders in Aberdeenshire you've read about. We're due to be grilled by them on Tuesday. We're not guilty, by the way, in case you wondered. But someone is. And they're after all of us. If we tell enough people you're the keeper of Lester Maynard's secrets, it's my bet you'll be added to the hit list. Co-operate with us, however, and we'll keep your name out of it. All you have to do is point us in your landlady's direction and stifle any temptation you might feel to warn her we're looking for her. It really is as simple as that. So, how about it?\"\n\n\"I...\"\n\n\"We'll make it easy for you, Cliff,\" put in Chipchase. \"You can omit the postcode.\"\n\nEnslow sighed heavily. He thought for a protracted moment, then said, \"All right.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-TWO**\n\n**N** ot Italy. Not even Scotland. Ailsa Redpath lived in London. Harry and Barry left Enslow to make his way home and hurried back to the station, arriving short of breath but in ample time for the 5:20 train.\n\nAt Paddington, Harry bought his second _London A\u2013Z_ in as many days and traced Ailsa Redpath's address to a chunk of Chelsea between King's Road and Fulham Road. They could be there within the hour.\n\nEnslow had maintained his attempt to mislead them had been motivated by nothing more than a desire to avoid causing his landlady any trouble for fear she might review his rent. Harry was not so sure. He thought it distinctly possible that Mrs. Redpath had asked Enslow to divert any enquiries concerning her. He also thought Enslow might already have reported their visit of the day before to her, even though he had denied doing so. But the real question was not whether she had taken active steps to guard her privacy. It was why she might have done. And there was only one way to find out.\n\nIt was gone seven o'clock on a cool, grey evening when they emerged from the Underground at South Kensington. A stiffish march through quietly affluent residential streets took them within half an hour to Elm Park Road\u2014and a white-stuccoed, black-railinged Victorian terrace of well-worn gentility.\n\n\"How are we going to play this, then?\" Chipchase asked, pausing before the steps leading to the gleaming blood-red front door of number 27.\n\n\"By ear,\" Harry replied, striding up the steps and pressing the bell. \"Just follow my lead.\"\n\nHarry had time for a second, longer press before the door opened. A tall, grey-haired man of middle years, with a fine-boned face, piercing eyes and the dashing looks of an ageing film star, regarded them unsmilingly, almost challengingly. He was dressed casually but expensively, with a glittering chunk of Rolex lolling from the wrist of the hand he had wrapped round the edge of the door.\n\n\"Yes?\" A faint upward twitch of the eyebrows accompanied the peremptory greeting.\n\n\"We're, er...looking for Ailsa Redpath,\" said Harry.\n\n\"Who are you?\" There was the hint of a Scottish accent buried deep in the man's clipped, cosmopolitan voice.\n\n\"My name's Harry Barnett. This is my friend, Barry Chipchase.\"\n\n\"Never heard of you.\"\n\n\"There's no reason\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm Iain Redpath. Ailsa's my wife. I know all her friends...and acquaintances. I don't know you.\"\n\n\"We've never actually met your wife, Mr. Redpath. We are old friends of the late Lester Maynard, however. He bequeathed her a house in Henley, as you'll be aware. It's in connection with Lester that\u2014\"\n\n\"Ailsa isn't here.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"She's gone away.\"\n\n\"Really? Where to?\"\n\nRedpath's grip on the door tightened. His gaze narrowed. \"None of your business.\"\n\n\"Are you always this hostile to visitors, squire?\" put in Chipchase.\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"It's not as if Harry's stepped out of line. We're only making a few polite enquiries.\"\n\n\"This is very important, Mr. Redpath,\" said Harry, emolliently. \"To your wife as well as us. We need to get in touch with her. Urgently. If you could just tell us\u2014\"\n\n\"I'll tell her you called. OK? Barnett and Chipchase. Old friends of Lester Maynard. I've got that right, haven't I?\"\n\n\"Yes. But\u2014\"\n\n\"Want to leave your number in case she decides to call you?\" His tone implied this was so unlikely as to be inconceivable.\n\n\"We don't actually...have a number.\"\n\nRedpath looked them both up and down. \"Why am I not surprised?\"\n\n\"But we could...come back.\" Harry ventured a smile. \"When you've had a chance to talk to your wife.\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose you could. But I can save you the bother. There's nothing Ailsa will want to discuss with you. I can guarantee it.\"\n\n\"If you could just see your way to\u2014\"\n\n\"Goodbye.\" With that\u2014and the faintest of smiles\u2014Redpath closed the door in their faces.\n\n\"That went well, I thought,\" said Chipchase as they wandered away along the street, retracing their steps in the vaguest of default modes.\n\n\"He's hiding something,\" grumbled Harry.\n\n\"His wife, you mean?\"\n\n\"We'll go back.\"\n\n\"He's already told us what answer we'll get if we do.\"\n\n_\"We'll go back.\"_\n\n\"OK, OK. We'll go back. For all the bloody good it'll do us. How about a drink in the meantime? I could murder a\u2014\"\n\n\"Hi.\" The door of a rust-pocked Ford Fiesta parked at the kerbside a few yards ahead of them had swung open and the driver had climbed out into their path. He was a podgy, round-faced young man with short, greasy hair, John Lennon glasses and several days' growth of beard. His leather jacket, T-shirt and trousers were a uniform shade of matte black. There was a sheen of sweat on his high forehead and a skittering look of nervousness in his eyes. This last feature Harry found strangely endearing after Redpath's glacial show of contempt. \"You're looking for Ailsa, right?\"\n\n\"We might be,\" Chipchase replied.\n\n\"We are,\" said Harry definitively.\n\n\"Me too,\" said the young man. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. \"Her husband's a tight-lipped bastard, isn't he?\"\n\n\"To put it mildly.\"\n\n\"What d'you want with Ailsa?\"\n\n\"We could ask you the same.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Another wipe of the mouth. \"I suppose you could.\"\n\n\"How about we trade answers?\"\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"Over a drink,\" said Chipchase.\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-THREE**\n\n**D** uring the short drive to a nearby pub, little more than introductions were exchanged. The young man's name was Mark Howlett. He lived over the river in Bermondsey. Chelsea was not his normal stamping ground, something the contrast between his car and most of those parked in and around Elm Park Road had already made obvious. He said no more for the moment, but a stack of posters which Harry found himself sharing the back seat with hinted at the cause of the stress he was clearly under.\n\nHAVE YOU SEEN HER? was printed above a head-and-shoulders photograph of a woman about Howlett's own age, with short fair hair, delicate features and a calm, almost studious expression. Beneath was the imploring message HELP ME FIND KAREN SNOW\u2014PHONE MARK 07698 442810. There looked to be at least fifty copies. Discreetly, Harry folded one up and slipped it into his pocket.\n\nThe Anglesea Arms was full without being overcrowded. Harry bought the drinks while Chipchase navigated a path through the ruck to a table by the window, Howlett trailing distractedly behind him. The lad's hangdog air seemed of a piece with the pitiful note struck by the poster. It was possible to believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that he was more parlously placed than they were.\n\nHe took a large gulp from the lager Harry delivered to him and accepted the offer of a cigarette from Chipchase. Then his gaze swivelled to and fro between them and he asked, \"Who are you guys, then?\"\n\n\"We already told you,\" said Chipchase. \"He's Harry. I'm Barry.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but...who are you _really_?\"\n\n\"Old National Service chums of Ailsa Redpath's late benefactor, Lester Maynard,\" said Harry.\n\n_\"Who?\"_\n\n\"Lester Maynard.\"\n\n\"The name doesn't mean a thing to me.\"\n\n\"What about...Peter Askew?\"\n\n\"Askew?\" Howlett's eyes lit up. \"You know Askew?\"\n\n\"We used to,\" said Chipchase, before theatrically running his forefinger across his throat.\n\n\"He's dead?\"\n\n\"Got off a train while it was still moving up in Scotland last week. Moving at top bloody speed, actually. _Very_ bloody, for poor old Askew.\"\n\n\"Askew's _dead_?\"\n\n\"It was in the papers,\" said Harry.\n\n\"I haven't...been following the news. I...\" Howlett rubbed his eyes. \"When was this?\"\n\n\"A week ago yesterday. He was on his way to an RAF reunion in Aberdeenshire. I was on the train myself. Barry and I both served with him. Back in the fifties.\"\n\n\"In the RAF?\"\n\n\"Strange as it may seem,\" said Chipchase, rolling his eyes.\n\n_\"Friday?\"_\n\n\"How did you know him, Mark?\" Harry asked mildly.\n\n\"I didn't. It's just...the name. Karen, my girlfriend, knew him. Well, met him.\" A frown of uncertainty formed on Howlett's face. \"I think.\"\n\n\"Where's Karen now?\"\n\n\"I don't...\" He licked his lips. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Hence this?\" Harry took the poster out of his pocket and unfolded it.\n\nHowlett's mouth sagged open. He nodded. \"Yeah. She's been missing more than a week now. Since the day before your friend died, actually. No one seems bothered about it. Except me. If Askew's dead...\" He raised a hand to his face. \"Christ, what does that mean for her?\"\n\n\"When did they meet?\"\n\n\"The evening she went missing. Thursday. Well, I don't know for a _fact_ that they met, but...\" He sighed. \"We were supposed to be going to the cinema that night. She phoned and cancelled. Said she had to meet a guy who might be able to give her some information about the Haskurlay mystery. She didn't actually name him, mind. I got that from the jotter beside the phone at her flat. _Askew, 7:30, Lamb._ The Lamb's a pub she sometimes goes to after work. She's a palaeontologist at the British Museum. Anyway, she\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold on,\" Harry interrupted, backtracking furiously in his head. \"What's the...Haskurlay mystery?\"\n\n\"Oh right. Yeah. I suppose you don't know. Though that was in the papers as well. Four years ago this month.\"\n\n\"You'll have to fill us in, Mark.\"\n\n\"OK. Right. Well, Karen was at Leeds University then. So was I. That's where we met. Anyway, she went off during the Easter vac with some other archaeology and palaeontology students to do a dig on Haskurlay. It's an island in the Outer Hebrides. Uninhabited now, but there are remains of ancient settlements, including a burial mound. So, they got digging...and turned up something...they didn't expect.\" Howlett paused to slurp some lager.\n\n\"Which was?\"\n\n\"A couple of skeletons...from the recent past...buried in the mound along with the prehistoric bones.\" Howlett took another gulp of lager. \"Recent...as in about fifty years old.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-FOUR**\n\n**H** owlett peered at Harry and Barry in turn, studying the bafflement and disbelief that must have been written on their faces. \"You sure you don't remember this?\" he asked. \"There was quite a bit of media interest at the time.\"\n\n\"I was out of the country,\" said Harry.\n\n\"And I guess the _Racing Post_ didn't send a correspondent,\" said Chipchase. \"Assume we know zilcho, Marky.\"\n\n\"OK. Right. Well, there were holes in the skulls of these skeletons. Like they'd been shot. I mean, like murdered, y'know? They were dated to...forty or fifty years ago. The last of the island's population left closer to a hundred years ago. So, the police had a double murder on their hands. Nothing to do with Karen, really, except...she was the one who actually found the bodies...and got her face on the telly...and...always hankered for an explanation.\"\n\n\"Did she get one?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Not exactly. The police identified the bodies eventually. They belonged to a crofter and his son from Vatersay\u2014the nearest inhabited island\u2014who'd gone missing on a boat trip. Everyone thought they'd drowned, but...it seems they hadn't. Several crofters from Vatersay and its larger neighbour, Barra, grazed sheep on Haskurlay at the time, apparently, so\u2014\"\n\n\"What time _was_ that?\"\n\n\"Oh, didn't I say? The spring of 1955.\"\n\n\"'Fifty-five?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\nChipchase's gaze met Harry's. \"Busy around then north of the border, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"There can't be any connection with Operation Clean Sheet, Barry. We were on the opposite coast, for God's sake.\"\n\n\"I know. But there _is_ a connection. I feel it in my bones. So do you.\"\n\n\"What's Operation Clean Sheet?\" asked Howlett.\n\n\"We'll tell you later,\" Chipchase replied. \"Meanwhile, spell Haskurlay for us.\"\n\n\" _Spell it_?\"\n\n\"Just humour a dyslexic old man, son. How do you spell Haskurlay?\"\n\n\"H-A-S-K-U-R-L-A-Y.\"\n\n\"H-A-S-K-U-R-L-A-Y,\" Chipchase repeated after him. \"I make that nine letters. Harry?\"\n\n\"It can't be.\"\n\n\"It bloody can.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"What are you two going on about?\" asked Howlett, sounding increasingly exasperated.\n\n\"Finish _your_ story first, Marky,\" Chipchase replied. \" _Then_ we'll tell you ours.\"\n\n\"What were the crofter and his son called?\" Harry prompted.\n\n\"Munro. Hamish and Andrew Munro. There were surviving relatives, so the police were able to use DNA tests to identify them. As to who shot them...they hadn't a clue. There were rumours, but...\"\n\n\"What sort of rumours?\"\n\n\"Oh, that there was some kind of...military presence on Haskurlay. Secret stuff...that the Munros blundered into. The MoD said no way, absolutely not. And the police went along with that. I guess they had no choice. There's actually no sign anything even vaguely military took place there, according to Karen. So, it's a...total mystery.\"\n\n\"Where does Ailsa Redpath come into it?\"\n\n\"Hamish Munro was her father. Andrew was her older brother.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase. He looked round at Harry. \"That has to be the reason Maynard left her his house.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Harry. \"It does. But...I still don't get it.\"\n\n\"Karen's never given up trying to figure it all out,\" said Howlett. \"She went up to Stornoway last autumn to address a conference on Pictish culture. Well, that was her excuse. But I know for a fact she stopped off in Barra. There's a causeway linking Barra to Vatersay now. They're basically one island. So, I reckon she asked around about the murders while she was there. Maybe she visited Haskurlay again. Maybe she spoke to Ailsa's younger brother, Murdo. He still lives on Vatersay. Maybe, one way or another, she did enough...to attract the attention of your friend Askew.\"\n\n\"Maybe. Though the truth is, Mark, we have no idea why Peter Askew should have contacted her\u2014or what he might have told her.\"\n\n\"It has to have been something to do with the murders. She said so.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"See for yourself.\" Howlett pulled a piece of paper from his wallet, unfolded it and held it out in front of them. It was a sheet from Karen Snow's phoneside jotter. _Askew 7:30 Lamb_ was not the only thing she had written on it. _HASKURLAY_ was written at the top in deeply scored capitals and, beneath that, _Check with Ailsa._\n\n\"It was _all_ to do with the murders,\" said Howlett. \"Askew had the answer she was looking for.\"\n\n\"We can't be sure of that.\"\n\n\" _I'm_ sure.\"\n\n\"So what are you doing about it?\" put in Chipchase.\n\n\"I've told the police, but they don't want to know. They reckon Karen's taken off somewhere without telling me, so it's none of their business. I've asked around. All her friends. Colleagues at work. They're baffled, but they don't know what to do. I've stuck the poster up in as many shops, bars, clubs and pubs near her flat as'll let me. No response. No news at all, good or bad.\"\n\n\"Have you contacted her family?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"She's an only child. Parents separated. Mother's seriously loopy. Suggested Karen had gone to ground to get away from me. Fucking bitch. No idea where her father is. So, the family's a write-off.\"\n\n\"Which leaves you with Ailsa.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I found her listed in Karen's address book. That and the wording of the note\u2014 _Check with Ailsa_ \u2014made me think they'd been in touch more often than Karen had ever let on. So, I went round there. Got the brush-off from her husband. He said Ailsa was away. Wouldn't say where. Offered to let her know I'd called. But you could tell he didn't mean it.\"\n\n\"We got the same spiel.\"\n\n\"The way I see it, she's gone into hiding. I thought it was just Karen's disappearance that had spooked her. But if we add Askew's death to the mix...\"\n\n\"Where do you think she's gone?\"\n\n\"I wondered if she was just lying low at the house. But I've kept watch there for hours every day. No sign. No trace. I reckon she must have gone away. Somewhere she feels safe.\"\n\n\"Any idea where?\"\n\n\"Vatersay. The family croft. I phoned the brother, y'see. Spoke to his wife. Well, she _said_ she was his wife. And she was adamant Ailsa wasn't there. But he might not _have_ a wife. That could have been Ailsa I spoke to, covering her own tracks. See what I mean?\"\n\n\"Thought of going there to find out?\"\n\n\"'Course I have. But it's a long way to go if it's actually a wild-goose chase. I might miss her here in London while I was away. Or I might miss a lead on Karen's whereabouts. It's too long a shot.\" Howlett's shoulders slumped. \"On the other hand...\"\n\n\"You're running out of alternatives.\"\n\n\"I think I _have_ run out.\"\n\n\"Look, Mark, we know of nothing linking Peter Askew to the Outer Hebrides fifty years ago. He was in Aberdeenshire, with us. But so were Lester Maynard and another bloke we all served with, Leroy Nixon. Yet Maynard left his house in Henley to Ailsa when he died\u2014a woman he had no known connection with. And Nixon, like Maynard, took numerous trips to Scotland over the years. On one of them, Nixon drowned. Lost overboard from a ferry. We don't know what route the ferry was on, but my guess is that if we checked...we'd find it was going to or from Vatersay. And Askew? Maynard entrusted him with a secret before he died, encrypted on a computer disk under a nine-letter code. The disk's lost, but I think we just cracked the code, don't you? Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"You've come over to my side on that, have you, Harry?\" put in Chipchase.\n\nHarry pointed to Karen's note, still clutched in Howlett's hand. \"Askew, Ailsa and Haskurlay. All on the same piece of paper. I think that clinches it. I haven't a clue what it means. But it means something.\"\n\n\"Our necks, quite bloody likely. If I catch your drift correctly.\"\n\n\"What...\" Howlett gaped at each of them in turn. \"What drift?\"\n\n\"Harry's planning a little Hebridean jaunt for us, Marky.\" Chipchase smiled grimly. \"Aren't you, Harry?\"\n\nHarry shrugged and smiled back at Chipchase. \"I might be.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-FIVE**\n\n**Y** ou guys are serious about this?\" Howlett still seemed to doubt, despite several repetitions, that they meant what they had said\u2014what Harry had said, at any rate, with Chipchase's less than wholehearted support.\n\n\"We're going to Vatersay, Mark. With or without you. We mean to find out what this is really all about. And that's where all the clues lead. Vatersay\u2014and Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I guess they do. OK.\" A widening of Howlett's eyes signalled the decision he had reached. \"I'm in.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"When d'you want to leave?\"\n\n\"Sooner the better.\"\n\n\"I checked up on how to get there a few days ago.\" Howlett pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his hip pocket. \"It's...quite a drag.\" He squinted at his notes. \"There's a car ferry to Barra from Oban most days. It's a five-hour trip. Or you can fly...via Glasgow. But that could be pricey.\"\n\n\"And tricky,\" observed Chipchase. \"Airlines have a habit of insisting on ID.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"We're a little short of...documentation.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah?\"\n\n\"Does the ferry run on Sundays?\" Harry asked, eager to rein in Howlett's curiosity.\n\n\"Er, let's see...\" More squinting. \"Yeah. It does.\"\n\n\"What time?\"\n\n\"Er...fifteen ten.\"\n\n\"And how long would it take to drive to Oban?\"\n\n\"It's about five hundred miles. I guess...ten hours.\"\n\n\"In your rust-wagon that'd feel like ten days,\" Chipchase remarked.\n\n\"Hey, I'm not forcing you to take a ride with me. If you've a smarter motor to\u2014\"\n\n\"We haven't,\" said Harry, glaring at Chipchase. \"The point is, Mark, if we leave tonight...we can be on that ferry tomorrow afternoon.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I suppose.\"\n\n\"You said you were in. And time's pressing.\"\n\n\"Pressing hard,\" muttered Chipchase. \"Take our word for it.\"\n\n\"All right, all right.\" Howlett rubbed his face. \"OK. Let's do it. Let's go.\"\n\n\"Great,\" said Harry.\n\n\"You know it makes sense,\" Chipchase added through gritted teeth.\n\n\"We'll have to swing past my place so I can pack a bag,\" said Howlett. \"What about you two?\"\n\n\"No baggage beyond this,\" said Harry, pointing to the small rucksack Jackie had bought to hold toiletries and a change of clothes.\n\n\"Except the mental kind, of course,\" muttered Chipchase.\n\n\"No car. No ID. No baggage to collect.\" Howlett pondered their suspicious lack of trappings. \"You two really do travel light, don't you?\"\n\n\"You have to at our age, Marky,\" said Chipchase. \"Otherwise you'd never travel at all. And then where would you be? Tucked up in bed at home with a mug of cocoa and not a care in the world.\" He drained his glass. \"Can't have that, can we?\"\n\nHowlett did not invite them in when they reached his flat, to the rear of a row of shops near Bermondsey Tube station. He said he would be gone only a few minutes, then vanished through a gate next to the dented, graffiti-blotched door of a seemingly abandoned garage. It was the first chance Chipchase had been presented with to give Harry his uncensored opinion of the journey they were about to embark on. And he did not waste the chance.\n\n\"The Outer bloody Hebrides, Harry? Ends of the bloody earth, more like. Is taking off there really such a smart move?\"\n\n\"Maybe not. But it's the least futile. It's odds on Ailsa's hiding out with her brother on Vatersay. Howlett's girlfriend could well be with her. He hasn't said so, but that's really why he's agreed to go. Because he hopes they're hiding _together._ \"\n\n\"From what?\"\n\n\"We'll ask them.\"\n\n\"Great idea, Harry. A hum-bloody-dinger, if you don't mind me saying so.\"\n\n\"They already know what we'd have learned if we'd been able to decrypt that disk, Barry. We have to speak to them.\"\n\n\"Fine. So, let's suppose we track them down. And they agree to share the secret with us. Has it occurred to you\u2014has the thought flitted across the farther horizons of your see-a-windmill-let's-take-a-bloody-tilt-at-it mind\u2014that knowing what the secret is could be a whole sight more dangerous than _not_ knowing?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Harry replied, surprised by how calm he felt. \"Of course it has.\"\n\n\"Oh, good.\" Chipchase fell silent for a moment, then added, \"That's reassuring.\"\n\nHarry's calmness, as it turned out, was not destined to last the night. Several hours later, during a stop at Sandbach services on the M6, he called Donna. She did not answer the phone. But it _was_ answered. By someone whose voice he recognized very well: their old friend, Makepeace Steiner.\n\n\"Hi, Harry.\"\n\n\"Makepeace? What are you doing there? Donna never mentioned you were paying a visit.\"\n\n\"Kind of a last-minute arrangement. Donna asked if I could look after Daisy for a few days. And I don't need to remind you of all people how many favours I owe Donna, so\u2014\"\n\n\"She's not there?\"\n\n\"No, Harry, she surely isn't.\"\n\n\"Then...where is she?\"\n\n\"Somewhere over the Rockies. On a plane heading your way.\"\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"She wouldn't tell me what's going on any more than I expect you will, but it was pretty clear she was worried. About you. With good cause, I take it.\"\n\n\"Oh God.\"\n\n\"Thought so.\"\n\n\"I asked her to stay there. Pleaded with her.\"\n\n\"She's a stand-by-your-man kinda gal, Harry. You should know that.\"\n\n\"I do. Worse luck.\"\n\n\"Are you OK?\"\n\n\"Don't I sound it?\"\n\n\"Since you ask...Not really.\"\n\n\"It must be a bad line.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sure thing.\"\n\n\"Before she left...did Donna say anything about a bloke called Marvin Samuels? He was...looking into something for her. Well, for _me,_ actually.\"\n\n\"She never mentioned him.\"\n\n\"Or about a drug called...MRQS?\"\n\n\"Nope. Not a word. But she can give you an update herself tomorrow. Her flight's due into Heathrow at two p.m. your time. She said she'd go straight from the airport to Swindon. And that's where you are, right?\"\n\nHarry steeled himself. \"Yes. I'm in Swindon.\"\n\n\"So, what's the problem?\"\n\n\"No problem.\" Harry suppressed a groan. \"None at all.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-SIX**\n\n**T** hey were nearing the Scottish border as dawn broke, a windless, mizzly morning revealing itself in ever paler shades of grey. Harry had still not decided what to say to Donna when he phoned her, as phone her he must, before she reached Swindon and found 37 Falmouth Street a burnt-out ruin. She was somewhere over the Atlantic now, her mobile switched off, decisively out of contact, asleep perhaps\u2014or more likely wide awake and thinking of him, even as _he_ was thinking of _her_. What had she learned from Samuels? What had prompted her to fly to Harry's rescue? What did she know that he did not?\n\n\"Want something to read now it's light?\" Howlett asked suddenly. He was hunched beside Harry at the wheel of the Fiesta, gazing ahead along the unwinding ribbon of road. Chipchase lay asleep behind them, sprawled across the back seat, his snores drowned by the noise of the engine and the babble of the latest radio station Howlett had tuned to. \"I brought with me the report on Haskurlay Karen wrote as part of her dissertation at Leeds. It'll give you most of the known facts about the island. Interested?\"\n\n\"You bet.\"\n\n\"OK. It's in my bag in the boot. I'll dig it out when we stop for breakfast.\"\n\nThe breakfast stop was not long in coming. A wash, a shave, a fry-up and several strong coffees were had in virtual silence at Gretna services, then Howlett went outside to phone in sick to the trade magazine he worked for. This offered Harry the chance he had been waiting for to give Chipchase the news from Vancouver.\n\n\"She's on her way?\" Chipchase spluttered through the fumes of his post-bacon-and-eggs cigarette.\n\n\"Even as we speak.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Which there'll be to pay when she reaches Swindon.\"\n\n\"You need to head her off at the pass, Harry old cock.\"\n\n\"How do you suggest I do that?\"\n\n\"Well...\" Chipchase applied his mind to the problem. \"There's Jackie, I suppose. We could ask her to meet Donna at Heathrow and explain you only kept her in the dark about the fire so as not to put the wind up her and that...you and me have had to...\"\n\n\"Yes? What exactly have we had to do, Barry?\"\n\n\"OK. Let's regroup. Jackie meets her, fills her in on the fire but assures her you're fine\u2014 _we're_ fine, in case she's two bits bloody bothered about how old Chipchase is faring\u2014and invites her to stay at her place, pending word from us, which we've promised there'll be...as soon as...possible.\"\n\n\"She'll think I'm trying to avoid speaking to her.\"\n\n\"Aren't you?\"\n\n\"No. Of course not. It's just...\"\n\n\"If you do, I bet you'll end up telling her where we're going and why. She won't let you get away with anything less than the truth and once your overdeveloped husbandly conscience kicks in...\"\n\n\"I don't want her coming after us, Barry. It's too...\"\n\n\" _Dangerous_ is the word you're groping for, Harry.\"\n\n\"Let's just say...risky.\"\n\n\"Whatever we say, the only way you can be sure she won't follow us is by staying incommunicado.\"\n\n\"It's not as simple as that. She might have found out something about MRQS. Something _we_ need to know.\"\n\n\"Or she might not have.\" Chipchase took a drag on his cigarette and studied Harry through a slowly exhaled lungful of smoke. \"It's your call.\"\n\nIt was indeed Harry's call. He made it a few minutes later, from one of the service area's payphones. Jackie responded surprisingly well to being woken from her beauty sleep early on a Sunday morning with a thinly reasoned request to cancel whatever else she had planned for the afternoon and drive to Heathrow to collect an unexpected house guest off the two o'clock flight from Vancouver. But she had a warning to give as well.\n\n\"Donna will realize why you're staying out of touch soon enough, Harry. You have to give me something more to tell her.\"\n\n\"Tell her I'll phone...tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It depends.\"\n\n\"What on?\"\n\n\"I don't know that either. But tomorrow...without fail.\"\n\nThey drove on north. Harry started reading Karen Snow's Haskurlay report, grateful for anything that might distract him from the subterfuge he had been forced to resort to. There was not much he could be sure of. But the overriding need to keep Donna out of whatever was waiting for them at the end of their journey constituted one certainty he could cling to. He tried to concentrate.\n\n**HASKURLAY**\n\nSummary Report of Study Party Visit (Department of Archaeology & Prehistory, University of Leeds), April 2001, by Karen Snow.\n\nHaskurlay lies 13km SSW of Barra, in the Outer Hebrides. It covers an area of 415 ha and has a maximum height of 238m. It is composed mostly of gneiss, with some granite. Its last human inhabitants left in 1910. It is owned by the National Trust for Scotland, who acquired it in 2000 from a syndicate of Barra crofters, who grazed sheep there.\n\nThe cliffs on the western side of the island are 150m high in places and are an active breeding site for various seabirds, including guillemots, kittiwakes and skuas. There is also a colony of puffins on the island. There are two inland summits of more than 200m. Between them, grouped around an east-facing bay, are the heavily overgrown ruined cottages of the deserted village.\n\nThe purpose of the study party visit was to examine the remains of ancient human occupation to be found on the island, in particular a 7m high burial mound located on the northern side of the bay. It is unclear whether this is a Neolithic structure or of later origin. Tradition has it that a large stone circle stood at the opposite end of the bay until it was demolished by the villagers in the 18th century, the stones being incorporated in the walls of their cottages and bothies. This suggests active Neolithic occupation. Unfortunately, no trace of the circle now remains. Several stones near the ruined chapel bear Pictish carvings, however. The mound might therefore date from the Pictish period. The island was presumably also occupied at different stages by Celts and Vikings, though there is little or no visible evidence of this. The chapel itself is a 19th-century structure.\n\nThe remit of the study party was to excavate a portion of the burial mound and to recover sufficient ossified human remains to facilitate a more definite dating of its origin. Unfortunately, for reasons outside the study party's control, this project had to be abandoned shortly after initial excavation had begun in what appeared to be a disturbed area of the mound. As a result, no ancient material was removed for analysis and dating of the mound remains speculative.\n\nIt was decided, in the interests of making best use of the study party's time, to leave Haskurlay following the abandonment of the excavation and to carry out a survey of known burial cairns on the neighbouring islands of Mingulay and Berneray. These have, of course, been adequately surveyed in the past and no new findings were therefore anticipated. (See separate report for details.) It is to be hoped that a future study party can return to Haskurlay and implement a definitive dating of the mound. When that might be possible is presently unknown.\n\nHarry read the report through again to be sure he had not missed something, then handed it to Chipchase with a warning that he should not hope to learn anything valuable from it.\n\n\"You wouldn't even know why the dig was abandoned if Karen's account was all you had to go on.\"\n\n\"It's a piece of academic writing,\" said Howlett, snappishly enough to suggest he did not like anyone to criticize his girlfriend, however mildly. \"What do you expect?\"\n\n\"You promised me 'most of the known facts about Haskurlay,' as I recall.\"\n\n\"And that's what you've got.\" Howlett shot Harry a grim little smile. \"There just aren't many of them.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-SEVEN**\n\n**T** he hump-backed hills of Barra and Vatersay came into view as the _Clansman_ car ferry sailed into the setting sun that evening. It was, in its way, a beautiful sight, the last land before Labrador silhouetted against a golden, cloud-barred sky. Chipchase for one, however, was in neither mood nor condition to appreciate it, having complained of seasickness ever since the ship had cleared the Sound of Mull and misgivings about the trip for rather longer.\n\nHarry shared many of those misgivings, but did his best to stifle them. Tracking down Ailsa Redpath was their best if not only chance of unravelling the mystery they were caught up in. They were due to return to Police HQ in Aberdeen on Tuesday. If they did not, they would be officially on the run. There was, accordingly, no time to be lost. And the possibility that they were wasting what little remained of it was not to be contemplated.\n\nThe _Clansman_ performed a slow, elegant turn as it entered the harbour of Castlebay. This gave Harry and Barry a panoptical view of the hills of Barra; of the modest, mostly modern houses of the island's capital strung out around the shore; of the fortress built on an islet in the bay that supplied the town's name; and of the lower hills and inlets of Vatersay away to the south. The landscape was starkly treeless and ruggedly green, largely untouched by man. It was not the sort of place either of them was familiar with. Harry's one spell of island living, on Rhodes, was far removed from the cutting wind and limitless ocean of the Outer Hebrides. And Chipchase, by his own admission, was a town rat by birth, breeding _and_ inclination.\n\nThe same, they assumed, applied to Howlett, but they were in no position to check the point. He was still below, afflicted by a migraine, induced, to hear him tell it, by long hours of driving, though probably not helped by the quantity of lager he had drunk during the voyage. With Chipchase's seasickness only slowly abating, Harry was left to co-ordinate their disembarkation. Fortunately, the drive to the hotel they had booked themselves into by phone from Oban could hardly have been shorter.\n\nThe Castlebay Hotel, standing four-square and grey-stoned on the hill above the harbour, was warm and comfortable. Chipchase's spirits lifted slightly once he was on dry land. As he watched the _Clansman_ cast off for its onward voyage to South Uist from the window of the twin-bedded room he and Harry were sharing, his summary of their situation was marginally less bleak than it might have been.\n\n\"We're stuck here now, Harry old cock. For better or worse. So, do we get wrecked in the bar\u2014or ask Marky if he wants to head straight for Vatersay?\"\n\nA walk along the corridor to Howlett's room supplied the answer. They found him prostrate on his bed, curtains firmly closed against the persistent evening light.\n\n\"There's no way I'm moving from here tonight, guys. Just driving up from the pier has made the migraine worse. I'll have to sleep it off. Don't worry. Sleep always cures it. I'll be fine in the morning.\"\n\nThe bar it was, then, though only after a diversion to the hotel's restaurant, Chipchase's sudden hunger testifying to his recovery. It was dark by the time they stepped out into the cold, clear silence of Barra by night and strolled round to the cosily lit Castlebay Bar, their stomachs well filled with fresh island fish.\n\nThere were only a dozen or so locals inside, two of them engaged in a largely wordless game of pool. The atmosphere was far from uproarious. The amiable barman told them Sunday evenings were always quiet. \"You should have been in last night. We had a grand ceilidh. The Vatersay Boys played.\" He nodded at a dais in the corner, adorned with a drum-set, and explained that the folksily Gaelic music rumbling in the background was from the Boys' latest album\u2014 _The Road to Vatersay._\n\n\"We'll be taking that tomorrow,\" said Chipchase as he lit a cigar.\n\n\"Buying their CD?\"\n\n\"No, no. Taking the road to Vatersay. Visiting the island.\"\n\n\"Are you over on holiday, then?\"\n\n\"We certainly are.\" Chipchase took a deep and evidently inspiring swallow of whisky. \"Birdwatching. Hill-climbing. Deep-sea diving. We can't get enough of that sort of thing, can we, Harry? We're a pair of genuine wilderness lovers. The Outer Hebrides is our idea of paradise.\"\n\n\"We're just looking round,\" said Harry. \"There are quite a few uninhabited islands south of here, aren't there?\"\n\n\"That there are.\"\n\n\"Wasn't one of them in the news a few years back? Haltersay? Haskurlay? Some...mystery or other.\"\n\n\"Haskurlay,\" replied the barman, frowning as if doubting whether Harry's uncertainty about the name was genuine. \"You'll be thinking of when they found the bodies there.\" He sighed. \"Aye, that was a dismal business.\"\n\n\"What was it all about?\" enquired Chipchase.\n\n\"Och, nobody rightly knows. Though you'll meet a few who claim to. Take Dougie over there.\"\n\nThe barman had pointed to a wizened old man seated near the door, nursing a glass of whisky and a noxious-looking pipe. He was grim-faced, lantern-jawed and sharp-nosed, dressed in a frayed grey suit and black polo-neck sweater, with a still blacker beret perched at an incongruously rakish angle on his apparently pebble-bald head. He was watching the languid manoeuvrings of the pool players with the unfocused gaze of someone waiting for something more interesting to enter his field of vision. As Harry and Barry were about to.\n\n\"Looks a testy old bugger,\" murmured Chipchase.\n\n\"That he is,\" agreed the barman. \"But talkative as well if you give him the right encouragement.\"\n\n\"And what might that be?\" asked Harry.\n\n\"Well, he's awful fond of the Talisker. A dram or two of that...and you'll have your work cut out to shut him up.\"\n\nTalisker malt whisky proved to be as effective a tongue-loosener with the initially taciturn Dougie McLeish as the barman had promised. The old boy was eighty-seven, a fact he mentioned more than once, proud as he was of the distant reach of his supposedly flawless memory. The construction of a bridge linking Barra to Vatersay was a recent and to his mind lamentable development. \"What God has set asunder let no man join together.\" When Chipchase greeted this observation with a muttered \"Bloody hell,\" he was rebuked for profanation. He seemed tempted to retaliate by snatching the tumbler of barely diluted Talisker from McLeish's thin, faintly smiling lips, until reminded by a kick under the table from Harry that the only reward they needed for their generosity was solid information.\n\n\"Why would the pair of you be interested in the Haskurlay mystery, then?\" McLeish asked when Harry none too subtly raised the subject.\n\n\"No reason,\" said Harry, unconvincingly. \"Just...idle curiosity.\"\n\n\"Aye, well, curiosity killed the cat, don't they say?\"\n\nChipchase stifled another curse and grinned stiffly. \"You could give us the real story before we get our heads filled with all kinds of nonsense, Dougie. I'll bet no one would tell it as accurately as you.\"\n\n\"You have that right.\"\n\n\"So...\" Harry prompted.\n\n\"Where were you two in the spring of 1955, I wonder.\"\n\n\"Us?\"\n\n\"Aye. I'm not talking to the bench-backs behind you.\"\n\n\"Well, we...were doing our National Service together, as a matter of fact. In the RAF.\"\n\n\"Were you, though? Where were you based?\"\n\n\"Dyce. Near Aberdeen.\"\n\n\"Aberdeen, was it?\"\n\n\"Does it matter?\"\n\n\"I wouldn'a know. But you were in the Forces, weren't you? That's my point.\"\n\n\"Point...taken, then,\" said Chipchase, still grinning fixedly.\n\n\"You're sure it was Aberdeen where you were based?\"\n\n\"We're sure,\" said Harry.\n\nMcLeish sighed. \"That's a shame.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well, for a moment there I thought you might know more than you were letting on. There's a military strand to this tale, you see.\" He had pronounced _military_ as four distinct and elongated syllables. \"So they say.\"\n\n\"But what do _you_ say, Dougie?\" asked Chipchase.\n\n\"I say the word was put round among the crofters here and on Vatersay in May 1955 that they shouldn'a consider landing on Haskurlay for a couple of weeks. No reason given. _Advice,_ they called it. From the Crofters' Commission in Inverness, would you believe. Whose tune they were dancing to you must judge for yourself. But some of the fishermen claimed a Royal Navy frigate was out by night to the south of here, off Haskurlay. The rumour was the island was used for some kind of military exercise. All very hush-hush. Well, who was to complain about that? The Cold War was on, after all. Whatever was done, it caused no harm. So we thought, anyway. Even when Hamish Munro and his son went missing. The weather was bad enough for it to be no difficult thing to believe they'd been drowned while fishing. Their boat was washed up on the coast of Skye. No sign of them, though. They were lost. Taken by the sea, it was to be supposed.\"\n\n\"Not true, though,\" said Harry. \"As it turned out.\"\n\n\"No. Not true at all. You have to understand that Hamish Munro was a hard man to warn off. He was born on Haskurlay, a couple of years before the last crofters moved from there to plots on Vatersay. So, he had stronger links with the island than most. Knowing the man, I'm no so very surprised he decided to break the ban and take a peek at what was going on there. _If_ that's what he did. We canna be sure, can we?\"\n\n\"What can we be sure of?\"\n\n\"That he died there. Him and his son Andrew. Thanks to those archaeologists and their diggings and delvings four years since, we know now the pair of them...were murdered...and buried in the ancient mound north of the deserted village on Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"Did you meet any of the archaeologists?\"\n\n\"Och, they were in and out of here. I spoke to several of them. Told them what I knew. Which was a sight more than they did.\"\n\n\"Have any of them been back since?\"\n\n\"Off and on. But no lately. They've put it all behind them, I dare say. Like a good few people would prefer to.\" Oddly, then, it seemed Karen Snow had failed to bend McLeish's ear during her visit the previous autumn. \"The polis set a fine example on that score. They didn'a exactly strain every sinew to crack the case.\"\n\n\"At least they identified the bodies.\"\n\n\"Hard not to, with plenty of us old'uns on hand to remind them of the Munros' disappearance and relatives still living to settle the matter whether the powers that be wanted to or no.\"\n\n\"Relatives...here on Barra?\"\n\n\"On Vatersay. Murdo Munro is Hamish's second son. He lives where he was born, as men are wise to. If you look out of yon window, you'll see a few lights in the distance, beyond the bay.\"\n\nMcLeish paused, apparently expecting them to look as directed. Harry obediently rose, steered an evasive course round the backside and jutting cue-end of a stooping pool player and peered through the window. There were indeed a few twinkling lights visible on the far side of the bay. \"Highly bloody illuminating,\" muttered Chipchase, who had tagged along. They turned and retreated to their table.\n\n\"That's the coast of Vatersay, isn't it, Dougie?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Aye. One of those lights'll likely be the Munro house. Not the same house Hamish left for the last time one morning fifty year ago, mind. Murdo's built himself a smart new bungalow with the money from Brussels they throw around here to no good purpose. He's turned the old place into his garage, would you believe. Still keeps the name, though. The house is called Haskurlay. After the old times.\"\n\n\"Were there other children of Hamish's? You mentioned relatives plural.\"\n\n\"There's a daughter. Ailsa. But she moved to Glasgow years back. Married some...financier.\" The word was given similar treatment to _military_ and came out closer to _feenancieer._ \"Moved to London since, I hear. Money, money, money. You have to chase it to keep it. And then where's the time for contemplation, I should like to know.\"\n\n\"Bags of time for that round here, I expect,\" said Chipchase glumly.\n\n\"Aye. So there is. You could do worse than try to get the knack for it yourself.\" McLeish squinted at Chipchase. \"Though you don't look a naturally contemplative man to me.\"\n\n\"Is Murdo carrying on the family line?\" Harry asked, eager to keep McLeish to his subject.\n\n\"Murdo's a bachelor. Like too many men of his generation.\"\n\n\"Are you a bachelor, Dougie?\" Chipchase enquired, seemingly heedless of Harry's agenda.\n\n\"Widower. With sons and grandsons to my name.\"\n\n\"Does Ailsa ever visit the island?\" Harry asked, glancing reprovingly at Chipchase.\n\n\"Now and then. As it happens, I\u2014\" McLeish broke off. His mouth tightened. Caution had suddenly overtaken him. He sipped his Talisker and treated Harry to a long, narrow look of scrutiny. \"Now and then,\" he repeated, in a lower, gravelly tone. \"But no very often.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-EIGHT**\n\n**E** xactly how much dosh did Jackie give you?\" Chipchase asked when Harry returned from the bar with another round of drinks.\n\n\"Never you mind,\" Harry replied, taking a slurp of beer.\n\n\"I only ask because pouring Talisker down Dougie's throat could be regarded as flagrantly wasteful given how little we learned from the crabby old bugger.\"\n\nMcLeish had just left, claiming it was way past his bedtime, though looking alert enough to suggest that may not have been the literal truth. He had relapsed into taciturnity once Harry's interest in Ailsa Redpath's whereabouts had become apparent and had shown no inclination to expound further on the Haskurlay mystery.\n\n\"I wouldn't mind a drop of Talisker myself. While we're up here, we may as well sample the\u2014\"\n\n\"You'll have Bell's and be grateful. You won't be able to taste the difference through that cigar anyway.\" Harry was beginning to regret buying Chipchase a replacement pack of Villiger's during their stop in Oban. \"And we learned more from Dougie than you seem to think.\"\n\n\"Did we?\" Chipchase blew a defiant ring of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. \"You'd better remind me what exactly.\"\n\n\"Ailsa's here. On Vatersay. With her brother. The man's a bachelor. Dougie said so. There's no Mrs. Munro. So, the woman Mark spoke to must have been Ailsa.\"\n\n\"Bachelors have been known to entertain women other than their sisters. I'm glad to say.\"\n\n\"Ailsa's here. Dougie knows that. She's been seen. He only went coy on us when his loyalty to a fellow islander kicked in.\"\n\n\"OK. Have it your way. She's here. _We're_ here. Though God knows why. We never have been before. You know that as well as I do, Harry. Whatever went on on some unin-bloody-habited lump of rock out there fifty years ago\"\u2014Chipchase gestured towards the night-blanked window\u2014\"has sod all to do with us.\"\n\n\"It shouldn't have, I agree. But it does, Barry. You know _that_ as well as I do. You just don't want to admit it.\"\n\nChipchase puffed out his cheeks. \"Bloody hell,\" he growled.\n\n\"We're linked to the Haskurlay mystery in some way or other. Everyone in Operation Clean Sheet is. Tomorrow...we'll find out how.\"\n\n\"Is that a promise?\"\n\n\"I suppose it is.\"\n\n\"Funny. It sounded more like a threat to me.\"\n\nThere were no more rounds. With midnight fast approaching, they decided to head back to the hotel. Close by though it was, Chipchase opted to visit the bar's loo before leaving. Harry said he would wait for him outside. As a reformed smoker, he had no wish to linger in the fug created by Chipchase's cigars and the locals' cigarettes.\n\nThe air that enveloped him as he left was certainly fresh. It was also on the wintry side of cool. But the wind had dropped. A pallid serpent-tail of moonlight stretched out across the bay towards Vatersay. Harry stared towards the distant peninsula where Murdo Munro lived\u2014and where, he strongly suspected, Ailsa Redpath had taken refuge.\n\nThen someone whistled to him, softly but distinctly, from the bottom of the path leading up from the road. Harry looked down and saw a figure standing there, gazing up at him. An aromatic drift of pipe smoke clinched his identity.\n\n\"I thought you said it was past your bedtime,\" Harry remarked, strolling down to join McLeish at the roadside.\n\n\"Decided on a walk before turning in. Pure chance I should be coming back this way as you stepped out of the bar.\"\n\n\"That a fact?\"\n\n\"Where's your uncontemplative friend?\"\n\n\"Getting rid of some of the beer he's drunk.\"\n\n\"Is he the only one of the men you served with you're still in touch with?\"\n\n\"Not the only one, no.\"\n\n\"Have regular reunions, do you?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't say that.\"\n\n\"And you were definitely based in Aberdeen?\"\n\n\"Definitely.\"\n\n\"Not Benbecula, say, or somewhere...closer to hand?\"\n\n\"No. Not Benbecula. What are you driving at, Dougie?\"\n\n\"Was there a black fellow in your unit?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Name of Nixon.\"\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"I'd judge from your reaction there was.\"\n\n\"OK. Yes. There was. Leroy Nixon. Dead and gone now, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"Aye. As you say. Dead and gone.\"\n\n\"What do you know about Leroy?\"\n\n\"Take a turn down to the quay with me and I'll tell you. You can leave your friend to make his own way back to the hotel. I wouldn'a want to be...interrupted.\"\n\nThey descended a short hill and turned onto the quayside road, where Castlebay's few shops formed an orderly row facing the bay. McLeish crossed the street and gazed out at the stark black outline of the offshore castle.\n\n\"Kisimul was nought but a ruin when I was a boy,\" he said, pitching his voice so low Harry had to strain to catch his words. \"The Forty-Fifth MacNeil came back from America just before the war and set about restoring it to its former glory. You can take a tour. Most of the holidaymakers do. The boat leaves from the jetty in front of the post office. Well worth it, I'm sure. If you have the time and the inclination. But you have neither, do you? Because you're not here for a holiday, are you?\"\n\n\"What makes you think that?\"\n\n\"The use of my faculties. The polis never connected the murders on Haskurlay with the Nixon drowning back in 1983, but I did. You can be sure of that.\"\n\n\"Leroy died here?\"\n\n\"Lost overboard from a ferry on the way to Oban. The body was washed up on the coast of Skye. Like the Munros' boat all those years before. 'Twas only the CalMac ticket they found on the poor fellow that accounted for what had happened to him. He was remembered at the guesthouse he'd stayed in here, of course. And he was remembered by me.\"\n\n\"Why particularly by you?\"\n\n\"I kept a sea-going boat in those days. Took visitors out on trips round the islands. To see the seals and puffins and such. Landed them on Mingulay if the weather was fair, which it was the day your friend Nixon was one of the party. But he never got as far as Mingulay. When we passed close to Haskurlay, he seemed to...recognize it. I don't know how else to put it. He'd never been there before, he said. And yet...He asked me to land him on the island. Paid me well enough too. So, I put him ashore\u2014which was no easy matter\u2014and took the others on to Mingulay. We picked him up on the way back. That was no easy matter either. He'd had four or five hours alone there by then.\"\n\n\"How did he seem?\"\n\n\"Stunned, I should say. Aye, _stunned_ is the word. And a word is more than I had from him all the way back here. He walked off up the pier like a man in a trance. I never saw him again. He took the ferry next morning. In more ways than one.\"\n\n\"He had...mental problems, I'm told.\"\n\n\"I wouldn'a disagree with that. The question is: what caused them?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Do you not? Do you really not?\"\n\n\"No, Dougie, I really don't.\"\n\n\"Why are you here, then?\"\n\n\"It's...too complicated to explain.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't doubt it's complicated. Facts are facts, though, however few they may be where the Munro murders are concerned. You and your friend are awful interested in the Haskurlay mystery. It goes a lot deeper than curiosity. Does it not?\"\n\n\"Yes. It does.\"\n\n\"Have either of you ever been to Haskurlay?\"\n\n\"No. Absolutely not.\"\n\n\"But that's what your late National Service chum Mr. Nixon said, of course. And the fellow who turned up a few months after his death...enquiring about the circumstances. He'd be about your age too. Name of\u2014\"\n\n\"Lester Maynard.\" Pretence on the point seemed suddenly futile. \"He's dead as well. Natural causes, though.\"\n\n\"Aye, well, they claim us all in the end. Serve with him too, did you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"In Aberdeen?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Of course. In Aberdeen.\"\n\n\"Did you take Maynard to Haskurlay too?\"\n\n\"No. But some other skipper might have. It wouldn'a surprise me. Nor you, I suspect.\"\n\n\"None of us came here in 1955, Dougie.\"\n\n\"If you say so.\" McLeish drew on his pipe, the tobacco glowing amber-red in the bowl. \"But it's no me you have to convince, is it? It's yourselves.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFORTY-NINE**\n\n**T** he weather changed overnight. When Harry tugged back the curtains of their room next morning, he was met by a vista of blanketing grey. Low cloud had bonneted the hills and pulled in the horizon. The coast of Vatersay was barely distinguishable in the murk. The hummocked shapes of Vatersay's other hills and the uninhabited islands beyond, which Harry had seen the previous evening, were just a memory.\n\nHe washed and shaved, then made coffee, using the sachets and kettle provided. Chipchase stirred at the sound of the kettle boiling, but uttered no words until several gulps of black coffee had passed his lips.\n\n\"Are migraines contagious? I think I might have caught young Marky's.\"\n\n\"I expect you'll find it's just a standard hangover.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, thanks for the sympathy. I didn't sleep well, you know.\"\n\n\"That snoring was just for show, was it?\"\n\n\"I mean I had some disturbing dreams. In one of them you came back from a midnight stroll with Dougie McLeish and claimed he'd told you Nixon and Maynard had been ferreting around here twenty-odd years ago\u2014and Nixon had gone drown about after a day trip to Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"That's what the man said.\"\n\n\"I don't like the way this is shaping up, Harry old cock. You'd agree with me we've never been to the Outer bleeding Hebrides before, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"I haven't, certainly.\"\n\n\"Well, neither have I.\"\n\n\"I believe you. At any rate, I believe you believe it.\"\n\n\"Don't start talking in riddles, Harry, for God's sake.\"\n\n\"But it is a riddle, Barry, isn't it? That's the problem.\"\n\nThey knocked at Howlett's door on their way down to breakfast, but got no reply. Nor was there any sign of him in the restaurant. They reckoned he must be taking a shower and assumed he would join them before they had finished munching their way through porridge, bacon and eggs and several slices of toast. But he did not.\n\nHarry gave his absence little thought, preoccupied as he was by what sort of a breakfast Donna would be having with Jackie in Swindon. As distracted a one as his, if not more so, seemed likely to be the answer. He longed to call her and set her mind at rest, but sensed that if he did she would start for Barra as soon as he put the phone down. Until he had spoken to Ailsa Redpath and knew what and who they were up against, it was safer to leave Donna in ignorance of his plans and whereabouts. But safe was not easy. Far from it.\n\nChipchase popped out of the hotel for a cigarette after breakfast, leaving Harry to try Howlett's room again. When he reached it, he found the door held half-open by a rubbish bag. He stepped in to be greeted by a cleaning lady, who was busy making the bed.\n\n\"Good morning.\"\n\n\"Good morning. I, er...was looking for...Mr. Howlett.\"\n\n\"An early riser, I'm glad to say. Maybe he's looking round the town.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Right. Thanks.\"\n\nChipchase was coming back into the hotel, frowning in puzzlement, as Harry reached the foot of the stairs.\n\n\"Marky's Fiasco doesn't seem to be in the car park, Harry. What d'you make of that?\"\n\n\"He must have driven over to Vatersay.\"\n\n\"Without us?\"\n\n\"Looks like it.\"\n\n\"But...why?\"\n\n\"God knows. We'll ask him\u2014if we get the chance.\"\n\n\"What are we going to do?\"\n\n\"Follow him. What else?\"\n\nFollowing was easier said than done. Taxis were not a Barra speciality and the landlady's recommendation of the bus came with a caveat: the service to Vatersay was infrequent and the next one was not due until 10:35. Harry was reduced to looking at the framed Ordnance Survey map in the entrance hall and wondering if they could walk it. But he reckoned they would be overtaken en route by the bus even if they set off straight away. And that assumed Chipchase's questionable stamina got him to the top of the first hill. Besides, there was no way to tell how much of a start Howlett had on them. In that sense, haste was pointless. The 10:35 bus would have to suffice.\n\nHarry's eye drifted down the map beyond Vatersay's southern coast to the uninhabited islands strung out like a giant's stepping-stones across the broad blue expanse of the featureless ocean. There, among them, was Haskurlay, its contours and crenellations minutely represented. But no roads were marked, no place names, no settlements. The island had freed itself of man. It stood alone and apart. It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.\n\nYet it seemed Harry meant something to Haskurlay. And it also seemed he was bound to find out what.\n\nThe bus\u2014more accurately, minibus\u2014pulled away punctually from Castlebay post office at 10:35 on what the driver aptly described as \"a dull, dreich morning\" and bore its two passengers\u2014Harry and Barry\u2014away towards Vatersay.\n\n\"Sparky Marky was planning to cut us adrift all along, wasn't he?\" said Chipchase as the bus climbed into the cloudbank west of the town. \"Migraine my left buttock. He probably drove over to the Munro place last night, while we were in the bar pouring malt whisky down Dougie bloody McLeish.\"\n\n\"More likely he waited until we were tucked up in bed. But, yes, the migraine does seem to have been a ploy. What I don't understand is\u2014\"\n\n\"We could draw up a bloody long list of things you and I don't understand about this, Harry, so I suggest you save your breath.\"\n\n\"All I'm saying is: why wouldn't he want us with him when he confronted Ailsa Redpath?\"\n\n\"Because there was something he wasn't telling us. That's why.\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"Dunno. But I'll bet Ailsa does. And Karen the comely archaeologist, who's probably skulking over there with her. And the stay-at-home brother too. McLeish as well, I shouldn't wonder. They all know. Everyone knows.\" Chipchase fixed Harry with a look of uncharacteristic seriousness. \"Everyone except you and me.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY**\n\n**T** he road to the causeway was wide and well maintained. On the Vatersay side, however, it became narrow and winding, clinging to the shore for the most part as it looped round bleak hills of rock and scrub en route to the island's main settlement.\n\nA still narrower side-road served the houses whose lights they had seen from the Castlebay Bar the previous night, dotted along the spine of an exposed peninsula. The bus driver offered to take them down it, but Harry opted to be dropped at the junction, despite Chipchase's muttered protests. He preferred to approach the Munro croft on foot, judging that in such a bare landscape they would then see the house before they were seen from it. It was hard to say exactly why he felt such a precaution necessary, but Howlett's unannounced departure had worried him more than he was prepared to admit. Chipchase was right. Everyone, even the hapless Howlett, was a step ahead of them.\n\nThe few habitations lining the road were widely separated\u2014modern, pebble-dash, tile-roofed bungalows for the most part, usually with the ruin of an old stone cottage alongside. Castlebay, across the sound, looked positively metropolitan from this stark and empty vantage point. A flock of sheep scattered as the two of them rounded a bend by a deserted jetty. Otherwise, there was no sign of life.\n\n\"Bloody hell, Harry, I don't know about you, but this place gives me the creeps,\" Chipchase complained. \"I never thought I was prone to agoraphobia, but I'm beginning to feel a bad bloody case of it coming on. Does anybody really live out here?\"\n\n\"Murdo Munro does for one.\"\n\n\"But there's nothing here except...more nothing.\"\n\n\"Some people prefer a quiet life.\"\n\n\"There's a difference between quiet...and silent as the bloody grave. It's enough to give an urbanite like me the heebie-jeebies.\"\n\n\"Pull yourself together. We're not here on holiday, you know.\"\n\n\"Thank Christ for that. I'd be asking for my\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold on.\" Harry cut Chipchase short with a raised hand and stopped. A house had come into view ahead as they crested a gentle rise. It was another modern bungalow. But the old stone habitation it had replaced was not a ruin. It stood next to the bungalow, roofed in green corrugated iron, with a garage door installed in the gable end facing the road. \"That must be the Munro place.\"\n\n\"There's no sign of Marky's motor.\"\n\n\"It might be parked out of sight round the side.\"\n\n\"Or this might _not_ be the Munros' ancestral dwelling. McLeish could have sold us a dummy.\"\n\n\"Why would he have done that?\"\n\n\"Christ knows. But if you ask me, we were seen coming before we even got off the bloody ferry. Everything since...has smelt like a set-up to me.\"\n\n\"What do you want to do, then? Slink back to the main road and wait for the bus? It'll be on its way back to Castlebay soon.\"\n\nChipchase gazed ahead, then around at their featureless surroundings. \"Might not be such a bad move. The Castlebay Bar probably opens at eleven. It must be gone that now.\"\n\n\"Leaving here empty-handed isn't an option, Barry. Unless you want to give Ferguson and Geddes a helping hand in fitting us up for triple murder.\"\n\nChipchase winced. \"Ferguson and Geddes. Bloody hell. For a blissful moment, I'd forgotten those evil-minded bastards even existed.\"\n\n\"Well, try to bear them in mind. And step lively. We have a house call to pay.\"\n\nNothing stirred at the Munro residence as they approached. The windows were closed and net-curtained. The garage door was shut. And Howlett's car was nowhere to be seen. If anyone was at home, they were lying low. And if they simply declined to answer the bell, there was little Harry or Barry could do about it. The absence of the Fiesta was particularly puzzling\u2014and disturbing. If Howlett had not come here, where in God's name had he gone? And why?\n\n\"Didn't McLeish say the house was called Haskurlay?\" Chipchase whispered as they neared the porched front door.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then we've come to the wrong place.\" Chipchase pointed to a hand-painted sign attached to a post at the edge of the road. It bore the mysterious name THASGARLAIGH.\n\n\"Probably Haskurlay in Gaelic.\"\n\n\"You've got an answer for everything, haven't you?\"\n\n\"If I had, we wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\"I suppose you think that's\u2014\"\n\n\"Shut up, Barry. Just shut up.\"\n\n\"Pardon me for bloody breathing. I only...\"\n\nHarry strode decisively forward and rang the doorbell. And at that Chipchase did indeed shut up.\n\nA general, all-enveloping silence followed. No sound emanated from the house. Squinting through the lozenge of frosted glass set in the door, Harry could discern no movement within. He rang again, more lengthily. A current of air stirred a wind-chime suspended from one of the porch struts into a passable representation of a Swiss cowbell, causing both of them to start violently. A distant sheep bleat reached their ears, faint and mocking. Then the silence reasserted itself. And they exchanged baffled, despairing looks.\n\n\"Told you,\" whispered Chipchase. \"No one at home.\"\n\n\"No one answering, at all events.\"\n\n\"Same bloody difference. Unless you're planning on a spot of breaking and entering.\"\n\n\"Of course not. But we could take a look round the back. There might be a...window open.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, if there is, it'll need to be a decent size and at a low level if either of us is going to climb through it. Cat burglars retire young if they've any sense.\"\n\n\"Just follow me.\"\n\nHarry set off round the corner of the bungalow, peering in the windows as he went, to no avail thanks to the net curtains hung at each of them. He walked along between the house and the blank stone wall of the garage and stepped round to the rear.\n\n\"Well, well, well.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase, looming at his shoulder. \"That's careless.\"\n\nThe back door of the house stood open, held on a stout, hooked stay. It was, in its way, as clear an invitation as could be imagined.\n\nThe door led to a cluttered kitchen. It was clean and tidy, though. Either Murdo Munro was a houseproud bachelor or his sister had been on hand recently to maintain standards.\n\n\"Hello?\" Harry called. \"Anyone at home?\"\n\nThere was no response.\n\n\"Two mugs and a couple of plates on the drainer,\" said Chipchase, pointing to the sink. \"Murdo's obviously not alone.\"\n\n\"Where are they? That's what I want to know.\"\n\n\"Fishing. Shopping in Castlebay. They could be anywhere.\"\n\n\"With the door left like that?\"\n\n\"Maybe it's always like that. Vatersay's hardly a crime hot spot, is it?\"\n\n\"Unlocked, maybe. But wide open? Come off it. _Hello_?\"\n\nHarry pressed on into the short hall that led to the front door. There was a lounge to his right, simply but comfortably furnished, a bathroom and two bedrooms to his left. The doors all stood open. One bedroom was neater than the other, but both looked as if they were in use. After glancing into each of them, Harry went into the lounge.\n\nMurdo Munro's domestic life was not overburdened with possessions, to judge by the bareness of the room. Beyond the furniture and a surprisingly large television set, there was nothing in the way of books, ornaments or pictures. The walls were virgin expanses of magnolia paint. A clock of some age stood on the mantelpiece, however. Next to it was propped a letter in a buff window envelope.\n\nHarry walked over and picked up the letter to check the addressee's name. Mr. M. H. Munro. Not much doubt that they were in the right house, then. The letter was from the Inland Revenue. Maybe that was why Murdo had not opened it.\n\nThen Harry noticed the silver-framed photograph the letter had been propped against. It was a black-and-white snap of three children, wearing clothes dating from the post-war years, standing in a smiling group by a ruined stone wall, a grassy slope visible behind them. Two boys and a girl, the eldest boy in his early teens, the younger scarcely more than a toddler, the girl aged somewhere between. Andrew, Murdo and Ailsa Munro, circa 1950? It had to be. And was the wall all that remained of Hamish Munro's birthplace on Haskurlay? Was that the double significance of the photograph\u2014a lost brother _and_ a lost home?\n\n_\"Harry,\"_ called Chipchase from another room, his voice intruding between Harry and the grainy images of distant childhood.\n\n\"What is it?\" Harry shouted back.\n\n\" _Come here. I've found something._ \"\n\nHarry went back into the hall. Chipchase was standing in one of the bedrooms, beckoning to him.\n\nBehind the door, out of sight until Harry entered the room, was a desk, supporting a computer screen, keyboard and printer. Lying across the keyboard was a sheaf of printed pages, the topmost page bearing a single paragraph, its wording instantly familiar.\n\n_Peter: what follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I\u2014_\n\nHarry snatched the page aside and saw the next one beneath, filled with print. And then he saw the single capitalized word at its head.\n\n_HASKURLAY._\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-ONE**\n\nPeter:\n\nwhat follows went before us. It is as I clearly remember it. It is the truth. I entrust it to you as I once entrusted my heart. You knew what to do then. You will know what to do now. Tread carefully. But do not tread too fearfully. My love goes with you.\n\nLes.\n\n**HASKURLAY**\n\nMy recollections of the three months in 1955 that I spent at Kilveen Castle in Aberdeenshire as a participant in Operation Tabula Rasa (better known as Clean Sheet) became ever more confusing as the years passed. Recently, thanks to the dubious wonders of regressive hypnosis and a greater clarity of thought and memory that seems to be just about the only beneficial side-effect of my illness, I have been able to sift the real from the imagined and the forgotten from the superimposed. The truth that has become known to me is a disturbing one. But the researches and enquiries I have carried out leave me in no position to deny, even if I wished to, that it _is_ the truth.\n\nI have not long to live. I am setting down the facts of this sombre matter so that an accurate record of what actually took place will survive me. The use others will make of it after my death is not for me to decide. The future is not something I need care about. That is one blessing of my condition. The past, however, I cannot escape. Nor do I wish to.\n\nThe avowed purpose of Operation Clean Sheet, as devised by Professor Alexander McIntyre of Aberdeen University, was to test the receptiveness of fifteen recalcitrant National Servicemen to academic teaching methods under experimental conditions in an isolated setting, the RAF generously supplying Professor McIntyre with his suitably unpromising students. The circumstances that led to my selection\u2014it was an irresistibly attractive alternative to serving 56 days' detention for a second offence of falling asleep on guard duty\u2014were typical. I think we all viewed our spell of intense tuition in the depths of Deeside as a soft option. And that, we believed, is precisely what it turned out to be. The time passed painlessly, with little in the way of learning imparted. Then we went our separate ways.\n\nThe experiment, it seemed, was a failure. So we all supposed. But I now know that Operation Clean Sheet had a hidden agenda and that improving our minds was never the object of the exercise. We were taken to Kilveen Castle for quite another and far more sinister purpose.\n\nDuring our months there, we were given regular injections of a drug known in today's nomenclature as MRQS (modified re-entrant qualianized serotonaze). The effect of MRQS is to disrupt short-term memory, rendering the subject highly suggestible where recent experiences are concerned. The purpose of the experiment was to determine the exact dosages necessary to achieve complete erasure of memory. The value of such a drug in a Cold War world of state secrets and spying missions is obvious and can hardly have diminished since. No wonder the RAF was willing to supply fifteen guinea pigs at short notice to test its effectiveness.\n\nWhat the experiment swiftly established was that we could be induced to forget certain specified events and activities, including the administration of the drug itself, and to extrapolate other memories to fill the resulting gap. The featureless weeks we spent failing to learn most of what Professor McIntyre's colleagues tried to teach us comprised in fact many more varied events and activities, all of which we obediently and obligingly forgot. MRQS was also administered surreptitiously to most of the academic and support staff, to prevent them giving the game away. Only a few key personnel knew what was really going on.\n\nThe need was felt as the experiment proceeded to establish whether the drug could wipe from our minds even the most highly memorable of experiences. An exercise was duly devised for the purpose. Ten of us were to be deposited on an uninhabited island in the Outer Hebrides, with provisions for a week and orders not to attract the attention of passing boats. No indication was to be given of precisely when the group was to be collected. The other five would remain at Kilveen, with no information supplied about the fate or whereabouts of their comrades. When the two groups were reunited after twelve days, it was expected that we would talk of little else but what had happened on the island. The results of the next injection of MRQS would therefore clinch the issue of its reliability under extreme circumstances. I understand it passed the test with flying colours. Once again, we all forgot. And, shortly afterwards, Operation Clean Sheet was wound up.\n\nProfessor McIntyre's paymasters in British Intelligence naturally paid no attention to the obscure case of a crofter and his son from the island of Vatersay who went missing during the time ten members of Operation Clean Sheet spent on the nearby island of Haskurlay. I have established that Professor McIntyre did become concerned about it, but took no action, feeling there was no action he safely _could_ take.\n\nI was one of the ten men marooned on Haskurlay. The others were Aircraftmen Askew, Babcock, Barnett, Chipchase, Dangerfield, Lloyd, Nixon, Smith and Yardley. The five left behind at Kilveen were Aircraftmen Fripp, Gregson, Judd, Tancred and Wiseman. Those of us bound for Haskurlay were flown from Dyce to Benbecula, then shipped down to the island.\n\nHaskurlay was not a congenial place for an open-ended stay. The ruins of a village and the presence of an ancient burial mound testified to former human occupation and I for one was not surprised the island had been abandoned. The weather was unpredictable and often harsh, spring turning back to winter with depressing frequency. The landscape was devoid of vegetation higher than grass or heather and the west coast was unapproachable due to the hostility of nesting seabirds. We pitched our tents near the deserted village on the relatively sheltered east coast and could do little but stay there in hope and expectation of early removal.\n\nThe uncertainty of when we would be taken off preyed on all our minds, some more than others. We had been supplied with one pistol and one rifle between us and had been instructed to use them only in an emergency. We had also been supplied with a radio on the same basis. We soon put the rifle to use, however, bagging rabbits for the pot. The island teemed with them. Sheep were also numerous, but we left them alone, knowing they were the property of crofters from the populated islands. The days passed, slowly and disagreeably, boredom alternating with the irrational fear that the ship would never return for us. There were several arguments, leading on one occasion to a fight between two of us. We were scarcely a credit to our uniform.\n\nAfter a week had elapsed, we decided to radio for rescue, emergency or not. But there was no response to our message. I established later that this was a deliberate ploy to alarm us. It worked. Stuck on the island as we were, cut off from the world, often confined to our tents by ferociously stormy weather, we fell prey to paranoid fears and delusions. Perhaps an outbreak of nuclear war explained the radio silence. Perhaps the mainland had been laid waste. Absurd, of course, but it was what our anxieties reduced us to. We were not the strongest-willed of groups. But, then, we were not intended to be.\n\nI was increasingly troubled in the decades after Clean Sheet by disturbing dreams and fragments of memory that did not fit with what I thought I knew of my past. MRQS is not an absolute guarantee of forgetfulness, it seems. Time slowly undoes its work, at least in some cases. I realized I was not alone in this when I learned of Leroy Nixon's death in Hebridean waters in the spring of 1983. It seemed clear he had committed suicide. The question was: what had driven him to it? The scattered pieces of my suppressed recollections fell into place\u2014and that question was answered\u2014when I travelled to Barra later in the year, visited Vatersay and Haskurlay and learned as much as I could of the disappearance of Hamish and Andrew Munro in 1955. Later discussions with Professor McIntyre, who in old age had come to regret conducting Operation Clean Sheet, and his recommendation of sessions with a hypnotist, enabled me to assemble an accurate picture of the real course of events during our stay at Kilveen and, in particular, during our stay on Haskurlay. It is not a complete picture, far from it, but it does mean I can state definitively how Hamish and Andrew Munro met their deaths.\n\nIt was our tenth day on the island. Only another two were to pass before the ship came for us, but we had no way of knowing that. We were running short of provisions of all kinds. Our spirits were low, despite a spell of fair weather. There was much bickering between us. We were not in a happy state.\n\nTwo of the party had gone out to shoot rabbits at the northern end of the island, where the warrens were most extensive. There was a landing-place in a cove nearby, of which we were unaware. Munro and his son came ashore there. Climbing up from the cove, they may well have heard a rifle report. Hamish Munro had a shotgun with him. Perhaps he feared for the safety of his sheep. They topped a rise and surprised the pair from our party. The man with the rifle reacted in the panic of the moment, shocked by the sudden appearance of two strangers, one of them armed. He fired at Hamish Munro, killing him. Then, realizing what he had done and knowing the son had just witnessed his father's murder, he shot and killed Andrew Munro as well.\n\nThe deed was done. It could not be undone. The pair returned to the main party and confessed to the killings. The rest of us were appalled and horrified. There was much anguished debate about what to do. Slowly, the realization dawned on us that we might all be condemned for the killings and very possibly accused of complicity in them. The pair who were actually responsible\u2014and who steadfastly refused to say which of them had carried out the shootings\u2014played on this fear to argue that we should bury the bodies and say nothing of what had occurred when we were eventually taken off the island. They had, they only then admitted, cast the boat the strangers had arrived in adrift. The falling tide had already carried it far out to sea. Without it, there was no proof anyone had come ashore. Additionally, of course, though they did not mention this, none of us could use the boat to leave the island. We were bound to remain there, cut off from the world, for as long as our superiors decreed. And we still had no way of determining _how_ long that might turn out to be.\n\nThe isolation we had endured for ten days had led to many a spat. But it had also, without our being aware of it, drawn us together. Group loyalty had evolved, unsuspected and undetected, until this crisis forced it into the open. The decision we eventually took, reluctantly but unanimously, was in part the product of this unity of purpose, a unity which, speaking for myself, seemed both surprising and overwhelming. Emotional revelations of a more personal nature complicated my own feelings about what we should or should not do, but that is no excuse. I consented. I agreed. I aided and abetted. We all did.\n\nWe dug a hole in the lower slope of the ancient burial mound at the northern end of the bay and buried the bodies there. We thought they were probably father and son and took some small comfort from knowing they would lie together. Prayers were said. A form of ceremony was observed. There was nothing hugger-mugger about it. We did our best by them in the circumstances.\n\nBut we also swore to keep the fact and manner of their deaths secret. Morally\u2014and criminally\u2014our actions were and are indefensible. They did not seem so at the time, but I believe that is a testament to the enervated and irrational state of mind we had been reduced to. I have little doubt some of us would eventually have broken our pledge of secrecy after we had been restored to the wider world and had had the chance to view events on the island in undistorted hindsight.\n\nThanks to our unwitting participation in Professor McIntyre's memory-wiping experiment, however, that chance was to be denied us. The secret was safer than any of us could ever have imagined. It became the secret we did not even know we shared. Until, years later, in the baffled minds of a few of us, the wall of amnesia built around it began, little by little, to fall away.\n\nI have said almost all I can about the murders of Hamish and Andrew Munro, to which I was undeniably an accessory, albeit after the fact. There remains only the issue of the identities of the two men who went hunting rabbits that day. I have searched my heart on this score and have concluded that I should make a clean breast of it. The truth must be entire or it is not the truth. I must name them.\n\nAircraftmen Barnett and Chipchase.\n\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-TWO**\n\n**W** e didn't do this, Harry,\" said Chipchase, looking up as he finished reading the last page of Maynard's account a few seconds after Harry. \"We didn't bloody do this.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"It's a stitch-up. That's what it is.\"\n\n_\"I know.\"_\n\n\"What can have possessed Maynard to...to...\"\n\n\"He didn't, Barry. This has to be a doctored version of what he actually wrote. If it was true, I'm the last person Askew would have sent it to.\"\n\n\"You think...it's a pack of lies from beginning to end?\"\n\n\"No. I imagine most of it's genuine. But our names have been substituted for the names of the two who really killed the Munros. It wasn't us, though. I can be sure of that.\"\n\n\"The disk isn't here.\" Chipchase pointed to the computer tower. \"I've checked.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't be. The original was probably destroyed in the fire at Askew's flat. The copy he sent me went the same way. That leaves the altered copy _this_ was printed from...as the only game in town.\"\n\n\"And the others it says were on the island are all dead.\"\n\n\"Exactly. Murdered, in several cases. The doctored disk gives us a motive to have carried out those murders. The police are meant to conclude we've been eliminating the remaining witnesses to what happened. And I'd bet that's what they _will_ conclude. Unless we can give them some good reason not to.\"\n\n\"What about McIntyre's records? He must have kept some. Maybe we weren't even in the group sent to Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"And maybe we were. I can't remember. Can you?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\" Chipchase jumped up, grabbed the sheaf of papers and tore it angrily in half. \"Bloody Professor Mac. Meddling with our memories. If we get out of this, I swear I'll sue the MoD for a small fortune. No, make that a big one.\"\n\n\"They'll deny they ever used MRQS on us, Barry. It's a can of worms they can't afford to have opened. That's what Erica Rawson has been doing. Keeping the can firmly closed.\"\n\n\"You think so?\" Chipchase looked suddenly hopeful.\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Then it's not so bad after all. They could never let us be tried, could they? Not if _this_ \"\u2014he held up the two halves of Maynard's account\u2014\"was the evidence against us.\"\n\n\"No. But that makes it worse, not better.\"\n\n\"How d'you mean?\"\n\n\"I'm not exactly sure. But whoever's setting us up will have worked out all the angles. Every if. Every but. Every therefore.\"\n\n\"They wanted us to come here, didn't they?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But\u2014\"\n\nThe ringing of the telephone in another room struck Harry silent. He and Chipchase stared at each other, listening to its insistent brr-brr, brr-brr. They waited for the answering machine to cut in, but Murdo Munro evidently did not have one. The telephone went on ringing. And did not stop.\n\n\"Why don't they hang up?\" asked Chipchase, mournfully enough to suggest he had already guessed the answer.\n\n\"Because they want to speak to us. And they know we're here.\"\n\n\"What are we going to do?\"\n\n\"Get it over with.\"\n\nHarry marched out into the hall. The telephone was mounted on the wall in the kitchen. It went on ringing as he approached. He did not hurry. He knew it would not stop\u2014until he picked up the receiver.\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Thank God.\" It was Howlett's voice. He sounded breathless and anxious. \"It's Mark, Harry. Is Barry with you?\"\n\n\"Yes. Where are you?\"\n\n\"I can't\u2014Listen. Tell Barry to pick up the extension in the lounge.\"\n\n\"All right. But\u2014\"\n\n\"Please. Just do it. OK?\"\n\n\"OK.\" Harry mimed the request to Chipchase, who headed for the lounge. A few seconds later, the line clicked.\n\n\"I'm here,\" said Chipchase, his voice echoing hollowly.\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Howlett, sounding as if he meant it. \"Now, Harry, I'm going to...hand you over...to the guy who's holding us.\"\n\n_\"Holding? Us?\"_\n\n\"Just do as he says. For God's sake. It's\u2014\"\n\n\"Harry.\" Another voice had suddenly supplanted Howlett's: low-pitched and precisely enunciated. \"Frank here. Don't worry about my surname. You don't need to know it. What you _do_ need to know is that your friend Mark, along with Karen Snow and Ailsa Redpath, are relying on you to do what I tell you. Have you read the printout?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I have the disk. I also have three hostages, whose lives will be forfeit if you fail to co-operate. Is that clear?\"\n\nHarry tried to answer, but for a second was unable to speak.\n\n_\"Is that clear?\"_\n\n\"Yes,\" said Chipchase.\n\n\"Yes,\" Harry hoarsely confirmed.\n\n\"Good. Listen carefully. I won't repeat myself again. You should know I'm armed with a Browning nine-millimetre automatic pistol. Standard issue to RAF officers and air crew during your days in uniform. The very weapon either one of you might have misappropriated fifty years ago...and kept ever since. This one's in perfect working order. With me so far?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Chipchase and Harry replied in reverberating unison.\n\n\"Excellent. Now, I want you to leave the house and walk back along the road to the jetty you passed on your way there. There'll be a boat waiting for you. I also want you to open the garage as you leave and look inside. Then you'll have no doubt of the gravity of the situation. Clear?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"One more thing. If you're not at the jetty within ten minutes, I'll kill the hostages, then come looking for you. And I'll find you long before the police get here\u2014should you decide to phone them. But I wouldn't, if I were you. I really wouldn't.\"\n\nThe line went dead in that instant. The one-sided conversation was over.\n\nChipchase reached the kitchen while Harry was still holding the telephone. He looked as shocked and irresolute as Harry felt himself.\n\n\"What do we do?\"\n\n\"You mean apart from what he's told us to do?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Apart from that.\"\n\n\"Do you believe he meant what he said?\"\n\n\"Every word.\"\n\n\"So do I.\"\n\n\"In that case...\"\n\n\"We don't have much choice, do we? And we don't have much time either.\"\n\nHarry led the way out of the house and round to the front of the garage. He took a deep breath, turned the handle of the up-and-over door and gave it a tug.\n\nThe mechanism was well lubricated. It rose smoothly and silently into position. Grey light spread into the garage, over and round the rear of a red pick-up truck.\n\nA sheepdog lay huddled and motionless near the driver's door to the truck, blood pooled beneath it on the concrete floor of the garage. A few feet farther on, the boiler-suited lower half of a man was visible. He was slumped across the wing of the truck, head down in the engine cavity, partly shielded from them by the raised bonnet.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" murmured Chipchase. \"It's Murdo, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Reckon so.\"\n\n\"I'll take a look.\"\n\nChipchase moved apprehensively along the narrow corridor between the truck and the garage wall, grasping one of the struts supporting a shelf loaded with paint pots as he stepped gingerly over the dead dog. He peered down into the shadowy recesses of the bonnet, then turned, grimaced at Harry and shook his head.\n\nA few seconds later, he was back outside. \"Bullet through the temple,\" he said, his eyes reflecting the horror that his matter-of-fact tone did not express. \"Must have been tinkering with the engine when Frank arrived. Probably never knew a thing. Lucky sod. Then Fido came to see what the noise was. Bang. We're looking at the work of a cold-blooded killer here, Harry. You know that, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes. I do.\"\n\n\"And we're going to walk calmly down the road and go for a cruise round the bay with him, are we?\"\n\n\"Apparently.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"Unless you've got an alternative to suggest.\"\n\n\"No. I haven't.\"\n\nHarry sighed. \"Thought not.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-THREE**\n\n**T** hey saw the boat standing offshore as they rounded a bend in the road and headed down towards the jetty. It was a smartly painted, newish-looking launch. A figure was visible on deck\u2014a tall, broad-shouldered, darkly clad man, his head in shadow. He moved out of sight as they approached. Then the launch nudged in towards the jetty.\n\n\"You want to know what I think?\" Chipchase enquired in a gloomy undertone.\n\n\"No,\" replied Harry.\n\n\"This is suicide.\"\n\n\"I said I didn't want to know.\"\n\n\"But you already knew.\"\n\n\"True enough.\"\n\n\"As a betting man, I've got to tell you\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't tell me, Barry. Please. _Don't tell me._ \"\n\nThey reached the jetty. The launch was bobbing in the gentle swell of the rising tide at its far end. The man they had glimpsed earlier stepped into view and nodded faintly in greeting. He was dressed in black jeans and sweatshirt, his clothes filled out by a muscular frame. His face was gaunt and raw-boned, his hair a close-cropped thatch of grey-flecked black. He studied them with chilling impassivity as they walked slowly down the ramp of the jetty.\n\n\"Frank?\" Harry called.\n\n\"You're a little late.\" Frank remained expressionless. But he moved his right arm, which had been folded behind his back, so they could see the pistol clasped in his leather-gloved hand. \"I'll overlook it, though. Seen Murdo, have you?\"\n\n\"Yes. We've seen him.\"\n\n\"So, you know I'm serious.\"\n\n\"Oh yes.\"\n\n\"Good. Come aboard.\"\n\n\"Where are the others?\"\n\n\"Just come aboard, Harry.\" Frank raised the gun. \"Or I'll shoot you where you stand.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" said Chipchase under his breath. And, silently, Harry echoed him.\n\nIt was an awkward step from the jetty down into the launch. Harry managed it in a stumbling stride. As he looked round, he was astonished to see Howlett sitting calmly at the wheel, smiling over his shoulder at him, without the least sign of duress. Indeed, he was in control of the vessel, a fact that loosed a cascade of sickening thoughts in Harry's mind.\n\nThe slack-jawed look of amazement on his face had caused Chipchase to hesitate. But Frank was having none of that. \"Get down here, Barry. Now.\"\n\nChipchase cannoned into Harry as he scrambled aboard. Then he too saw Howlett, screened from him until then by the cockpit roof. \"Bloody hell. Marky. You're\u2014\"\n\n\"Not Marky. And not a hostage. You've got it, Barry.\"\n\n\"Where are the hostages?\" Harry demanded, anger simmering beneath his fear.\n\n\"There's just the one actually,\" Howlett replied. \"Ailsa Redpath. She's in the cabin.\" He nodded towards a pair of closed doors sealing off the fo'c'sle.\n\n\"What about Karen?\"\n\n\"Probably cataloguing a mummy in the British Museum even as we speak. All that crap I served you about her going missing was just a come-on. And you fell for it big time, I have to say. I put on a pretty good show, didn't I?\"\n\n\"You lured us all the way up here?\"\n\n\"Correcto.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" snapped Frank. \"Unbolt the cabin doors and go through.\" His gaze flicked up to the shore, then back to them. _\"Move.\"_ He gestured with the gun.\n\nHarry edged past Howlett, slipped the bolts holding the doors shut and pulled them open. A cramped triangular cabin revealed itself, a narrow bench running round either side to meet at the end, with a table in the middle. A slim, grey-haired woman dressed in jeans, trainers and fleece was seated awkwardly on the bench, her hands tied with rope behind her back, the rope fastened in turn to one of the table legs. A strip of brown tape had been placed across her mouth. She flinched at the sudden invasion of light, closing her eyes for a second, then turning to blink at Harry in obvious alarm.\n\n\"Keep moving,\" barked Frank. And Harry did, stepping down into the cabin and making room for Chipchase, who stumbled in after him.\n\n\"What are you\u2014\" Harry's question was cut off by the slamming of the doors behind them. Darkness descended on him like a hood. He heard the bolts slide back into place. Then the woman moaned. \"Don't worry, Ailsa,\" he said, to raise his own spirits as much as hers. \"You're not alone now.\"\n\n\"I spotted a switch here somewhere,\" said Chipchase, fumbling around the door frame. \"Yeah. Here we are.\"\n\nAn overhead light flickered into life. As it did so, the engine revved throatily and the launch reversed away from the jetty. Then the sound altered again to a smooth, surging rumble. The boat changed direction and accelerated forward.\n\n\"Snug quarters we've got here,\" said Chipchase. \"Snug as a bloody tomb.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Barry,\" said Harry, shooting him a glare before moving round the table to where Ailsa was trapped. Gingerly, he removed the tape.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she gasped, grimacing at the taste the tape had left on her lips. She was, Harry saw, a good-looking woman who had once been beautiful, with high cheekbones, a heart-shaped face, gentle features and grey-blue, far-seeing eyes. \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"I'm Harry Barnett. And this is\u2014\"\n\n\"Barry Chipchase.\" Chipchase moved round the other side of the table. \"I'll untie you.\"\n\n\"Ah. Of course.\" Ailsa sighed, as if some dismal expectation had only now been fulfilled. \"Barnett and Chipchase. The scapegoats.\"\n\n\"Too bloody true that's what we are,\" said Chipchase, his voice muffled by the tabletop beneath which he was crouching.\n\n\"Have you read Maynard's statement?\" Harry asked.\n\n\"Their version of it, yes,\" Ailsa replied.\n\n\"You realize we didn't kill your father and brother?\"\n\n\"Of course I do. This entire exercise is designed to conceal the identity of the real killer. He's who these people work for. And now he's responsible\u2014\" She broke off, squeezing her eyes briefly shut. When she opened them again, they were moist with tears. \"Now he's responsible for killing _both_ my brothers.\"\n\n\"Do you know who he is?\"\n\n\"No. And I doubt I'm going to get the chance to find out. I doubt any of us is.\"\n\n\"Where are they taking us?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. But...\"\n\n\"Haskurlay?\"\n\n\"That's my guess.\"\n\n\"What are they planning?\"\n\n\"Our deaths,\" said Chipchase, still struggling with the tightly knotted rope. \"That's what they're planning.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ailsa. \"I fear they are.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-FOUR**\n\n**T** he southerly turn the launch took after they had headed east for long enough to clear the Vatersay coast made Haskurlay an ever likelier destination. The ride became rougher as they entered the open sea, forcing Howlett to slow slightly. Ailsa reckoned it would take an hour or so to reach the island. For that hour, at least, they were probably safe.\n\nThere was time enough, then, for them to discuss what had brought them to such a desperate plight. Ailsa sat hunched on the bench, massaging her chafed wrists, as Harry told her of the Operation Clean Sheet reunion; of the crop of mysterious deaths it had sparked off; of the house fires in Cardiff and Swindon; of the attempts he and Chipchase had made to discover the truth; and of their ill-fated journey to Vatersay.\n\nMuch of this Ailsa already knew. \"I moved to Glasgow long ago, thinking I could put the mystery of Father and Andrew's disappearance behind me. But I never quite succeeded. The ache of not knowing ruined Mother's life. Murdo's too, I think. When Lester Maynard, a total stranger, left me a house in Henley and a good bit of money besides, I tried to tell myself it had nothing to do with what had happened to Father and Andrew. But I knew in my heart it had to be connected. Then Dougie McLeish told Murdo that Maynard had been to Barra a few years before, enquiring about the drowning of a man called Nixon. And Murdo told me. There was no doubt in my mind at that point. The rumours of some sort of military exercise on Haskurlay were true. But still I couldn't be sure Father and Andrew had fallen foul of it. Not till four years ago, too late for Mother sadly, when their bodies were found at last, buried on the island. And even then certainty wasn't proof. The authorities did as little as they could get away with doing. The case was filed and forgotten. It's what I tried to do with it myself. It's certainly what my husband _wanted_ me to do with it.\n\n\"Then, two weeks ago, Peter Askew contacted me. He said he was an old friend of Lester Maynard's and was in possession of information he felt he ought to pass on to me. He wondered if I'd agree to meet him. Naturally, I did. He came to London the following day. This would have been a couple of days _before_ he turned up on your doorstep in Swindon. We met at a caf\u00e9 near South Kensington Tube station. He was nervous, hesitant, unsure, it seemed to me, of what he should or shouldn't tell me, how much of the truth he could afford to reveal. The upshot was this. The discovery of the bodies on Haskurlay had confirmed the accuracy of a statement Maynard had arranged to be sent to him after his death. They'd been very close at one point, he said. I didn't pry into exactly what that meant. I had the impression that if I put any pressure on him he might clam up completely. He knew who was responsible for the deaths of my father and brother. He wanted to give that person a chance to come to terms with his responsibility, which, bafflingly, he said he might well be unaware of. An RAF reunion they were both to attend the following weekend would give him the opportunity to broach the subject. Then he'd feel free to show me the statement and explain everything.\n\n\"He was never able to do that, of course. It wasn't me _or_ Karen Snow he met on his way up to Scotland later that week. I believe it must have been the man who killed Father and Andrew. But he didn't react as Askew had hoped. He decided to suppress the evidence of his guilt by eliminating Askew and anyone else he had reason to believe might know what he'd done.\"\n\n\"Lloyd was beginning to remember things,\" Harry observed. \"That made him a target. And our man probably suspected Dangerfield had an ulterior motive for arranging the reunion in the first place. But three killings were never going to be written off as accidents or suicides. Someone had to take the rap.\"\n\n\"And by going to ground I effectively volunteered for the role,\" grumbled Chipchase. \"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"With me lined up as your accomplice,\" said Harry. \"Askew must have seen or heard something on the train that alarmed him. He must have realized our man was planning to move against him. So, he tried to ensure the truth would come out whatever happened to him by posting the disk containing Maynard's statement to me during the stopover in Edinburgh. But why send it to _me_?\"\n\n\"He must have trusted you to bring the truth out in the open,\" said Ailsa. \"Perhaps you were never on Haskurlay and therefore had no reason to conceal what happened there. Perhaps neither of you were. If so, our man may be punishing you for having no share in his guilt.\"\n\n\"It has to be Tancred,\" said Chipchase. \"He could easily have met Askew in London on the q.t.\"\n\n\"So could Judd,\" Harry pointed out.\n\n\"But he's in Fuerte-bloody-ventura.\"\n\n\"That proves nothing. He\u2014\"\n\n\"For the moment, it doesn't matter who it is,\" Ailsa cut in. \"What matters is what he's arranged for us.\"\n\n\"A nasty end,\" muttered Chipchase. \"That's what.\"\n\n\"These men he's hired are utterly ruthless. They kill without hesitation. I came up here when I heard of Askew's death and the two deaths that followed it because I thought I'd be safe so far away from everything. I dare say I would have been but for our man's uncertainty over whether Askew might have sent me a copy of the disk. But all I actually achieved by taking refuge with Murdo was to put him in the line of fire.\" Ailsa's voice faltered. She blinked away some tears. \"It was all so sudden. I thought the gunshots were backfires from the engine of the truck. Then that man...Frank...burst into the house and clapped a gun to my head. I thought he meant to kill me there and then. In some ways, I wish he had.\"\n\n\"He needed us on the scene,\" said Harry. \"He's putting together a set of circumstances and a sequence of events that will persuade the police _we_ killed your father and brother fifty years ago, then Askew, Lloyd and Dangerfield last week, then Murdo and...\"\n\n\"Me.\"\n\n\"Yes. Hence the old RAF pistol he's using. Hence the statement left on display. He said he had the doctored disk, but he's more likely to have hidden it in the house, where the police will eventually find it. They'll conclude you were in possession of it all along and we came up here to destroy it and...to eliminate you and Murdo.\"\n\n\"Why take us to Haskurlay?\" asked Chipchase.\n\n\"I'm not sure. But they don't intend any of us to come back. That's clear. This case has to be closed down. Because of the security angle, the police will be happy to do that. _If_ there's no one around to be charged or tried. So, what's the story they're setting up? We're losing it. We're no longer in control. We steal this boat, kill Murdo, kidnap Ailsa, take her to Haskurlay. And then...your guess is as good as mine.\"\n\n\"Or as bad. For our long-term, medium-term or even bloody short-term health.\"\n\n\"Yes. They mean to end this on Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"To end _us._ \"\n\n\"'Fraid so.\"\n\n\"How do we stop them, Harry? Tell me you have an idea.\"\n\n\"I can't tell you that.\"\n\n\"Great. Just great.\"\n\n\"But maybe...in however long we have left...\"\n\n\"We can come up with one?\"\n\n\"Yes. Maybe.\"\n\n\"Or maybe not.\"\n\nHarry nodded in reluctant agreement. \"Exactly.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-FIVE**\n\n**A** despairing silence settled over them. There was no more to be said. The launch surged on towards Haskurlay, its bow bucking through the waves. Chipchase smoked a cigarette, the vibration of the hull masking the tremor in his hand, while Harry's thoughts turned to Donna, waiting for news of him in Swindon, and to Daisy, asleep in her bedroom in Vancouver, unaware that her silly old daddy had been sillier than usual today\u2014and was shortly to pay for it with his life.\n\nThey would be landed on the island where this whole tragic, tangled tale had begun and executed one by one. Harry no longer hoped for any other outcome. There was no point. That was how it was going to be. He was sure of it.\n\nHow were Frank and Mark going to make it look? He turned the matter over in his mind, almost as if it were a mental exercise unrelated to his own imminent demise. What exactly were the police intended to suppose? That he and Chipchase had taken Ailsa to Haskurlay and killed her, obviously. What then? A falling out among murderers, perhaps. The killing of one, followed by the suicide of the other? That would fit neatly into the fiction. Yes. That was probably\u2014\n\n\"Hold on,\" he said.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Ailsa, looking at him with sudden animation.\n\n\"You've had an idea, haven't you?\" spluttered Chipchase, spilling ash on the table in his excitement. \"You've bloody had an idea.\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"Well? What sort?\"\n\n\"It's just...\"\n\n\"There isn't another episode next week, Harry. You can spare us the suspense.\"\n\n_\"What is it?\"_ pressed Ailsa.\n\n\"This boat,\" said Harry, smiling at them in spite of himself.\n\n\"What about it?\" snapped Chipchase.\n\n\"Don't you see? If we're to be found\u2014dead\u2014on Haskurlay, there has to be a boat we got there in. Moored, or adrift. But there has to be one. And our friends on deck have to have one to make their getaway in.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So, there must be a boat waiting for us at Haskurlay. Smaller than this, probably. One they can easily land us in. And they have to transfer us to it. Alive. Because ordering people around is much harder when they're dead.\"\n\n\"Flawless bloody logic, Harry. Ten out of bleeding ten. Now, tell us what your bright idea is. I'm ready to be dazzled.\"\n\n\"The transfer is our chance. We outnumber them. And there's only one gun.\"\n\n\"That you know of.\"\n\n\"The Browning has to account for everyone, Barry. Otherwise the police will smell a rat.\"\n\n\"So what this so-called chance amounts to is...\"\n\n\"Somewhere between leaving this cabin and boarding the other boat...we rush them.\"\n\n_\"Rush them?\"_\n\n\"Which one d'you want? Frank or Mark? Mark's the safer choice. He's unarmed.\"\n\n\"You're crazy. Does Frank look like a pushover to you? He has a gun, Harry. And it isn't loaded with blanks. Ask Murdo. He didn't\u2014\" Chipchase broke off, regretting the reference to Ailsa's dead brother. \"Sorry,\" he said. \"I didn't mean to...\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Ailsa. \"Harry's right. It's our only chance, however slim. We have to take it.\"\n\n\" _Try_ to take it.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She looked at them solemnly. \"We have to try. And I do mean _we._ We only outnumber them if we all play a part. And that includes me.\"\n\nThe plan of action they devised in the next few minutes was riddled with optimistic assumptions. It relied on Ailsa's ability to distract their captors by staging a collapse as she left the cabin; on Chipchase's dexterity in removing the fire extinguisher from its bracket in the cockpit where he claimed to have noticed it earlier and deploying it as a weapon; on Harry's momentum at the charge being sufficient to propel Frank overboard; above all, on fortune favouring the underdogs in this looming contest to an improbable degree.\n\nThe odds against them were even longer in Harry's own, unspoken estimation. True, Frank's use of a gun other than the Browning would taint the trail of evidence he was laying. But a knife posed no such problems and Mark could easily be carrying one. There was also the distinct possibility that a third man was waiting in the second boat, in which case their slim chances of success faded to zero.\n\nBut their chances of survival, if they allowed themselves to be shepherded meekly ashore, were also zero. He knew that. So did Ailsa. So did Chipchase. Harry could read the knowledge in their tight, anguished, determined expressions. And he could feel it, hard as iron, locked within himself. It truly was do or die.\n\nThe launch slowed and veered to the right\u2014the west, if Ailsa's judgment of their direction was correct. She looked at her watch. \"Long enough,\" she said quietly. \"This is the turn for Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"Small change of plan, Harry old cock,\" said Chipchase, leaning across the table towards him. \"You go for the extinguisher. It's clipped above the doorway leading to the cockpit. You can't miss it. Clobber Marky good and hard. I'll deal with Frank.\"\n\n\"Why switch targets at this stage?\"\n\n\"Because you're a husband and a father. And I'm neither. So, if anyone's going to take a bullet...\"\n\n\"Don't turn heroic on me, Barry. Please.\"\n\n\"Heroic? No bloody way. That pistol's an antique. Overdue to jam, I'd say. Or blow up in the bastard's phizog.\"\n\n\"You reckon?\"\n\n\"I'd bet on it.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Not another word, Harry, hey?\" Chipchase winked. \"You know it makes sense.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-SIX**\n\n**T** he launch hove to. There was movement on deck as it wallowed in the swell, but the cabin doors stayed shut. No one dared say a word now the engine's roar had faded to a gentle tick-over. Then they heard the squeak of a fender and knew Harry had been right: there was a second boat. A moment later came a sound that made them jump even though they had been waiting for it: the sharp snapping back of a bolt.\n\nOne, but only one, of the cabin doors swung open. Daylight flooded in, drowning the sallow glow of the overhead lamp. They saw Frank crouched in the companionway, gazing down at them, the gun cradled in his hand. \"I see you two Boy Scouts let the lady go. But that's fine. Just fine.\"\n\n\"What's going on?\" Harry asked, injecting as much firmness into his voice as he could.\n\n\"You'll find out soon enough. Let's have you on deck. One by one. We'll start with you, Harry, since you're so curious. Step this way.\"\n\nThe glance Harry exchanged with his two fellow captives was laced with despair. Their plan, such as it was, seemed to be falling apart around them. Perhaps Frank had taken account of their numerical advantage. If so, he would give them no chance to exploit it.\n\n\"Get moving, Harry. Now.\"\n\nReluctantly, Harry obeyed. Frank retreated onto the deck as he struggled out of the cabin through the narrow single doorway. He could see Mark towards the stern, pulling in a rope. The fire extinguisher should be within reach if Chipchase was right about its location, though whether\u2014\n\nHarry froze in mid-stride. The bracket above the cockpit entrance was exactly where Chipchase had said it was. But it was empty.\n\n\"Looking for this?\" Frank stretched down to his left and lifted an object into view: the extinguisher. \"We noticed Barry eyeballing it when you came aboard. I don't know what he thought you could do with it, but...\" He tossed it over the side without taking his eye off Harry. \"Back to business. Close the cabin door behind you and bolt it.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n_\"Just do it.\"_\n\nHarry sighed. The game was up before it had begun. He turned and saw Chipchase mouthing a silent obscenity. With a shrug, he closed the door in his friend's face. He jerked the bolt into place with a clunk, then, hoping his body was blocking Frank's view, eased it back until it was barely holding. Frank said nothing. Harry took what encouragement he could from the success of the manoeuvre. He turned back to Frank.\n\n\"Step out here.\"\n\nHarry moved slowly out onto the deck. Away to his left was a broad bay of white sand enclosed by rolling green hills: the island of Haskurlay, it had to be. Given long enough, he could probably have made out the ruins of the village beyond the dunes rimming the beach, maybe even the infamous burial mound on the lower slope of the hill at the northern end of the bay. But he had no time for sightseeing. He had very little time of any kind.\n\nThe second boat was smaller than the launch\u2014an open-decked inflatable with an outboard motor. Mark was tying it fast against the starboard side, ready, it seemed clear, for the transfer to shore. As Harry watched, he tightened the rope, turned to Frank and nodded. \"We're all set.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Frank leaned back against the stern rail and smiled at Harry. \"Sit down.\"\n\nHarry lowered himself onto the bench behind him. \"Why have you brought us here?\" he asked, as if for all the world he did not know the answer.\n\n\"Thought you ought to see the island...at least once, as you and Barry have never been here before. Though that, of course, will have to be our secret. Actually, you aren't going to Haskurlay even today. This is as close as we get.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Banking on a landing, were you? No, no. That would be far too risky. From our point of view, I mean. A little too...unpredictable. So, the trip ends here. For you and Barry. And Ailsa.\"\n\n\"Who are you working for?\"\n\n\"That would be telling.\"\n\n\"Whatever you intend to do to us, you won't get away with it, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think we will. We've been lucky with the weather. And you played along beautifully. But now it's going to become messy. And I have to consider how it is going to look. That's why I have to do this...out of sequence.\"\n\n\"Sequence?\"\n\n\"I mean the order of the killings.\" Frank pushed himself away from the rail and advanced slowly towards him. \"We'll make it look like you killed Ailsa first, then Barry, because you couldn't trust him to keep his mouth shut, then...yourself, because you were suddenly overwhelmed by the horror of your actions, or...whatever. Anyway, the other killings are straightforward, but suicide needs precision. You can't shoot yourself from six feet away, can you?\"\n\n\"We should move him first,\" cut in Mark.\n\n\"Should we?\" Frank responded, his gaze still fixed on Harry.\n\n\"They have to be found in the inflatable. I can be linked to hiring this boat.\"\n\n\"You don't need to worry about that.\"\n\nThe next second, and the few seconds that followed, billowed into minutes in Harry's mind. Frank swung round, raising the pistol as he did so. Harry guessed what he was going to do before the possibility of treachery even entered Mark's thoughts. Mark was just another fall guy. He had been seen with Harry and Barry in Castlebay and on the way there. He had been seen altogether too often. His place in Frank's plan for how things were going to look was preordained.\n\nThe gun went off with a loud crack. Mark's head jerked back. His mouth fell open, shaping an unspoken \"Oh\" of futile surprise as blood trickled from a neat round hole between his eyebrows. He staggered back against the gunwale, then slowly toppled over. Harry did not see him hit the water. But he heard the splash. And sprang up at the sound.\n\nIt was his only chance. That thought\u2014that instinct\u2014overrode everything else. He threw himself at Frank, head lowered, arms outstretched. If rugby had been played at Commonweal School in his day, he might have made a better job of it. As it was, he was aided by a sudden pitching of the launch caused by Mark's fall. His charge caught Frank off-balance. They tumbled to the deck. The gun was jolted from Frank's hand. It slid away out of his reach. Harry tried to pin him down and for a moment they were staring into each other's eyes, their faces no more than a few inches apart. Then Frank's relative youth and fitness told. He pushed Harry off, kneeing him violently in the groin as he did so.\n\nHarry rolled to one side, pain sucking what strength he had clean out of him. He heard, as if from a great distance, several thumps, followed by a splintering of wood. Chipchase must have broken out of the cabin, alarmed by the gunshot on deck. There came a shout. _\"Harry!\"_ Then another noise he could not identify.\n\nChipchase had called his name. But he was nowhere to be seen. Only Frank appeared in Harry's sky-dominated field of vision, looming above him, the gun retrieved and pointing directly at him, the barrel rock-steady and drawing closer as Frank stooped towards him. _You can't shoot yourself from six feet away, can you?_ The question drifted into Harry's mind. He aimed a kick at Frank's leading foot. But Frank dodged it with ease, smiling in satisfaction at his own nimbleness. He crunched his knee into the crook of Harry's left elbow and closed a crushing hand round his right forearm, flattening him against the deck.\n\nFrank brought the gun down in a slow, careful arc, judging to a nicety the ballistics of the suicide Harry's death was meant to be. Harry swivelled his head to either side, but could not escape. When he looked up, the black hole of the gun barrel was waiting and growing, ready to swallow his world.\n\nThere was a roar. For a fraction of a second Harry assumed the sudden noise and heat were the last sensations of his life. But no. The gun was gone. Frank was screaming. He had let go of Harry and raised his hands to his face, his features obscured by a searing plume of flame. Ailsa was beside him. She had hold of something. It was wedged in Frank's jaws. His screams were sculpted by a mouthful of fire. He fell on his side, some sparking, sputtering object separating itself from him as he did so. But his screams did not cease.\n\nHarry saw Ailsa bending to grab something from the deck: the gun. Then she was above Frank, standing over him, aiming the weapon. Harry propped himself up on one elbow. He knew what Ailsa was about to do. There was a moment when he could have shouted at her to stop. But he did not.\n\nShe fired three times. Bang; bang; bang. Neither fast nor slow. Deliberate. Conclusive. Without margin for error.\n\nThe screaming stopped. Dead.\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-SEVEN**\n\n**H** arry struggled to his feet and sat down on the starboard bench. He looked across at Ailsa, who was sitting on the other side of the boat. The gun was still in her hands. Between them Frank lay sprawled across the deck like some great black fish they had just landed, blood oozing from beneath him and lapping first towards Ailsa, then towards Harry, with the pitch of the vessel.\n\n\"What did you...attack him with?\" Harry asked numbly.\n\n\"A safety flare,\" Ailsa replied, pointing to a scorched red and yellow metal tube lying in the stern. \"I found it in a locker under the wheel. It was...the obvious place to look and...the only thing I could think of.\"\n\n\"Thank God you knew how to set it off.\"\n\n\"Thank growing up on a small island for that and all the messing about in boats that goes with it.\" She glanced down at the gun. \"Do you know...how to unload this?\"\n\n\"The magazine's in the handle, I think. There'll be a catch somewhere to release it. Barry might\u2014\" Harry broke off, bemused by Chipchase's absence\u2014and the fact that it had not yet occurred to him to question it. \"Where _is_ Barry?\"\n\n\"He knocked himself out on the lintel of the cabin doorway.\"\n\n\"He did _what_?\"\n\n\"I'm sorry. We should...see how he is. But...I think he's all right.\"\n\nHarry hurried into the wheelhouse and down into the cabin. Chipchase was slumped on the floor, with his back against one of the table legs and his feet spread out before him. He was blinking like a man hoping his vision would soon clear and rubbing a nasty-looking wound on his forehead that was already forming a lump with a livid bruise purpling around it.\n\n\"He was so worried about you he forgot to stoop,\" Ailsa called from the deck. \"He's going to have quite a headache.\"\n\n\"Barry?\" Harry crouched beside his friend and grasped him by the shoulders. \"Barry?\"\n\n\"There you are, Harry.\" Chipchase opened his eyes wide, which seemed to bring his vision into focus. \"What's...going on?\"\n\n\"Don't worry. We've, er, dealt with Frank and Mark.\"\n\n\"You have?\"\n\n\"Terminally.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"Not pretty. That's a fact.\"\n\n\"So...\"\n\n\"Everything's OK.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Really.\"\n\n\"Well...didn't I tell you it would be?\" Chipchase grinned. \"With me in charge.\"\n\nChipchase did not ask for any details of what had occurred during his brief period of unconsciousness. His lack of curiosity might have worried Harry had he not been so grateful for it. He had no wish to relive the events any time soon. Nor, clearly, had Ailsa. The shock of what had happened and the almost greater shock of surviving it had reduced their range of thought and action to the needs of the moment.\n\nChipchase turned out to be no more familiar with the design of a Browning pistol than Harry was. In the event, it was Harry who removed the ammunition, rendering the weapon safe. He also found a tarpaulin folded away under one of the benches, which he draped over Frank's body. Mark's was a dark shape in the water, drifting slowly in towards the shore of Haskurlay. There was no way they could retrieve it. Someone else would have to do that. The police, presumably.\n\nThe launch had a VHF radio, which they could have used to summon help there and then. But Ailsa was confident she could handle the controls and favoured heading for Castlebay to raise the alarm. \"If we radio from here, they'll tell us to stay put,\" she reasoned. \"I don't want to sit out here waiting for them. Do you?\"\n\nHarry did not. And Chipchase expressed no preference, much of his initial chirpiness on regaining consciousness having deserted him. Ailsa washed his wound as best she could and dressed it with a bandage she found in the first-aid kit. Barry decided a cigarette would aid his recovery and sat out on deck smoking it as they accelerated away from Haskurlay, towing the inflatable behind them.\n\nHarry watched the island recede slowly into the distance, doubting he would ever set foot there now. Ailsa did not look back. She stayed at the wheel, gaze fixed on the northern horizon. Harry wondered if she too had seen her last of the island. It was easy to believe she might never want to return.\n\nBut the future was as difficult to predict as the past was to fence off. The one was always infecting the other. And the past that had lured them to Haskurlay was not finished with them yet.\n\n\"The police will find out who hired Frank,\" Harry said to Ailsa, standing beside her in the cockpit as the launch sped towards Barra.\n\n\"I don't care if they do or not,\" she said, so quietly he had to strain to hear her above the roar of the engine. \"I only ever wanted to know the truth about how Father and Andrew died. Well, we know now, don't we?\"\n\n\"We do, Ailsa, yes. But I'm not sure the powers that be will want the public to learn what Operation Clean Sheet was all about. They'll organize some kind of cover-up.\"\n\n\"Let them. I don't care about that either. I have a husband and children I love. The kids have no idea what's been happening. I want to go back to my life with them. I want to bury Murdo next to his mother and father and brother and then...\" She looked away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. \"I'm sorry. I can't seem to stop crying.\"\n\n\"Don't worry about it. What were you going to say? 'And then...'?\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Ailsa sighed. \"I was going to say: forget all this.\"\n\n\"That won't be easy.\"\n\n\"No. But it may be possible. In time.\"\n\n\"The police will ask a lot of questions.\"\n\n\"I'm sure they will.\"\n\n\"I'll make it very clear you had no choice about shooting Frank. It was kill or be killed.\"\n\n\"Just tell them everything, Harry.\" She smiled grimly at him. \"That's all we can do.\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose it is.\"\n\n\"I'm all right. Really. Go and talk to Barry. I...can't say any more. Not just now.\"\n\nHarry nodded. \"Fair enough.\"\n\nChipchase was bending over the side of the vessel, spitting out the last of a mouthful of vomit, when Harry reached him. He was white-faced, breathing fast but shallowly. What with that and the bandage round his head, through which blood was still seeping, he looked far from well.\n\n\"Maybe you should go below, Barry,\" Harry suggested. \"You didn't seem to feel seasick down in the cabin.\"\n\n\"I didn't...did I?\" Chipchase swivelled round on the bench to face Harry. \"You...could be right.\"\n\n\"Want a hand?\"\n\n\"No, no. I can still...walk down a flight of steps, y'know.\" Chipchase struggled to his feet. \"I'm not a...bloody inva\u2014\" He winced and bowed his head. \"Jesus. That\u2014\"\n\nHe fell like a toppling tree. Fortunately, Harry was in his path of descent. He caught Chipchase and lowered him gently the last few feet to the deck, kneeling with him as he went.\n\n\"Barry? Are you all right?\" There was no answer. Harry repeated the question. But still there was no answer.\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-EIGHT**\n\n**T** he air ambulance rose deafeningly into the sky above Castlebay and turned for its high-speed run to the mainland. Harry stood at the edge of the playing field that doubled as a helipad, watching it go and wishing the patient it was carrying well. The hours that had elapsed since Chipchase's collapse were a blur in his memory. Anxiety about his old friend's condition overshadowed his attempts to explain to the police what had happened earlier in the day and to reassure Donna over a crackly phone line to Swindon that all was well with him\u2014if not, alas, with Chipchase, who had undergone an emergency craniotomy at Barra Hospital to drain a blood clot on the brain prior to being transferred to a specialist neurosurgical unit in Glasgow.\n\nIt seemed absurd and unfair that Chipchase might have inflicted a fatal injury on himself in the process of cheating death at the hands of a pair of hired killers. But Harry knew enough of the absurdity and unfairness of human existence to realize that it was only too possible. And the doctor who had operated on Chipchase had made no bones about the seriousness of his condition. \"The next twenty-four hours will be critical; it could go either way.\"\n\nSo it was that a comatose Chipchase was borne away to fight for his life in a distant hospital ward, while Harry remained on Barra to answer any questions that might be put to him by the small team of detectives helicoptered down from Stornoway to investigate three violent deaths at the normally uneventful southern extremity of their command area.\n\nAilsa, after making a statement to the Stornoway team, had retreated to the house of a family friend. Harry had barely spoken to her since their arrival in Castlebay aboard the launch. They had radioed ahead and been met halfway by the lifeboat, so that Chipchase could be rushed to the hospital. Only the resident officer at Barra police station had been waiting for them at the pier, in a strangely low-key start to what was to become a multiple homicide inquiry.\n\nOne of those homicides had been an act of self-defence, of course. Harry had stressed that at every opportunity. The detectives, however, led by a dour and inscrutable chief inspector called Knox, had given the circumstances of Murdo Munro's death far more attention than those of his killers'. There was an unspoken implication that they had got no less than they deserved for descending on such a peaceful little island set on mayhem and murder. The scenes of crime\u2014the launch, the Munro croft on Vatersay and the inshore waters of Haskurlay, where there was a body still to be recovered\u2014had become the focus of their activities. The tangled connections between what had occurred that day and the deaths of two other members of the Munro family fifty years before had barely been addressed.\n\nThey would be eventually, though. Harry was well aware of that. There would be a combing of old files. There would be consultations with the Grampian and Tayside forces. There would be a lot of assimilating of information and assessing of evidence. And it would all take time. Nothing would be concluded quickly.\n\nThe intelligence dimension to the case would be a further complication. With the original version of Maynard's disk lost, the true purpose of Operation Clean Sheet remained unprovable. And Harry felt sure it would be officially denied. The role of MRQS as a memory-wiping drug was no better than a rumour in the pharmacological world anyway, according to what Samuels had told Donna\u2014something the US Army might or might not have tried out on some of its own men back in the fifties. This had nevertheless been sufficient to convince Donna she could no longer sit idly by in Vancouver. Her discovery upon arrival in Swindon that Harry had omitted to mention to her the small matter of the destruction of his old home had only heightened her alarm. And the cryptic message he had left for her with Jackie had done nothing to lessen it.\n\nAt least she now knew he was safe and well. Harry walked slowly up from the playing field to the Castlebay Hotel rehearsing in his mind various ways to explain to her why he had misled her and reckoning that an abject apology would probably serve him best. A blue and white police launch was heading in fast across the bay towards the pier, perhaps bearing some of the investigating team back from Haskurlay. If so, they might have more questions for him. But they knew where to find him. He was going nowhere without their consent. He had given them his word on the point and meant to stick to it. It was the best demonstration of his innocence he could devise. And there remained the possibility that his innocence might still be questioned in some quarters. Ailsa had said she did not care who among the Clean Sheeters had killed her father and brother and hired Frank and Mark. But Harry cared. And so would a good few others when they heard what had happened.\n\nHarry's earlier call to Donna had been from the police station. Now, in the privacy of his hotel room, he was able to speak to her more freely.\n\n\"I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything that was going on. I knew you'd be tempted to do what you did in the end anyway\u2014fly over. And I didn't want to expose you to the danger I was already in. It really was as simple as that.\"\n\n\"We're man and wife, Harry. We're supposed to be a team.\"\n\n\"I know. But it's a team of three. Someone had to look after Daisy.\"\n\n\"While you looked after yourself?\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't do such a bad job, did I?\"\n\n\"You've been lucky. That's what it amounts to.\"\n\n\"Unlike Barry.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sorry, hon. How is he?\"\n\n\"Not good. The doc muttered about his unhealthy lifestyle catching up with him.\"\n\n\"How long will the police want you to stay on Barra?\"\n\n\"No idea. There's a lot for them to get their heads round. It could be a few days. More, even. I just don't know.\"\n\n\"I reckoned not. So, I'll join you there tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You will?\"\n\n\"I'm booked on an early flight to Glasgow. Jackie's going to drive me up to Heathrow at the crack of dawn. The connecting flight to Barra gets in at ten.\"\n\nHarry had not expected to be reunited with Donna so soon. The prospect of seeing her again in a matter of hours rather than days suddenly reminded him how much he had missed her. \"Ten tomorrow morning? That's great.\"\n\n\"You're not going to try and put me off again?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not. It'll be\u2014\" A sharp rap at the door sounded in his other ear. \"Hold on.\" He covered the receiver and called out: \"Yes?\"\n\n\"Chief Inspector Knox, Mr. Barnett. I need a word. Urgently.\"\n\n\"Just a minute.\" Swearing under his breath, Harry went back to Donna. \"I'm going to have to ring off. The police want to speak to me. I'll call you again as soon as they've gone.\"\n\n\"Make sure you do. I'm _still_ worried about you.\"\n\n\"Don't be. 'Bye for now.\" Harry put the phone down. \"Come in.\"\n\nKnox entered quietly, closing the door behind him. He was a short, squat, sandy-haired man in his forties or early fifties, with a guardedly polite manner and an unreadable demeanour. \"Sorry to interrupt,\" he said, though it was impossible to tell whether he genuinely was or not.\n\n\"My wife,\" Harry explained.\n\n\"Relieved you're in one piece, no doubt.\"\n\n\"Yes. Naturally. She'll be joining me here tomorrow, as a matter of fact.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow?\" Knox frowned.\n\n\"Is that a problem?\"\n\n\"I'd have to say it is.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because...I'm hoping you'll agree to do something for us, Mr. Barnett. And if you do...you won't be here when she arrives.\"\n**CHAPTER \nFIFTY-NINE**\n\n**K** nox prowled briefly around the room before settling in its only armchair, facing Harry, who was sitting on the bed nearest the telephone.\n\n\"You were sharing this room with Mr. Chipchase, I think you said,\" Knox remarked, apropos of nothing as far as Harry was concerned.\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"How is he?\"\n\n\"No one seems too sure. He's on his way to Glasgow for specialist treatment. But...he hasn't regained consciousness since he passed out on the launch, so...\" Harry shrugged helplessly. \"It's touch and go.\"\n\n\"I expect you'd like to follow him to Glasgow. Be on hand for, er...any changes in his condition.\"\n\n\"Of course I would. Are you saying I can?\"\n\n\"I'd better explain, hadn't I? To be honest, I'd rather have got more of a grip on the case before considering any moves like this, but...the timing leaves us little choice. I've spoken to Chief Inspector Ferguson in Aberdeen and Inspector Geddes in Dundee. They've filled me in on the background and I've brought them up to speed with what's happened here. They agree with what I'm proposing.\"\n\n\"Which is?\"\n\n\"I'll come to that in a moment. Let me start by saying I've no doubt of Mrs. Redpath's truthfulness or the accuracy of her statement.\"\n\n\"What about mine?\"\n\n\"In effect, she's your guarantor, Mr. Barnett. She's why we now also regard you as a truthful witness.\"\n\n\"Thanks very much,\" said Harry levelly.\n\n\"We had to take account of your status as a suspect in a parallel inquiry. I'm sure you understand that.\"\n\n\"I...suppose so.\"\n\n\"Good. Now, I propose to leave the whole matter of the deaths of Hamish and Andrew Munro on Haskurlay fifty years ago and the alleged military exercise there\u2014\"\n\n\"It's a bit more than alleged, isn't it?\"\n\n\"I don't know. And neither do you, according to your own statement.\" Knox's gaze hardened briefly before he continued. \"At all events, I propose to leave that matter till another day. My priority _this_ day is finding out who hired the two men who killed Murdo Munro and attempted to kill you, Mrs. Redpath and Mr. Chipchase. As it happens, we've made some progress on that score, which is what brings me here. Frank was obviously the one in charge. Yes?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And obviously intended from the outset to eliminate Mark at some point.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"After killing you all aboard the launch, he must have planned to make his escape in the inflatable. He could hardly have crossed to the mainland in such a craft, but it would have done him for a return trip to Barra. We found the Ford Fiesta parked on the verge farther along the road from the Munro house. That's presumably where he meant us to find it. So, the question is: how did he plan to leave Barra? The next ferry to Oban's not till tomorrow morning. Nor is the next flight to Glasgow. You came over by ferry yourself, so you may not know the airport here on Barra is simply a beach, albeit a grand wide one, away on the north coast. It's an afternoon high tide just now, so it's a morning service only. That's why we had to come down by helicopter ourselves.\"\n\n\"So he would have been trapped here?\"\n\n\"Ah no. We've good reason to think not. Our theory is that he actually planned to take the inflatable a little farther, to Eriskay, the next island north of here. That's linked by causeway to South Uist and Benbecula. If he had a car waiting for him on Eriskay, he could have driven to the proper tarmac airport at Benbecula and caught the five-thirty flight to Glasgow from there. There are several single male passengers booked on it. We expect one of them to be a no-show.\"\n\n\"Frank.\"\n\n\"It makes sense. The inflatable would have been a safe distance from the scene of the crime. And with Mark identifiable as the man who hired the launch here on Barra this morning, he'd be in the clear. Not to mention Glasgow, where we're certain he planned to be tomorrow morning.\"\n\n\"What makes you so certain of that?\"\n\n\"You didn't search the body, did you, Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"If you had, you'd have come across nothing to put a name or address to him. Maybe he left his credit cards and so forth in the car on Eriskay, if our theory about his method of escape is correct. But it might take us a few days to find the car. And we can't wait till then. Because what he did have in his pocket was a mobile phone, on which he'd recently recorded\u2014but not yet sent\u2014a text message. Did he strike you as a vain man?\"\n\n\"Vain?\" It was not something Harry had considered before. Frank's capacity for murderous violence had been of more immediate interest than whether he habitually admired his reflection in shop windows. But, now the question had been posed...\"Well, he was certainly no shrinking violet.\"\n\n\"Only there's a hint of vanity to my mind in drafting the message _before_ the event.\"\n\n\"What was the message?\"\n\n\"'Contract executed. Confirm Blythswood Square for settlement, 8 a.m. tomorrow.'\"\n\n\"Where's Blythswood Square?\"\n\n\"Central Glasgow.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"A pay-off in Glasgow fits our theory rather neatly.\"\n\n\"Do you know who he was going to send the message to?\"\n\n\"No. But we have the mobile number it was destined for. We've traced it, naturally. A phone bought in the West End of London\u2014O2 in Oxford Street, to be precise\u2014twelve days ago. Pay as you go. And a cash sale. So, we've no idea who made the purchase.\"\n\n\"Twelve days?\" That took it to the period between Askew's meeting with Ailsa in South Kensington and his departure for Kilveen with Harry and assorted other Clean Sheeters later in the week. \"It has to be whoever Askew was threatening to expose as the Munros' murderer.\"\n\n\"But who was that, Mr. Barnett? According to your statement, several of those still in the frame live in London. And those who don't could have gone there for the day. Well, there's really only one way to find out which of them it is, don't you think?\"\n\n\"Send the message.\"\n\n\"Just so.\" Knox paused and gave Harry a long, scrutinizing look. \"As we already have.\"\n\n\"You've sent it?\"\n\n\"The media only know about a murder on Vatersay. Nothing about two dead hit men. We'll keep it that way for the next twenty-four hours. So, the recipient of the message has no reason not to present himself in Blythswood Square tomorrow morning at eight o'clock to pay Frank whatever he's due. But Frank won't be there. We will.\"\n\n\"A trap?\"\n\n\"One our man may slip through, unfortunately. Given that we don't know who we're looking for. What we need is someone able to recognize the person who turns up.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Harry. \"You mean me.\"\n\n\"I do, Mr. Barnett, yes. We'd have you under surveillance throughout. And miked up into the bargain. You'd be running no risks. Anything you drew out of him could be valuable.\" A hint of a smile quivered at the edges of Knox's mouth. \"A full confession would be ideal.\"\n\n\"What if he just legs it as soon as he spots me?\"\n\n\"We grab him. At least we'll know who to grab. So, will you do it? We have to get you to Glasgow and set everything up. It can be done, but we're sorely pressed for time. I'd like to be able to give you a while to think it over, but...\"\n\n\"You can't.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. I need your answer...here and now.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTY**\n\n**E** ven Donna agreed Harry had to do it. This was a chance to end the uncertainty: to nail the one among the original fifteen members of Operation Clean Sheet guilty of murder\u2014in the past _and_ the present; to look him in the face and to know he would pay for what he had done\u2014then _and_ now. This was a chance Harry had realized at once he was bound to take.\n\nSo it was that Tuesday morning found him sharing the cramped rear of an unmarked white Transit van parked on the western side of Blythswood Square, Glasgow, with a battery of electronic surveillance equipment and an overweight, shaven-headed technical expert overly fond of Danish pastries called Dylan.\n\n\"Sure you don't want one?\" Dylan enquired, wafting a cinnamon-scented bagful in Harry's direction.\n\n\"Sure, thanks.\"\n\n\"Have you had any breakfast?\"\n\n\"Just coffee. It was, er...an early start.\"\n\nThat was something of an understatement. Accommodated overnight in the Milngavie Travel Inn on the northern outskirts of the city, Harry had been woken at dawn by one of Knox's junior officers and transported to Strathclyde Police HQ for final briefing and microphone-fitting. Handily, Blythswood Square lay close by. In the quadrangle at its centre, trees and bushes shaded a circular path round a flower-bedded lawn, with benches spaced at intervals. The square was overlooked by elegant Georgian buildings mostly occupied by the offices of solicitors, recruitment consultants and financial advisers. One of those offices had been temporarily converted into Knox's observation post. Policemen in white-collar-worker disguise were on patrol around the square as eight o'clock approached, while Dylan shuffled a pack of CCTV images on his monitor screen and chomped remorselessly through his supply of Danishes. \"You should still have had breakfast,\" he said, inadvertently spitting a pastry flake onto Harry's shoulder. \"It's the most important meal of the day.\"\n\n\"I had a fry-up yesterday morning. Plus porridge.\"\n\n\"I bet your day went all the better for it.\"\n\n\"Oh, definitely. Found some poor bloke shot dead in his garage. Got taken prisoner by his killer. Narrowly avoided a similar fate myself. Witnessed a couple more fatal shootings. Assisted the local constabulary with their enquiries. Hung around hospital corridors waiting for news of a critically ill friend. Volunteered to take part in a police stake-out. Then...I got an early night. It was a breeze.\"\n\n\"You're a dry one, aren't you?\" Dylan grinned, which was not a pretty sight. \"How's the friend?\"\n\n\"Still critical.\"\n\n\"Not so bad, then.\"\n\n\"As what?\"\n\n\"As dead.\" Dylan swallowed the final mouthful of his latest Danish and squinted at the screen with sudden intensity. \"Hold up...No, I don't think so. Too young. And...he's moving on.\"\n\n\"What time is it?\"\n\n\"Seven to eight. Won't be long now. Where are they treating him, then?\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Your friend.\"\n\n\"Western General. Here in Glasgow.\"\n\n\"Oh dear. _Western General._ \"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"My uncle went in there a few months back for a hip replacement. Caught some superbug the minute his bum touched the mattress. He's in the cemetery now. A real waste.\"\n\n\"Sorry to hear that.\"\n\n\"Don't be. He was a miserable old sod.\"\n\n\"I thought you just said what a waste it was.\"\n\n\"Aye. Of a brand-new artificial hip.\" Dylan squinted at the screen again. \"Hold up. I think...we might be in business. Take a look.\" He made as much room for Harry as his bulk allowed, which in the confines of the van was not a lot.\n\nA blurred and flickering black-and-white picture of the centre of the square, captured from a camera mounted on one of the surrounding buildings, presented itself to Harry's view. A couple of people were moving across the square, using it as a shortcut to their places of work, but there were two stationary figures, one seated on a bench, reading a newspaper, the other bending over something at the side of the path. The picture was far too fuzzy for any details of clothing or appearance to emerge. But it was only a few minutes short of eight o'clock. Harry supposed they both had to be candidates.\n\nNot so, according to Dylan. \"Forget the stooper. He's a down-and-out doing the rounds of the bins. See?\" The bending man straightened up and shuffled away, revealing the bin that had been the object of his attentions. \"Clock the guy on the bench.\"\n\n\"He's just reading a paper.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Plus I don't recognize him.\"\n\n\"You'd be hard put to recognize your own mother on one of these. I've told 'em we need to upgrade the technology for this kind of work, but the only upgrades they're interested in are to Chief Super and beyond. Cheapskates, the lot of them.\"\n\n\"Can't you try some of the other cameras?\"\n\n\"It won't help.\" Views of the same scene from several different but equally distant and unilluminating angles flashed across the screen. \"See what I mean?\"\n\nHarry peered more closely at the blurred figure on the bench. He had lain awake for an hour or more in his Travel Inn bed the night before, trying to decide who Frank's paymaster was. The process of elimination led in only one direction every time. Of those still alive, Babcock was as good as dead in an Australian nursing home and had never been capable of killing anything larger than a wasp anyway. Nor had Fripp and Gregson. That left Judd, Tancred and Wiseman. But Judd was out of the country and Wiseman had nearly died in the car crash that had killed Lloyd. Logically, it _had_ to be Tancred.\n\nBut was it Tancred he could see on the screen, sitting idly on the bench, newspaper open before him, clothes a smear of pale grey, head a smudge of a darker shade? It might be. It could be. It should be. But _was_ it?\n\n\"It's eight on the button,\" said Dylan. \"And he's not moving. QED, he's waiting.\"\n\n\"I can't say for sure if I know him.\"\n\n\"No choice, then. You'd better take a closer look.\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose so.\"\n\nDylan switched on the van's link to the observation post and spoke into a microphone. \"No ID on Bench Man from here, people, so our boy's going for a stroll in the park. Pin back your ears and prise open your eyelids. It's movie time.\"\n\nIt was nearly over, Harry told himself as he clambered from the van and Dylan pulled the doors gently shut behind him. The end was close. Donna's flight would be landing at Glasgow Airport in a quarter of an hour or so. They would soon be together again. When they had parted twelve days ago, Operation Clean Sheet had been no more than an obscure and forgotten episode in Harry's misspent and undistinguished youth. In many ways, he wished it still was. But wishing was not the same as forgetting. It lacked the power to deceive. Reality was the chill, bright, gusty morning through which he walked, waiting for the traffic to thin, before he crossed the road and entered the park.\n\nAhead he saw the figure on the bench. Knox had insisted he wear a baseball cap to strengthen his chances of reaching the subject before being recognized. As it was, the man he was heading towards was not looking in his direction at all, but was studying his newspaper with apparent concentration, his face masked by its open pages, the crown of a trilby or the like visible above them. He was dressed in a light mac, dark suit and gleamingly polished black shoes. There was a briefcase beside him, propped against his thigh. The newspaper's pinkish colour revealed it to be the _Financial Times._ All in all, the man looked like a dapper, slightly old-fashioned banker or stockbroker.\n\nThen, when Harry was about halfway along the path towards him, the man turned to another page, folding the paper briefly shut as he did so. Still he did not notice Harry, but in that instant there could be no mistaking who he was.\n\n\"My God,\" Harry murmured, wondering if the hidden microphone would catch his words. \"It's you.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTY-ONE**\n\n**H** ello, Magister,\" said Harry, stopping in front of Wiseman and pulling off the cap. \"Fancy meeting you here.\"\n\nWiseman looked up. His eyes widened. His face lost most of its colour. For a moment, he seemed wholly incapable of assimilating the message his senses were transmitting to his brain: that Harry Barnett was not lying dead, apparently by his own hand, on a launch off the coast of Haskurlay in the farther reaches of the Outer Hebrides, but was standing a few feet from him in the genteel surroundings of Blythswood Square, Glasgow.\n\n\"How are your shares doing?\"\n\n\"Wha...What?\"\n\n\"Thanks. Don't mind if I do.\" Harry sat down on the bench next to Wiseman, the briefcase between them. \"The pay-off's in the case, is it? Cash only in this line of business, I assume. How much, as a matter of interest? How much does it cost to have your old buddies knocked off one by one?\"\n\n\"I...\"\n\n\"Don't know what I'm talking about? Can't imagine what I mean? You'll be adding insult to injury if you try denying everything, Magister. And it won't get you off the hook anyway. You're here because you got a message from Frank telling you to be. Only the message wasn't from Frank. It was from the police. They have the square surrounded. You'll be arrested if you try to leave.\" Harry had agreed with Knox that, just in case the subject was armed, which both of them were confident he would not be, the hopelessness of his situation should be made clear to him at the outset. \"So, stay awhile and tell me...why in God's name you did it.\"\n\nWiseman closed his newspaper with exaggerated care and flattened it across his knees. \"Who's...Frank?\" he asked.\n\n\"Your hired hit man. Maybe you knew him by another name. I don't suppose either of them was genuine.\"\n\n_\"Was?\"_\n\n\"He's dead. Like I'd be, if the plan he cooked up on your behalf hadn't gone pear-shaped.\"\n\nWiseman glanced about him, as if expecting to see a policeman behind every bush. Then he turned and stared at Harry, fear of retribution and a conceited man's rage struggling almost visibly for mastery of his thoughts. \"You can't...prove anything,\" he said through gritted teeth.\n\n\"I'm not going to try. But the police will. And I reckon they'll succeed. You being here is the crunch. How do you account for that if it's not in response to Frank's message? And if the briefcase is full of money, what's it for if not to pay off him and his accomplice? Who's also dead, in case you're interested.\"\n\n\"Accomplice?\"\n\n\"Mark Howlett. Obviously an alias, but\u2014\"\n\n_\"Mark?\"_\n\n\"Yes. Mark.\"\n\n\"He's dead?\"\n\n\"Very dead.\"\n\n\"What...did he look like?\"\n\n\"Look like? What the hell does that matter?\"\n\n_\"What did he look like?\"_\n\nWiseman seemed determined to have an answer, so Harry gave him one. \"Young. Shortish. Fattish. Brown hair overdue for a wash. Bit of a beard. John Lennon specs. Sweated a lot.\"\n\nIn the same instant that horror gripped Wiseman's features, Harry saw the resemblance for the first time: the shape of the nose, the set of the jaw, the cold gleam of the eyes. He saw it, but for the moment could not bring himself to believe it. \"Was he...\"\n\n\"My son. Marcus. No wonder he hasn't responded to my messages.\" Wiseman lowered his head. \"Who killed him?\"\n\n\"Frank. You got yourself a double-crosser there, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"And who killed Frank?\"\n\n\"Ailsa Redpath fired the actual shots. But it could just as easily have been me. It was him or us.\"\n\n\"Dear God.\" Wiseman raised a hand to his face. \"Oh dear God.\"\n\n\"It's your fault, though. _All_ your fault. For hiring a man like Frank. For letting your son work with him. What were you\u2014\"\n\n_\"I didn't hire him.\"_ Wiseman lowered his hand and stared bleakly at Harry. The news of his son's death had shocked him out of his earlier defiance. \"And I had no idea Marcus was involved in the actual...\" He made a fist of the hand he had lowered and tightened it until the knuckles were white, then slowly relaxed it. \"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"You're _sorry_?\"\n\n\"It was never meant to come to this. And now...I've lost more than was originally at stake. A lot more. Everything, in fact. Everything that matters.\"\n\n\"What do you want? My condolences?\"\n\n\"You don't understand. It was...\" Wiseman sighed. \"Askew forced my hand.\"\n\n\"How? By showing you Maynard's statement and asking you to admit what you'd done fifty years ago?\"\n\n\"Yes. All right. That _is_ what happened. Though now...it hardly seems to matter.\" A shake of the head; a long blink; a shudder. \"My poor boy.\" Wiseman looked away, gazing past Harry into the middle distance, his focus blurring. \"What do you want to know?\"\n\n\"Askew showed you the statement and gave you a few days to reconcile yourself to being identified as the Munros' murderer. Yes?\"\n\n\"Yes. Maynard had named me as the one who killed them. Askew insisted their relatives had a right to know the truth. He wanted me to make a clean breast of it. He wanted _all_ of us to make a clean breast of it. But especially me.\"\n\n\"Do you remember shooting them?\"\n\n\"Not exactly. But it fits with...flashbacks I've suffered from for years.\"\n\n\"And you decided you weren't willing to let the truth come out?\"\n\n\"There was no reason why it had to. It wasn't as if it was really my fault. God knows what the side effects were of that drug they used on us. I wasn't responsible for my actions. None of us were. I tried to make Askew understand that. But I was wasting my breath. He was on some born-again ethical high: we had to acknowledge what we'd done, etcetera, etcetera. Even if it meant, in my case, pleading guilty to double murder.\"\n\n\"So you hired Frank to take Askew out?\"\n\n\"I told you: I didn't hire Frank. What I did was warn Marcus I was about to be publicly disgraced\u2014and worse. It was he who...suggested a solution to the problem. He used to be a roadie for a rock band. They took a couple of bodyguards round with them. Marcus reckoned one of the bodyguards could...put him on to somebody. I've had to help the boy out of a lot of trouble over the years. He saw this as his chance to...repay me.\"\n\n\"You let _him_ hire Frank?\"\n\n\"Yes. And when I met Askew for the second time, the night before he travelled up to Kilveen, I told him I'd do what he wanted. We agreed to put it to the rest of you at the end of the reunion. But Frank had already assured me Askew would never make it to Kilveen, let alone the end of the reunion.\"\n\n\"What about the auction in Geneva you were supposed to be attending?\"\n\n\"I flew to Aberdeen from London, not Geneva. There _was_ an auction. But I didn't go. I knew Frank intended to make his move against Askew on the train and I didn't want to be there when he did. I also knew Askew couldn't put the lie to my cover story without admitting we'd met the night before, which he'd promised to keep secret until the time came for us all to face the truth. My absence must have worried him, though. He must have guessed somehow what we had in mind for him. That's why he sent you the disk with Maynard's statement on it. I was certain he'd have it on him when Frank struck. But he didn't. It wasn't in his bag either. If only we'd got hold of the disk then, I'd have been completely in the clear.\"\n\n\"Leaving Barry and me to carry the can.\"\n\n\"Chipchase was the obvious fall guy. Dodging the reunion only made it look worse for him. You were inevitably suspect as his former partner. But there was never likely to be enough to pin Askew's murder on either of you, assuming it was even officially recognized as a murder. You'd never have been charged, let alone convicted. It would all have...fizzled out. Still, the missing disk was a loose end I couldn't afford to leave dangling. Worse, once we'd all got together at Kilveen, Lloyd started to...remember things. I began to wonder if Askew had turned the disk over to him.\"\n\n\"So you took him out too.\"\n\n\"It was Marcus's idea. I think by then...he was beginning to enjoy himself. I lured Lloyd out to Braemar. Frank searched his room after the rest of you had gone, but drew a blank. On the way back from Braemar, I pulled off the road into a deserted picnic area in the woods. Frank was waiting. He knocked Lloyd out. We searched him, but there was still no sign of the disk. Then Frank tampered with the car's steering, helped me stage the crash in the river and made sure Lloyd was dead. He also posed as the passing motorist who gave me a hand. We made it look like I could easily have died as well, so no one was ever going to think I was party to sabotaging the car. But...we still didn't have the disk.\"\n\n\"Is that why you had Dangerfield killed? Because you thought Askew might have sent it to him?\"\n\n\"I know nothing about Dangerfield's death.\"\n\n\"Pull the other one.\"\n\n\"It's true. My guess is that the Secret Service used him to arrange the reunion as a check on the long-term effectiveness of MRQS. When the police started a murder inquiry that could have led them close to the truth about Operation Clean Sheet, it must have been decided he was a liability.\"\n\nThere was no reason left for Wiseman to lie. Harry sensed, indeed, that his \"guess\" was all too accurate. But he had no intention of saying so with Knox and his crew listening in. \"When did you realize Askew had sent the disk to me?\"\n\n\"When I considered who he was most likely to trust out of those lucky enough to be left behind at Kilveen while the rest of us went slowly mad on Haskurlay.\"\n\n\"And who were they?\"\n\n\"You, Chipchase, Fripp, Gregson and Judd. We swapped you and Chipchase for Tancred and me in the doctored version of Maynard's statement. Well, Marcus did the swapping, actually. And the rest of the doctoring. He knows\u2014 _knew_ \u2014his way round a computer far better than I do.\"\n\n\"Why you and Tancred?\"\n\n\"Because he's the only other member of the Haskurlay party still alive, unless you count Babcock. With Tancred off the list, it made it look as if you'd been rubbing them out one by one. I went out shooting rabbits alone that morning, according to Maynard. So, I was obviously in no position to deny shooting Hamish and Andrew Munro. There never was a pact of silence with anyone.\"\n\n\"Why did you set fire to Askew's flat?\"\n\n\"Frank broke in and found the disk. The fire was to destroy any hidden copies or other incriminating evidence. But there still remained the copy I felt more and more certain _you_ had.\"\n\n\"So then we got the arson treatment too.\"\n\n\"The disk was more of a target than you or Chipchase. But we couldn't be sure it was destroyed in the fire. Besides, if you'd already read the statement...\" Wiseman gave a heavy, regretful sigh. \"All you had to do was tolerate the police breathing down your necks for a while. They'd have given up eventually. Or the Secret Service would have called them off. But that was too easy, wasn't it? That was just too sensible. Instead, you decided to go after the truth in your own particular bull-headed, bloody-minded way. No wonder you and Chipchase used to be business partners. You're a well-matched pair\u2014of fools.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you should have explained it all to us, Magister. Then we'd have known the parts we were supposed to play. Simple, really. I'll make sure Barry appreciates that. If he ever regains consciousness.\"\n\n\"So Frank got one of you, did he?\"\n\n\"You could say so.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nHarry's instinct was to land a punch on Wiseman's grimly smiling face at that moment. He had turned on the bench and raised his arm to strike before the thinking portion of his brain intervened. There was more to be told yet. Wiseman would have to be humoured. For just a little longer.\n\n\"What a forbearing fellow you are, Ossie.\" The smile faded.\n\n\"How much did you know about the plan to kill us along with Ailsa Redpath and Murdo Munro?\"\n\n\"Everything. Except Marcus's active involvement. He told me Frank had brought in a man he'd worked with before to help him manage the thing. But the plan was Marcus's. I can only suppose he wanted to see it carried out...in the flesh. Then he'd have been able to...surprise me with his versatility.\"\n\n\"Four more murders, Magister. Didn't that trouble your conscience?\"\n\n\"It should trouble yours, not mine. It was a fall-back in case you contacted Ailsa Redpath. If you did, we reckoned that meant you'd read the statement and were determined to root out the truth. Leaving us no choice.\"\n\n\"Bullshit. You had the _choice_ of facing up to what you'd done. Or at least of not making it any worse.\"\n\n\"Easy for you to say.\"\n\n\"You'd never have gone to prison for what you did on Haskurlay. There were extenuating circumstances galore.\"\n\n\"Not for killing Askew, there weren't.\"\n\n\"No. Not for that.\"\n\n\"And one thing does tend to lead to another. I like to finish what I start.\"\n\n\"Well, congratulations. It's finished now.\"\n\n\"Is it?\"\n\n\"Even if we'd all been killed as planned, you'd still have lost Marcus. Frank shot him in cold blood. He had his _own_ plan. And your well-being wasn't part of it. He'd have come here today and taken your money and walked away and let you learn later that he'd murdered your son along with us.\"\n\n\"Yes. He would have. I suppose that's the kind of risk you run when you deal with such people. Marcus wasn't...a good judge of others. He wasn't...a lot of things. But he _was_ my son. Do you have children, Ossie?\"\n\n\"A daughter.\"\n\n\"No son?\"\n\n\"I _had_ a son. He died.\"\n\n\"You know how I feel, then.\"\n\n\"No. I don't. I don't have the remotest clue how you feel. I'm not sure you have feelings that the rest of us would recognize as normal at all.\"\n\n\"I'm a respected man. Widely admired. Envied, even. Why should I have to give all that up at the say-so of a pipsqueak like Askew? Do you seriously think any of you spineless bastards would have stood by me if he'd had his way and\u2014\" Wiseman broke off and looked up at the sky. Grief had sapped his anger. It was a frail and transitory thing now. The sigh that followed was almost a moan. \"You're right. It's finished. More conclusively than you seem to imagine.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean: what happens now?\"\n\n\"They arrest you.\"\n\n\"And then? Will I be charged? Tried? Convicted? Imprisoned?\"\n\n\"Of course. As you should be.\"\n\n\"' As I should be.'\" Wiseman chuckled mirthlessly. \"Na\u00efvety in a young man is excusable. In one of your age it's pitiful. I take it this conversation is being recorded?\"\n\nHarry nodded. It was pointless to deny it. \"Yes,\" he said. \"It is.\"\n\n\"For use in evidence against me. Naturally. Well, I think they have more than enough now, don't you? So, this last...observation...can remain strictly between ourselves.\" Wiseman raised a cautionary finger to his lips, then leant close to Harry's ear and whispered a few words to him.\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"You heard.\" Wiseman stood up, tossed the newspaper down on the bench and grabbed the briefcase. \"Let's go. It's time you turned me in.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTY-TWO**\n\n**A** fter Wiseman's arrest Harry was taken to the ground-floor office on the southern side of the square which had served as Knox's observation post. Wiseman was en route to Strathclyde Police HQ for questioning by then, having cast Harry an enigmatic glance of farewell through the window of the squad car as he was driven away. The operation had ended in the smooth success Knox had confidently anticipated. He shook Harry by the hand in a congratulatory fashion. An air of quiet satisfaction hung over the comings and goings of the junior members of his team. All had ended well.\n\n\"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Barnett. It's been invaluable.\"\n\n\"Am I free to go now?\"\n\n\"Certainly. But it'd be appreciated if you could remain close at hand for a little longer. We might need to check a few things with you. This is a complicated case and no mistake.\"\n\n\"How close?\"\n\n\"I was thinking...here in Glasgow. We've booked you and your wife into a city-centre hotel for a couple of nights. Well, we don't need to hide you out at Milngavie now there's no danger of you bumping into our chief suspect before we're ready for him, do we? Your wife's already on her way to the hotel, as a matter of fact. A couple of Strathclyde WPCs met her off her flight. So, why don't you relax there? Visit your friend in hospital. Maybe take in a few sights. We'll be in touch as soon as we need to be.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"One thing, though. We couldn't pick up something Wiseman said to you. Just before you vacated the bench. From what I could see on the monitor, he seemed to be whispering into your ear.\"\n\n\"He was.\"\n\n\"And what did he whisper?\"\n\n\"'I don't regret a thing,'\" Harry lied. \"That's all.\"\n\nHarry phoned the hospital before leaving Blythswood Square to find out if there had been any change in Chipchase's condition. Why he expected to hear bad news he could not afterwards have explained; he was not pessimistic by nature. Whatever the reason, though, his expectation was confounded. \"There's been a big improvement overnight,\" the sister informed him. \"Mr. Chipchase is sitting up and taking notice. He'll probably be on a general ward before the end of the day. The doctor's very pleased with him.\"\n\nSo it was that Harry was able to greet Donna at the Millennium Hotel with the broadest smile he had worn in many weeks, though not as broad as the one with which _she_ greeted _him._\n\n\"Hi, hon,\" she said, hugging him close. \"Is it good to see you! There have been times this last couple of weeks\u2014\"\n\nHarry silenced her with a kiss and gazed warmly into her eyes. \"Don't say it. I'm sorry for all the worry I've put you through. Let's leave it at that.\"\n\n\"Leave it? You must be kidding. I want to hear every last detail.\"\n\n\"And you will. But remember: it's over now. However hair-raising some of it may sound, it _is_ over.\"\n\n\"Thank the good Lord for that.\"\n\nHarry nodded. \"Amen.\"\n\nTwo hours later, they were seated at Chipchase's hospital bedside. He had been moved from intensive care to a private room. A large bandage covered his head, which had been shaved prior to the craniotomy, and a drip was attached to a cannula in his right arm. In the circumstances, he had no right to look as well as, strangely, he did.\n\nHis memory of recent events, however, was patchy. \"A spot of amnesia's only to be expected, according to the doc.\"\n\n\"There's a lot of it about,\" said Harry with a smile. \"I'll fill you in on the ins and outs of our latest exploits next time I come in.\"\n\n\"But we _are_ in the clear, right?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\n\"Great. Now, what do you mean by 'next time _I_ come in?' Won't Donna be with you?\"\n\n\"Do you want me to be?\" Donna asked.\n\n\"Too bloody right I do, darlin'. I want you to see me a good bit closer to my normal irresistible self. Then Harry will really have something to worry about.\" Chipchase winked. \"Know what I mean?\"\n\n\"According to Marvin's researches, some of the US troops they _allegedly_ experimented on with MRQS in the fifties tried to sue the Defense Department,\" said Donna over an early lunch in a caf\u00e9 back in the city centre. \"The action failed for lack of evidence, of course, but...\"\n\n\"You think I should sue the MoD?\"\n\n\"No. But there's bound to be hard evidence now for _someone_ to act on. Or there will be when Wiseman stands trial.\"\n\n\" _If_ he stands trial.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't he?\"\n\n\"No reason. Except he doesn't expect to.\"\n\n\"Pardon me?\"\n\n\"It was almost the last thing he said to me before they arrested him. In a whisper, so they didn't pick it up on the microphone. 'I'll never make it to court.'\"\n\n\"What made him say that?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But if it's true he wasn't responsible for Dangerfield's death...\"\n\n\"My God. They wouldn't do that, would they?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. But I'll tell you what I _am_ sure of. Whatever happens to Wiseman\u2014if anything does\u2014I won't be challenging it. And I won't be suing anyone. It was difficult enough to get off this particular hook. I don't intend to do anything that might get me back on it.\"\n\nRelieved that Chipchase was on the mend and their shared troubles\u2014bar a lot of no doubt time-consuming police paperwork\u2014were over, Harry managed for the rest of the day to do just what Knox had recommended: he relaxed. Ordinarily, he would have pulled a face at Donna's suggestion of a visit to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, such places tending to leave him weak at the ankles and yawning uncontrollably. But the prospect of strolling around anywhere with his wife was deliriously appealing after all he had been through. And she promised him they could go to a pub afterwards.\n\nAs fate would have it, the Kelvingrove was closed for refurbishment and they ended up in the Transport Museum on the other side of the road, where the vintage cars and venerable steam engines were actually of more interest to Harry than to Donna. As he explained to her later over a pint, it only confirmed what he was slowly coming to believe: his luck had changed at last.\n\nDinner at a good restaurant rounded off their day of unlooked-for contentment, marred only slightly by the knowledge that another parting was not far off. Donna would have to return to Vancouver as soon as possible to appease her ireful head of department. A week or so at least seemed likely to pass before Harry could join her. But this time, he promised, he would be accepting no out-of-the-blue invitations to far-flung get-togethers. This time, he would be caution personified.\n\n\"It's the quiet life for me after this, Donna. For _us._ \"\n\n\"Not _too_ quiet, I hope.\"\n\n\"Unlikely, with Daisy around.\"\n\n\"She's missed you.\"\n\n\"And _I've_ missed _her._ But we'll all be together soon.\"\n\n\"I'll drink to that.\" Donna raised her glass.\n\nAnd Harry raised his. \"Cheers.\"\n\nThe bedside telephone roused Harry shortly before eight o'clock the following morning. It had been a late night\u2014and a delightfully energetic one. A long lie-in was what Harry's sluggish thought processes told him he needed. But the telephone did not stop ringing. A glance at Donna revealed her to be out for the count. He grabbed the receiver.\n\n\"Hello?\" he said in a sandpapery _sotto voce._\n\n\"Gretchen at the front desk here, Mr. Barnett,\" trilled a birdsong-bright female voice. \"Sorry to disturb you, but there's a lady in reception who wants to speak to you. She says it's very important.\"\n\n\"Who is she?\"\n\n\"Her name's Rawson. Erica Rawson.\"\n\nAh, Erica. Of course. Why had he not anticipated this? He rubbed his eyes and tried to concentrate, wondering whether his change of luck might not be as wholesale as he had fondly imagined.\n\n\"Mr. Barnett?\"\n\n\"Tell Miss Rawson I'll be right down.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTY-THREE**\n\n**T** here was no sign of Erica in reception. Gretchen pointed helpfully towards the main entrance. \"She said she'd wait outside, Mr. Barnett.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Harry plodded out apprehensively into a cool, leaden-skied morning. The Millennium Hotel fronted onto George Square, focal point of the city, round which rush-hour traffic was currently roaring. Erica was standing on the opposite side of the street from Harry, near the pelican crossing adjacent to the hotel. She was dressed in tracksuit and trainers, had her hands on her hips and was gazing expectantly in his direction.\n\nShe continued to study him as he waited for the crossing light to change in his favour. Harry struggled to put the brief interval this gave him for tactical deliberation to good use, but found his thoughts still fogged by the rudeness of his awakening. He had left a note for Donna: _Gone for a stroll. Back soon. Order breakfast._ That had sounded good to him and still did. But breakfast was already beginning to seem a distant and uncertain prospect. Yet Erica was alone. And George Square was as public a place as Harry could wish for. There was surely no threat to him. He felt marginally less anxious than when he left his room.\n\nThe traffic slowed to a halt. The green man lit up. Harry crossed. \"Good morning,\" he said neutrally. \"Come a long way?\"\n\n\"Haven't we both?\" Erica nodded towards the hotel. \"Does Donna know you're meeting me?\"\n\n\"Not yet. She's still asleep.\"\n\n\"Jet lag?\"\n\n\"It's just early, Erica. Unless you're a working girl.\"\n\n\"Which I am. But you're right. It _is_ early. As you can see, I was caught on the hop myself.\"\n\n\"Caught by what?\"\n\n\"Let's get away from this din.\"\n\nThe light had changed back in favour of the traffic by then and a retreat from the noise was welcome. They headed into the centre of the square, dominated by Glasgow's answer to Nelson's Column\u2014a statue of Sir Walter Scott perched on a lofty pillar\u2014and commenced a slow circuit round the plinth at its base.\n\n\"I thought we should have a word before the police contacted you. They've told me what happened yesterday.\"\n\n\"I'm sure they have.\"\n\n\"But this morning...there was an unexpected development.\"\n\n\"Oh yes?\"\n\n\"Wiseman was found dead in his cell a couple of hours ago.\"\n\nHarry said nothing. There was nothing he _could_ say.\n\n\"You don't seem very surprised.\"\n\n\"I've had a lot of surprises lately. Maybe I'm developing an immunity.\"\n\n\"They think it was a heart attack. There'll have to be a post mortem, obviously.\"\n\n\"Obviously.\"\n\n\"He may have had an ongoing heart condition, of course. But then a man of his age would be under a lot of stress in such a situation even if he was in perfect health.\"\n\n\"Oh yes. Men of his age can find all sorts of situations stressful.\"\n\n\"You seem to have coped pretty well with recent events. But then you've had more experience than most of such things.\"\n\n\"Have I?\"\n\n\"There's a file on you, Harry. Not such a slim one either. I've taken a look at it. Interesting reading. Very interesting.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I should ask to see it myself. Under the Freedom of Information Act.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't if I were you.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"How's Barry?\"\n\n\"Getting better, thanks.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nThere was a momentary silence between them. Then Harry said, \"Well, it was...kind of you to bring me the news...about Wiseman.\"\n\n\"Not really. But I have been kind to you. Kinder than you know. Let me explain how things stand. With Wiseman dead, there'll be no trial. No trial, no publicity. Operation Clean Sheet stays forgotten. That's how we'd like it to be. That's how it can be. If you behave sensibly. And Barry too, of course. I'll assume you speak for him in this. I can guarantee all the police investigations involving you will be dropped. You'll be able to go back to Canada and your life with Donna and Daisy. And Barry will be able to go back to...whatever he does best. Provided you agree to accept the status quo, that is. Provided you undertake not to rock the boat. Make waves and there's a danger you may drown in them. Which would be regrettable. And unnecessary. When you have so much to live for.\"\n\n\"I have, yes.\"\n\n\"I've read the transcript of your conversation with Wiseman. My interpretation of your comments immediately following his denial of responsibility for Dangerfield's death is that you didn't believe him. Is that correct?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\" It was the lie that had to be told. Dangerfield, fair-minded fellow that he was, would have understood why. But, still, it was a hard thing to have to do. Harry silently tendered his old comrade a heartfelt apology.\n\n\"Good. And Chief Inspector Knox tells me the unrecorded remark Wiseman made to you towards the end of the conversation was actually 'I don't regret a thing.' Is that also correct?\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"You're never likely to present some other version?\"\n\n\"I'll stick to what I told Knox. There'll be no other version. Ever.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Mind if _I_ ask a few questions?\"\n\n\"Please do.\"\n\n\"Has Dr. Starkie gone home yet?\"\n\n\"No. But he will soon. Very soon.\"\n\n\"And Ailsa Redpath? What's going to happen to her?\"\n\n\"Nothing. The Procurator Fiscal will conclude she killed the man calling himself Frank in a legitimate act of self-defence. He'll also conclude, in the light of this morning's development, that no purpose would be served by a continuing investigation of the circumstances surrounding the events of two days ago.\"\n\n\"That's neat.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you approve.\"\n\n\"And the others. Fripp, Gregson, Judd and Tancred. They'll be...left to get on with their lives?\"\n\n\"Everyone will, Harry. As long as you let them.\"\n\n\"Me? You've nothing to worry about there. I've always been a live-and-let-live sort of bloke.\"\n\n\"That's what I thought.\"\n\nThey halted, facing the hotel. Pedestrians passed them en route across the square. The traffic continued to surge round it. A flight of pigeons lifted off from the war memorial away to their right. The world went on moving. \"Tell me, Erica,\" Harry said slowly, \"is MRQS still being used?\"\n\n\"Not as such.\"\n\n\"What does that mean?\"\n\n\"I think you should be getting back now. But before you do...\" She unzipped a pocket in her tracksuit top and took out two passports, held together by a rubber band. \"Returned by the Grampian police. Your passport\u2014and Barry's.\"\n\nHarry took them from her outstretched hand. And waited for the answer to his question that he suspected he was never going to get.\n\nErica smiled. \" _That_ means you're free to go.\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTY-FOUR**\n\n**T** he funeral of Murdo Munro took place on Vatersay a week later. Harry was the only mourner who was neither a relative nor an islander. Ailsa had asked him to attend if he could, though her husband's demeanour suggested he would have preferred him to stay away. Others may have felt the same. Dougie McLeish for one shot him several disapproving glances as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Nothing was actually said, though. Even by McLeish.\n\nMuch would be said later, of course. The rumour mill would grind on, probably for years. Harry knew that. He also knew that attending the gathering held afterwards in Vatersay's community hall would not be the smartest of moves. Murdo's friends were aware that a great deal was being kept from them about the circumstances of his death. They did not need Harry's company to remind them of the fact.\n\nAilsa was to some degree in the same position as Harry, though granted special consideration as the sister of the deceased and only surviving child of the late lamented Hamish. This, she explained when she drove Harry up to the airport in good time for his flight back to Glasgow, was the real reason why she had pressed him to come in the first place.\n\n\"You're the only person who experienced it all with me,\" she said, as they crossed the causeway to Barra. \"I'm holding out on people to greater or lesser degrees and they know it. Aunts, uncles, cousins, old friends of the family. Even my own children. I tell them so much and no more. It's in their own interests, of course, but...\"\n\n\"It rankles.\"\n\n\"It does. With them _and_ me. There's no alternative. I realize that. And Iain agrees. I've told _him_ everything. As I assume you have your wife. Does she feel the same way?\"\n\n\"Yes. Let sleeping dogs lie seems to be the general consensus.\"\n\n\"Sleeping dogs\u2014or dead ones.\"\n\n\"What has Knox told you about Wiseman's death?\"\n\n\"Heart failure. A congenital weakness, apparently.\"\n\n\"Congenital\u2014and convenient.\"\n\n\"Quite.\"\n\nWiseman's death was of course even more convenient than Ailsa knew, since it ensured no one would need to ask awkward questions about who else might have killed Dangerfield\u2014and why. But Harry had no intention of mentioning that aspect of the affair, so it seemed safer to change the subject. \"Will you keep the croft in the family?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, no. We'll let it go. There'll be nothing to bring me back here now. And in the circumstances...\"\n\n\"That may be best.\"\n\n\"Yes. It may.\"\n\nHarry had spent the previous night at the Heathbank Hotel, close to the airport and diplomatically distant from Castlebay. They stopped there to collect his bag. The cycle of the tides had shifted flights to and from Barra into the afternoon since his last visit. The plane was not due to depart for Glasgow until 4:15, leaving him with time on his hands. Ailsa was in no hurry to return to Vatersay. It was clear to Harry, indeed, that she was glad of any excuse not to. She drove him out past the airport to a beach at the far northern end of the island, where they strolled across an empty expanse of white sand beneath a wide blue sky mirrored in the glassy plane of the ocean.\n\n\"Good weather for a landing on Haskurlay,\" said Ailsa, after they had walked in silence for several minutes.\n\n\"Will you ever go there again?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure.\"\n\n\"I saw a photograph at the house of the three of you as children on a trip to the island with your father. You all looked...very happy.\"\n\n\"That photograph is how I'd like to remember it. And them. And maybe I can. If I stay away. Ironically, of course, _you've_ never been there.\"\n\n\"No. Though if Wiseman had had his way...\"\n\n\"Why did he do it? Killing Father and Andrew in a panic was...almost pardonable. But cold-bloodedly commissioning the murder of several of his old comrades fifty years later...How could he bring himself to do _that_?\"\n\n\"As far as he made any sense on the subject to me, it came down to pride and vanity. He couldn't stomach the shame of admitting what he'd done. And it seems he never thought of us as his comrades in any true sense. We were just...problems he hired Frank to solve for him.\"\n\n\"But in the process...he lost his own son. Poetic justice, I suppose. Blood for blood.\"\n\n\"Is that how it seems to you?\"\n\n\"No, Harry. It just seems like a madness that's run its course. And for that at least...I'm grateful.\"\n\nHalf an hour later, they were standing in the airport car park next to the terminal building, watching the small Twin Otter touch down on the broad, flat sands of Traigh Mhor. Soon, Harry would be on his way. Soon, very soon, he would be leaving this tranche of his past far behind.\n\n\"Has your wife gone home yet?\" Ailsa asked as the plane taxied across the beach towards them.\n\n\"Last weekend. Duty called, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"When will you join her?\"\n\n\"Tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Will you see Barry before you leave?\"\n\n\"Oh yes. We're meeting for a farewell drink before I fly out.\"\n\n\"Is he up to that?\"\n\n\"Apparently. He's been convalescing with his ex-wife in Swindon. I think he's feeling better than he's letting on, actually, for fear she'll turf him out. Which she will do, of course. Eventually.\"\n\n\"What will he do then?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't suppose he knows either.\"\n\n\"Insecurity at his age can be difficult to cope with.\"\n\n\"True. But like he said to me before he left hospital, it's better than oblivion. He could easily have died on that boat. We all could have. So...\"\n\n\"We'd better enjoy everything life has to offer.\" Ailsa beamed at Harry. \"Hadn't we?\"\n**CHAPTER \nSIXTY-FIVE**\n\n**W** hile Chipchase had been recuperating at Jackie's house in Swindon, Harry had visited his own ex-wife, Zohra, and her growing family, in Newcastle. He had also spent a few days with his\u2014and Zohra's\u2014former landlady, Mrs. Tandy, in Kensal Green. He was, quite consciously, taking his leave of those he was fondest of in the land of his birth. With his mother dead and his old home destroyed, there was no telling when\u2014or even if\u2014he would be back.\n\nThe final farewell promised in its way to be the most poignant, manfully though both he and Chipchase would strive to disguise the fact. Harry stayed overnight with Mrs. Tandy following his late return to London from Barra and took the train to Swindon the following morning. It had been arranged that he and Chipchase would fit in a couple of hours in the Glue Pot before Jackie drove Harry to Heathrow for his 4:30 flight to Vancouver.\n\nThis, then, was the end of many things. It could not be helped. It was bound to be. Harry belonged elsewhere now, happily so. Yet still his heart was heavy as he left Swindon station and headed west past the boundary wall of the GWR engineering works that were no more towards the Railway Village\u2014and 37 Falmouth Street, that was also no more.\n\nAn inspection of the fenced-off gap between numbers 35 and 39 was an experience he intended for the moment to spare himself. Instead, he retraced his steps of three weeks before, across the park and up past his old primary school to Radnor Street Cemetery.\n\nOne happy consequence of the misadventures that had come his way during those weeks was that his return to Vancouver had been delayed long enough for him to be able to admire the re-erected and additionally inscribed headstone on the grave where his mother had so recently been buried, all of sixty-seven years after his father.\n\nSTANLEY REGINALD BARNETT\n\n1905\u20131938\n\nALSO HIS LOVING WIFE\n\nIVY ELIZABETH BARNETT, N\u00c9E TIMMS\n\n1912\u20132005\n\nREUNITED\n\n\"I hope your reunion up there went better than the one I got talked into attending down here, Mother,\" Harry murmured as he stood at the foot of the grave. \"It can't have gone worse and that's a fact. But I'm OK. Which you'd probably say is the main thing.\"\n\nHarry's route from the cemetery enabled him to reach the Glue Pot without traversing Falmouth Street or even glancing along it. Later, after a suitable infusion of Dutch courage, he reckoned he might be up to taking a look at the burnt-out remains of the house he had been born in. He might even ask Jackie to drive round that way. Then again, he might not. He would have to see how he felt when the time came.\n\nChipchase was already installed in the pub and had been for a little while to judge by the inroads he had made into a pint of beer, not to mention the amount of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. It was barely past noon and there were only a few other customers. A tranquil atmosphere prevailed, sunlight shafting hazily through the windows, the past readily conjurable in surroundings that were for Harry instantly and intimately familiar.\n\n\"They've still got the Monkey's Revenge on,\" said Chipchase, who looked less like an invalid now his head was unbandaged, but rather more like an escapee from a chain gang thanks to the partial regrowth of his hair. \"I've put one in for you.\"\n\n\"I thought you said you were feeling fine.\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"You can't be if you're paying for the first round.\"\n\n\"Ha-bloody-ha.\" The freshly pulled pint was plonked in front of Harry by the barman. \"Get that down your neck and stop being so sarky.\"\n\n\"Cheers.\" Harry smiled and savoured a first swallow of beer. \"That's good.\"\n\n\"Let's park ourselves over there.\" Chipchase slid off his bar stool and led the way to a settle just inside the door.\n\n\"You're sure you _are_ fine, aren't you?\" Harry asked after they had sat down. \"Joking apart.\"\n\n\"Not according to the doc. He says I'm killing myself with booze and fags. But apparently they're likely to be the culprits when I snuff it, not that bash on the bonce I gave myself. So, yeah, old Chipchase is officially as close to tip-top as he's ever going to get.\"\n\n\"Delighted to hear it.\"\n\n\"There have been times when you might have preferred to hear I was sinking fast.\"\n\n\"There have been times when I had every right to feel that way. But after all we've been through together these last few weeks...\"\n\n\"Don't tell me I'm back in your good books at long bloody last.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't go that far. But I'm definitely willing to let bygones be bygones.\"\n\n\"Is that all I get for laying my life on the line for you? Bloody hell, Barnett, you're a hard man.\"\n\n\"I'm a pushover and you know it.\"\n\n_\"Bygones.\"_ Chipchase stubbed out his cigarette, quaffed some beer and glanced around the bar. He grew suddenly thoughtful. \"Well, there are more than a few of ours linked to this place.\"\n\n\"That there are.\"\n\nA minute or so of reflective silence passed. Memories, remote as well as recent, crowded in around them. Then Chipchase said, \"But let's not start wallowing in nostalgia. Look ahead, not behind. That's always been my motto. Even if just lately the view in either direction hasn't been exactly mouth-watering.\"\n\n\"Made any plans?\"\n\n\"For the future, you mean?\"\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"I applied the old brainbox to the problem while I was laid up, since you ask.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"Drew a total bloody blank.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Then...\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I had a stroke of luck.\" Chipchase grinned. \"Yes, Harry old cock. Looks like I might not be a complete bloody write-off after all.\"\n\n\"How come?\"\n\n\"You might at least have the decency to look less surprised. My losing streak was bound to end sooner or later.\"\n\n\"OK. But _how_ did it end?\"\n\n\"Well, while you were in Barra, Shona came down to see me. Wanted to check I was all right. She'd been worried about me, apparently, which was good to hear.\"\n\n\"I was meaning to ask. Did you and she ever...\" Harry's raised eyebrows supplied their own question mark.\n\n\"Mind your own and stop interrupting. The point is that Shona's suddenly able to afford things like a spur-of-the-bloody-moment trip from Aberdeen to darkest Wilts because Danger left her a little something in his will, soft-hearted old bugger that he was.\"\n\n\"He did?\"\n\n\"Maybe more than a little. She was a bit coy about the exact number of noughts. Anyway, she's decided to use the spondulicks to start her own business. She talked the idea over with Jackie. Evidently sees her as some kind of role model. They got on like a house on fire.\" Chipchase grimaced. \"Bloody hell. Sorry, Harry. I could have put that better, couldn't I?\"\n\n\"Never mind. What is this business?\"\n\n\"A guesthouse\u2014well, small hotel, really\u2014in St. Andrews. She wants to get out of Aberdeen and reckons Fife is the area to aim for. Probably hopes that shiftless git of a son will refuse to go with her. _I_ certainly hope so.\"\n\n\"Why should it matter to you?\" Harry asked innocently.\n\n\"Because Shona will need someone to help her run the place. Someone...mature, far-sighted, adaptable\u2014\"\n\n_\"You?\"_\n\nChipchase smirked. \"I'm on a shortlist of one.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"Not bad, hey? Not bloody bad at all.\"\n\n\"I don't know what to say.\"\n\n\"Congratulations would fit the bill. Well played, old sport. Something along those lines.\"\n\n\"But...St. Andrews? Isn't that the mecca of golf?\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"You hate golf. And golfers.\"\n\n\"True. But taking money _off_ golfers is a different bunch of bananas altogether. I could get seriously used to that. And just think of the scope I'll have for dangling juicy investment opportunities in front of our golf-crazy, cash-laden guests.\" Chipchase finished his beer in a single gulp. \"Let the good times roll. Again.\"\n\nHarry laughed. He could not help himself. It was a laugh of genuine pleasure.\n\n\"What's so funny?\"\n\n\"Life, Barry. Just life.\"\n\n\"Full of ups and bloody downs in my experience. _And_ yours. It's best to enjoy the ups while you can, Harry old cock.\"\n\n\"I'll drink to that.\" Harry drained his glass. \"My round, I think.\"\n\n\"Same again for me.\"\n\n\"Maybe we should switch to something weaker.\" Harry stood up, empty glasses in hand. \"This stuff isn't exactly a session ale, is it?\"\n\n\"Depends what kind of session you want.\" Chipchase clamped a celebratory cigar between his teeth and winked. \"It's up to you.\"\n**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**\n\n**I** am very grateful to John Brooks for sharing with me his memories of life in the Royal Air Force. Needless to say, his experiences bore no resemblance whatsoever to those of Aircraftmen Barnett and Chipchase.\n**ABOUT THE AUTHOR**\n\nROBERT GODDARD is the author of eighteen bestselling novels, including _Into the Blue, Play to the End, Hand in Glove, Borrowed Time, Sight Unseen,_ and _In Pale Battalions._ He lives in England, where he is at work on his next novel, _Name to a Face._\nIf you enjoyed Robert Goddard's **NEVER GO BACK,** you won't want to miss any of his internationally bestselling novels of suspense. Look for them at your favorite bookseller.\n\nAnd read on for an exciting early look at\n\n**BEYOND RECALL**\n\nby Robert Goddard\n\nComing soon from Delta\n**BEYOND RECALL**\n\n**Coming soon**\n\n**T** he air is different here, purer somehow. The light is clearer, the edges of the leaves and the lines of the buildings as sharp as the memories. Recollection invades my senses through the unchanged brightness of this place called home. I raise the window on the evening, cool and sweetly washed by late afternoon rain. I touch the wood and test the paintwork with my thumb. I watch a rabbit, disturbed but not startled by the squeak of the sash, hop away into the trees. The direction of his leisurely retreat draws my eyes towards St. Clement's Hill, where I can make out the roofs of Truro School, and just to the north, the white dots that could be sheep in a field but for the regularity of their spacing, sheep safely grazing rather than the headstones of the dead resting for ever on a familiar hillside.\n\nI didn't ask for an east-facing room. I didn't let slip my connection with Tredower House when I booked in. I didn't even disguise my name. The receptionist was too young to remember anyway, probably too young even to care. Pure chance, then, puts me here, in this particular room, where my great-uncle kept his vast old daybed and his jumble of assaying equipment and his battered leather trunks and cases, laid out as if in readiness for a journey. Maybe he rested here, listening to the cooing of the doves and sniffing the summer air, before setting out that last time, nearly fifty years ago. Just up there, half a mile away at most, his bones are dust beneath a slab of Cornish granite. I stood beside it a few hours ago, waiting to be met; waiting, but also willing to be forced to remember. I read the inscription, cursory and reticent, declaring just as little as propriety demanded, and thought of how carefully my grandmother would have chosen the wording. \"Brevity and seemliness,\" I imagined her saying to the monumental mason. \"His name.\" _Joshua George Carnoweth._ \"His dates.\" _1873\u20131947._ \"The customary initials.\" _RIP._ \"That, I rather think, will suffice.\"\n\nAnd you must have thought it would, mustn't you, Gran? You must have been so confident, even when your own life ebbed away twenty-five years later. No cold grave on a windy hilltop for you, of course, but neat hygienic cremation. Well, some things can't be burned, or even buried. You must have thought they could be. But you were wrong. Only you're not here to face that fact, are you? I am.\n\nI was early for my appointment at the cemetery. Not by much, but early enough to recover my breath after the climb and draw some calmness from the scene. The wind was up, heralding the rain that hadn't yet arrived. The speeding clouds shifted the sunlight around the city below me, lighting first the single copper spire of the cathedral, then its taller central tower, then the long pale line of the viaduct and the deep green fields beyond; and finally, closer to, a flight of birds above the cemetery chapel, tossed up in the breeze like a handful of shingle on a gale-ripped beach, lit and seen and swiftly lost.\n\nThe houses have crept up the slopes around the cemetery since Uncle Joshua was buried, crept up unsuspected, like some besieging enemy by night, unnoticed until suddenly perceived. The thought struck me just as I saw her approaching up the path, walking fast and straight, anonymously dressed, thinner and gaunter and older than when we'd last met.\n\nShe stopped a few feet away and stared at me, breathing steadily. Hostility, if it was there, was expertly masked. But what else would I have expected? She'd always worn a mask. I just hadn't always known it.\n\n\"You've aged well,\" she said neutrally. \"Still off the drink?\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact, yes.\"\n\n\"That must be it, then. Unless it's the effect of marriage and fatherhood.\"\n\n\"How did you find out?\"\n\n\"I made it my business to. Where are they\u2014your wife and son?\"\n\n\"Switzerland.\"\n\n\"Handy for the banks, I imagine.\"\n\n\"Is that what this is about\u2014money?\"\n\n\"What else? I'm short.\"\n\n\"Didn't they pay you enough for those imaginative memoirs of yours?\"\n\n\"Not enough to keep me indefinitely in the manner I'm accustomed to.\"\n\n\"You mean you've run through it all.\"\n\n\"Something like that.\"\n\n\"Well, bad luck. You'll get nothing from me.\"\n\n\"I'll get as much as I need from somebody. You\u2014or the highest bidder. And I think the bidding will go pretty high for the story I have to tell. Don't you?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"If the truth gets out, a lot of people are going to look very stupid.\"\n\n\"Worse than stupid, in your case.\"\n\n\"That's why I'm willing to keep my mouth shut. At a price.\"\n\n\"What price?\"\n\n\"Half of what I stood to net last time. You can afford it. Just half. Isn't that fair?\"\n\n\"No, not in the least.\"\n\n\"I'll give you twenty-four hours to think it over. Meet me here this time tomorrow with your answer.\"\n\n\"Why here?\"\n\n\"Because this is one grave I know the exact location of.\" She almost smiled then. It would have been an admission that something beyond greed and envy were at work, but the admission never quite came.\n\n\"I don't believe you have the courage to drag it all into the open now.\"\n\n\"I don't need courage, just a lack of alternatives. I've had to scrape by on a budget lately, leading the kind of dull deadening life I swore I never would. Well, I've had enough of that, and this is the only way to escape it.\"\n\n\"Isn't it better than prison?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've no intention of going back there. With what the papers will pay me for the truth, I can leave the country and become a different person. You know how good I am at that.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"But that's not an option for you, is it? Now you're a committed family man. Think about it. We made a deal before. We can make another. It's simple enough.\"\n\n\"If you really believe\u2014\"\n\n\"I believe anything you say now you might look back on as rather foolish when you've had a chance to weigh up the options. Take my word for it. I've been weighing them for a long time.\"\n\n\"And I get twenty-four hours to do the same?\"\n\n\"Exactly. Generous in the circumstances.\" She held my gaze for a moment. Whether she felt the same strange complicity with me as I felt with her I had no way of telling, and I'd never have dared to ask, for fear of the answer. We'd set ourselves up for this years ago, by agreeing\u2014however reluctantly\u2014to share and conceal the truth. What is a secret without trust but a bargain waiting to be broken? \"Until tomorrow?\" she added.\n\nI nodded. \"Until tomorrow.\"\n\nSo there it is. The threat I've lived with since we first struck our deal. The dilemma I've liked to pretend I didn't anticipate. Well, if it had to happen, let it happen. Here and now. There's no more fitting place or time. And I have until tomorrow to reach a decision. Who needs more than that?\n\nI look from the window down at the sloping flank of the lawns and listen to the roar of the traffic accelerating up the hill. I remember a time when there was so little of it you could hear a single car cross Boscawen Bridge and labour up the road towards the Isolation Hospital. Just as I remember a time when I knew nothing of the truth about Uncle Joshua's death except the little that the average newspaper reader on the Clapham omnibus knew. For more than thirty years, as child and man, I inhabited that happy state. Then, early one Sunday morning in September 1981, on the path near the rhododendrons down there, where my gaze lingers, I caught my first sight, partially blocked by undergrowth, of what brought that phase of my life to an abrupt and horrifying end. And set the next in motion. Moving towards this day. And tomorrow.\n\nI lower the window and shut out the noise. But not the memories. They rush in and surround me as I slowly cross the room and lie down on the bed and close my eyes, the better to confront them. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not running away. I have until tomorrow to relive them all. As it seems I must. Before I decide.\n**YESTERDAY**\n**CHAPTER \nONE**\n\n**B** y September 1981, the murder of my great-uncle, Joshua Carnoweth, had ceased to be a shocking and lamented blow to Truro's peaceful image of itself. Thirty-four years had transmuted it into a quaint footnote of civic history. Most of the many things said about it at the time had been forgotten, and all of the passions stirred had been dissipated. It wasn't that nobody remembered, it was just that nobody cared enough to call the events to mind. Three decades of the affluent society had cast the rationed pleasures and abundant pains of 1947 into relative antiquity, and with them the memories of those who'd failed to outlive the year.\n\nEven within the family, of which old Joshua had been a semidetached member, his name was seldom mentioned. Some of us lived in his house. All of us\u2014to varying degrees\u2014prospered thanks to the fortune my grandmother had inherited from him. But most of us had trained ourselves to pretend he'd played no real part in transforming the Napiers from humble shopkeepers into company directors and absentee hoteliers. He hadn't intended to, after all. He hadn't wanted to shower his wealth on us. He'd probably have been outraged that his murder should have such a consequence. To that extent, perhaps our neglect of his memory was justified. Perhaps anything beyond collective indifference would have been like dancing on his grave. That's how I'd have defended it if I'd had to. But then I was among the least witting of his beneficiaries. I thought I knew the whole story, but I didn't know the half of it. I thought I remembered it exactly as it had been, but what I remembered was a cunningly wrought fiction that had worn dangerously thin without anyone noticing. And by September 1981, it had reached breaking point.\n\nSaturday the fifth of September was the day my niece, Tabitha Rutherford, was to marry Dominic Beale, a good-looking and highly eligible young merchant banker. It was also, by happy contrivance, my parents' golden wedding anniversary. A full-scale family celebration was therefore arranged. The wedding was to be at St. Mary Clement Methodist Church in the centre of Truro, followed by a reception at Tredower House.\n\nSince my grandmother's death, the family home had been converted into Cornwall's premier hotel and conference centre (according to the brochure), managed by my brother-in-law, Trevor Rutherford. This had been my father's solution to the problem of what to do with Trevor when he sold off the chain of six Napier's Department Stores which Gran's inheritance from Uncle Joshua had helped him establish in the Fifties. He'd done that almost as soon as death had neutralized her veto on such a conservative move, and retired with my mother to Jersey. A few years later, realizing Cornwall really did have a claim on their souls, they'd moved back to what must still be the most desirable residence on the Helford estuary. Tredower House Hotel had meanwhile begun to live up to its reputation, thanks more to my sister Pam's organizational abilities than any managerial excellence on Trevor's part.\n\nThe hotel was closed for the weekend, so that the vast gathering of friends, relations and business associates could revel in our hospitality. And on Saturday morning, reluctantly obedient to Pam's summons, I drove down from Pangbourne to join in the merrymaking. I'd given the Stag a tune-up for the journey and made it in four hours dead, little short of a record in those days. Pam had wanted me to go down on Friday, but I'd claimed an open-top drive against the clock was just what I needed to blow away some end-of-week cobwebs.\n\nThat was an excuse, of course, as I'm sure she realized. I couldn't boycott an event of this magnitude, but I could minimize my exposure to it. A last-minute arrival and a prompt departure the following afternoon: I had it all planned. I'd be there, but with any luck I'd feel as if I hadn't been.\n\nThere'd been a pretty classic falling out between me and Dad. It went back twenty years, to when I'd walked out on a managerial traineeship at the Plymouth store and the generous allowance with which he rewarded filial obedience. I was making a living now, and not a bad one, but there had been times, too many for comfort, when I hadn't. I'd not asked to be helped out of any of them, and Dad hadn't offered. Pride got in the way on both sides. He wanted me to admit my mistakes without acknowledging any of his own, and he probably thought I wanted the same of him. So an armed truce was what we got. It left me with a unique status in recent generations of my family: that of a more or less self-made man. Self- _re_ made was actually nearer the mark, in view of a sustained attempt at drinking myself to death in the late Sixties. But the upshot was the same. I wasn't in and I wasn't out. I was one of them, but it didn't feel much like it\u2014to them or to me.\n\nSomething of the same ambivalence characterized my relationship with the city of my birth. Truro's both what you expect and what you don't of a cathedral city at the damp and distant tip of the south-west peninsula. A place of long, steep, curving hills, of bright light falling on rain-washed stone, of Georgian elegance cheek by jowl with malty warehouses and muddy wharves, of poverty and deprivation crammed in with the tourism and the Celtic romance and the strange, stubborn sense of meaning. None of the features of it I can most readily picture\u2014the huge out-of-scale cathedral, the viaduct soaring above Victoria Park, my old school high on its hill to the south, the house in Crescent Road where I was born, Tredower House itself\u2014none of them were much more than a hundred years old then. Yet what I carry about with me of Truro, and can neither discard nor visualize, seems both older and stronger. We Napiers are partly incomers. One of Grandfather Napier's principal attractions as far as my grandmother was concerned was that he _wasn't_ a Cornishman. But the Carnoweths are as Cornish as saffron cake. Their Truronian roots lie deep, and some stem reaches me, however far or long I stray.\n\nAll this rendered any visit of mine to Tredower House a venture into well-charted waters that were nonetheless turbulent. It stood, bowered in trees, near the top of the hill on the St. Austell road, a Gothic mansion that must have looked stark and ugly when built for Sir Reginald Pencavel, the china clay magnate, back in the 1870s. But the maturing of the grounds and the weathering of the sandstone had given it a sort of acquired avuncularity, like an old acquaintance you suddenly realize has become a friend.\n\nThe last of the Pencavels was killed on the Somme. When his widow remarried in 1920, she put the house up for sale. Its buyer was a prodigal son of the city, my great-uncle Joshua Carnoweth, who'd just returned from a long and self-imposed exile in the gold fields of North America with a greater fortune than anyone had thought him capable of amassing. The purchase of Tredower House was both a rebuke to his doubting contemporaries and a declaration that his wandering days were over. He was forty-seven; too young, I'd have said, for subsiding into Cornish squiredom. But he had reasons enough, and no way of knowing that those reasons would one day conspire to destroy him.\n\nI was glad, in a way, that the house had become a busier, brasher place since it had ceased to be my home. A modern conference suite to the rear, a car park in what had been the orchard and a scatter of signposts and security lights proclaimed its commercial identity in a way that subdued more personal memories without ever quite erasing them. Even weddings had become a regular branch of the business, though none of the receptions laid on for clients could ever have required a larger pinker-draped golden-ribboned marquee than the one I glimpsed through the trees as I sped past in the Stag that morning, _en route_ to the church.\n\nThe ceremony went off flawlessly, without so much as a fluffed line, and was followed by a mass transit to Tredower House. With so many people eager to congratulate the bride and her grandparents, Pam distracted by her responsibilities as hostess and Trevor having for once a good excuse to ignore me, I drifted with little resistance to the margins of the event. An hour at least of champagne and canap\u00e9s loomed ahead. For a reformed alcoholic on edgy terms with his relatives, this promised to be a torturous interlude. So I took myself off, as discreetly as possible, to a shady corner of the lawn, propped myself against the croquet bench that had been moved out of harm's way beneath the beech tree, and gazed back at the party. Laughter mixed ripely with the jazz band's lazy melodies in the still summer air. Colourful outfits swirled like a slowly wound kaleidoscope in the hazy sunshine. Light sparkled on champagne flutes. Joy, pleasure and satisfaction mingled. And trying desperately not to feel dog-in-the-mangerish, I toasted them all with orange juice.\n\nMy parents, along with the bride and groom, were out of sight within the marquee. They'd still be busy greeting the guests, and I knew they'd be doing it with tireless aplomb. Gran had trained my father well in the social obligations that went with the status she'd carved out for him. She'd taught him to project a bluff glad-handed image of himself that had smoothed his path in the world of big business and local politics. It was an image old age seemed only to have strengthened. You needed to have been close to him to see and know a different kind of man.\n\nBut my mother had been closer than anyone for the past fifty years and I knew her devotion to him was no act, so I reckoned there must always have been more that was genuine in him than I'd been prepared to admit. I suspected Gran had manoeuvred them into marriage in the first place. The provision of a wife for her son and a mother for her grandchildren wasn't something she'd have left to chance, that's for certain. But, if so, her manoeuvring had paid off, as usual. I'd never had cause to doubt that my parents loved each other. The only question in my mind was whether they truly loved me.\n\nPam would have dismissed such an idea as nonsense, and with good reason. Her upbringing had turned her into a practical and affectionate woman, with a daughter who was a credit to her. Tabitha had her mother's shrewdness and clarity of vision, as well as her fine-boned looks and graceful bearing.\n\nI caught sight of the father of the bride then, moving artfully through the crowd. Middle age had improved Trevor, smoothing out the gaucheness and insecurity I remembered from when Pam had first introduced me to him. The public relations side of hotel management was something he excelled in. It clearly agreed with him. He drank heavily, without showing any ill effects, which naturally I hugely resented, while secretly regarding him as a fool, which was, in turn, what he probably thought me. And both of us could have called on some substantial evidence to support our claim.\n\nI don't think I heard anything to make me look round at that moment. Maybe I sensed that I wasn't the only one observing the scene, that a change had occurred, a thread been pulled from the fabric of the day. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter, anyway. The fact is I did look round, and saw a man standing beneath the stretching branches of the old horse chestnut that dominated the north-east corner of the garden. He was about my height, but thinner, with matted greying hair and beard.\n\nHis clothes were ragged and dusty, threadbare jeans and an open-necked check shirt worn beneath an old mackintosh. The mac was what made me think he must be a tramp. Who else would wear one on such a sunny day? He was trembling too, which couldn't be from the cold. His face was in shadow, but I had the impression he was looking at me rather than the wedding party spilling across the lawn.\n\nI stood upright and rounded the bench. As I did so, he took a step towards me, a step that carried him into a pool of sunlight. I saw his face clearly for the first time. If he was a tramp, he'd not been on the road long. His eyes weren't dull enough, his skin wasn't rough enough. I felt instinctively that I knew him, but I didn't trust the instinct. His mouth twitched. A smile or a grimace, it was hard to tell which. He mumbled something. Even without the noise of the reception, it would have been difficult to catch. But catch it I did. \"Chris.\" My name. Spoken by somebody I could no longer take for a stranger.\n\n\"Do I know you?\" I said, frowning.\n\nThen he did smile, lopsidedly and familiarly. He glanced up at the thick bough of the horse chestnut above his head, raised his arms slowly towards it and moved them back and forth, miming the action of someone propelling himself on a swing suspended from the branch. I felt my mouth drop open, remembering how I'd swung from that very branch as a child, how my boyhood friend Nicky Lanyon and I had\u2014\n\n\"Nicky?\" I should have known at once. Between the ages of seven and eleven, I suppose we'd spent more time with each other than with any other single person. We'd been the most inseparable of pals for those four years straddling the end of the war. Chris and Nicky; Nicky and Chris. But all that had ended in the summer of 1947. All that and much more. \"Is it you?\"\n\nI hadn't seen him for thirty-four years. I'd done my very best to forget him. But forgetfulness, I realized as I looked at him, was only a pretence. I remembered him as if shabby middle age were merely a disguise he'd cast off at any moment, as if the eleven-year-old boy he'd once been could step suddenly into view, hair shorn, eyes sparkling, face tanned by a Cornish summer, shirt hatched from some woodland scramble, trousers grass-stained, knees muddied, socks rumpled, shoes scuffed; as if every fragment of a lost friendship could be miraculously gathered and reassembled. There was a moment\u2014a fleeting instant\u2014when I was happy, so very happy, to see him. Then guilt and caution and something like contempt rushed to defend my part in his ostracism. I felt myself stiffen and draw back. Then saw him flinch, as if he too had watched the portcullis slam down between us.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" My tone had altered without my meaning it to. It must have sounded cold and stiff and forbidding.\n\n\"Came to see...\" He spoke slowly, slurring the words. His gaze lingered on me with a strange mild curiosity. \"Came to see...you.\"\n\n\"Me?\"\n\n\"Read...about this.\" He tugged what looked like a scrap of newspaper from the pocket of his mac and held it up. I took it for a cutting from the local paper, and guessed Trevor might have inserted some notice about the wedding. But what was Nicky's interest in it? He didn't even live in the area. Did he? \"Knew...you'd be here.\"\n\n\"You've been...waiting for me?\"\n\n\"Mum's dead.\"\n\n\"Your mother? I'm sorry. I...\"\n\n\"My sister too.\"\n\nNicky's younger sister, Freda, had died of whooping cough during the war. Mentioning her death, of which he must have known I was aware, seemed pointless, if not perverse, but I assumed it had some significance only he could understand. \"What do you want, Nicky?\"\n\n\"Mum and Dad...together.\"\n\n\"Perhaps they are now.\"\n\n\"Not with me.\"\n\n\"When did your mother die?\"\n\n\"Six months...ago.\" He stuffed the scrap of paper back into his pocket. \"Cancer.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear that.\"\n\nHis gaze hardened. \"Why should you be?\"\n\n\"Because I liked her.\"\n\n\"Liar.\"\n\n\"It's true.\"\n\n\"Liar!\" He shouted the word this time, his face flushing with a rush of anger. _\"Liar!\"_\n\n\"Calm down, for God's sake.\"\n\n\"Why...should I?\"\n\n\"This is my niece's wedding day. We don't want any...unpleasantness.\" I regretted the words as soon as I'd used them. His own life had contained more than enough unpleasantness, and it was certain he'd wanted none of that either. \"What are you...doing these days?\"\n\n\"Looking.\"\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"The answer.\"\n\n\"To what?\"\n\n\"You know.\"\n\n\"No. I don't.\"\n\n\"But do you...know the answer? Do you, Chris?\"\n\n\"The answer to what?\"\n\n\"Who killed my father?\" The question was so bizarre, yet so evidently sincere, that I simply stared at him in response, trying to read in his despairing gaze the harshness of the road he'd trodden since the summer of 1947. \"Who did it?\"\n\n\"What the hell's going on?\" Trevor's voice, raised and peremptory, cut through the seclusion of our exchanges. I turned round and saw him striding towards us, drink and disapproval darkening his expression. \"What's the shouting about?\"\n\n\"Nothing. It's all right. There's no need\u2014\"\n\n\"Who's he?\" Trevor glared past me at Nicky. \"Looks like some bloody dosser.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind. I can\u2014\"\n\n\"This is a private party,\" said Trevor, cutting across me. \"Get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\"Hold on, Trevor. You don't understand.\"\n\nBut lack of understanding had never restrained my brother-in-law. He marched towards Nicky, one arm gesturing in the direction of the road. Nicky stumbled back, raising his hands and lowering his head submissively. Sorrow\u2014and guilt\u2014lanced into me at this show of weakness. I called his name, but it was too late. He turned and began to run, stooping beneath the branches, heading for the part of the wall we'd often scaled together as boys, with Trevor in token pursuit. It was no contest. Nicky ran like a fox before the hounds, vanishing into the deeper shade of the trees. In my mind's eye, I saw him climb by the remembered footholds up onto the wall, drop down the other side, descend the bank to the pavement below, then jog away along the road.\n\n\"The bastard's gone,\" panted Trevor as he rejoined me by the bench. \"Legged it.\"\n\n\"So I see.\"\n\n\"You should have sent him packing yourself. Drunks and derelicts. You can't afford to give them any encouragement.\"\n\n\"He was as sober as I am, and no derelict.\"\n\n\"You talk as if he was a friend of yours from Alcoholics Anonymous.\"\n\n\"A friend? Yes. Well, as a matter of fact he is.\" I sighed. \"Or was.\"\n\n\"A friend of yours? Should I know him, then?\"\n\n\"In a sense, you do.\"\n\n\"Really? What's his name?\"\n\n\"Nicky Lanyon.\"\n\n_\"Lanyon?\"_\n\n\"Yes. Son of Michael Lanyon.\"\n\n\"What? The man who...\"\n\n\"That's right. The man they hanged for Uncle Joshua's murder.\"\nALSO BY ROBERT GODDARD\n\nAVAILABLE FROM BANTAM DELL\n\nIN PALE BATTALIONS\n\nSIGHT UNSEEN\n\nINTO THE BLUE\n\nBORROWED TIME\n\nHAND IN GLOVE\n\nPLAY TO THE END\n\nAND COMING SOON FROM BANTAM DELL\n\nBEYOND RECALL\nNEVER GO BACK\n\nA Delta Book\n\nPUBLISHING HISTORY\n\nBantam UK hardcover edition published May 2006\n\nDelta trade paperback edition \/ September 2007\n\nPublished by Bantam Dell \nA Division of Random House, Inc. \nNew York, New York\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\n\nAll rights reserved\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2006 by Robert and Vaunda Goddard\n\nDelta is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nGoddard, Robert.\n\nNever go back \/ Robert Goddard.\u2014Delta trade pbk. ed\n\np. cm.\n\n1. Great Britain. Royal Air Force\u2014Veterans\u2014Fiction. 2. Older men\u2014Fiction. \n3. Reunions\u2014Scotland\u2014Fiction. 4. Castles\u2014Scotland\u2014Fiction. I. Title.\n\nPR6057.O33N48 2007\n\n823'.914 dc22\n\n2007006336\n\nwww.bantamdell.com\n\neISBN: 978-0-440-33717-1\n\nv3.0\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}